Page 35

Thirty-Five

Dash

The panic in my chest threatens to consume me.

All I can think about is getting to Willow before it’s too late.

I don’t care how many laws I break or what the repercussions might be but I don’t knock, don’t stop, don’t think about anything but getting to Willow.

“Willow!” I yell her name as we—Banks, Royal, and Atlas refused to let me come alone—race through the massive foyer, oblivious to the sirens in the background or Atlas’s admonishment to “be careful—he might be armed.”

Because he knows I’m not.

But it doesn't matter.

I’ll die before I let him hurt her.

Not now.

Not ever again.

I hear what sounds like a scuffle and pivot in that direction. The French doors leading to an office are open—and I see movement on the floor. Dylan is sprawled on top of Willow, choking her, and my vision blurs red.

“Willow!” I’m poised for a fight but before I can reach them, I see her hand holding something silver—and bashing him repeatedly in the head.

“ Babe .” This time my voice is a hushed whisper as I pull Dylan off her and she wilts in relief.

Dylan isn’t out cold, but he’s definitely woozy, blood oozing from multiple wounds on his head.

Jesus, she did a number on him.

Despite everything, I almost smile.

She fought back.

“You all right, Willow?” Banks is kneeling beside her now.

“I-I’m okay… I think.” She looks up and…she’s bleeding.

She’s fucking bleeding .

I’m going to end him.

I’m going to make him wish he’d never been born.

I’m going to—Atlas brushes past me and stands over Dylan.

“She’s crazy,” Dylan rasps, struggling to sit up and holding his head. “She tried to kill me?—”

“Stay down.” Atlas puts his foot in the middle of Dylan’s back.

“I’m pressing charges! Call the cops—Mrs. Wilkes!”

“Shut the fuck up.” Atlas looks to me. “Do I need to call Madeline?”

I nod at Atlas then reach for Willow, staring at the blood coating her hand from a gash on her temple. “Where else are you hurt?”

“I…don’t know. Here, I guess.” She touches her forehead again and then stares at her hand blankly.

“Cops are here,” Banks says quietly. “What do you want to do?”

“He was choking me,” Willow whispers, her face suddenly pale. “I hit him… with my dad’s… picture…”

“I don’t know,” I respond briskly, “but the first thing I’m doing is taking her to the hospital to get checked out.”

“No, I’m okay.” Willow tries to protest, but I cut her off.

“You have a deep gash on your forehead, and just a few months ago you got hit in the head so hard you were in a coma,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice level. “You need to have a doctor look at you. Don’t argue with me about this, please.”

Before she can answer, Royal approaches with what looks like a dish towel. “Here—put this on your head.”

“Thank you.” She shivers suddenly, and I worry she’s going into shock.

“Here.” I take off the denim jacket I’m wearing and drape it over her shoulders.

“Hudson, I—” she begins.

“Not now,” I say gruffly, turning away. I’m battling too many disparate emotions to talk to her right now. I’m pissed off she did something so reckless, but simultaneously thankful she fought back.

Thankful we got here in time.

Thankful she’s alive.

I’m also afraid if I try to have a conversation with her, all those emotions are going to burst out of me in an explosion of terror, annoyance, and a plethora of other negativity that I don’t think she’s ready for. Not from me anyway.

Then the cops burst in and there’s a lot of chaos.

Questions.

Dylan playing the victim.

Madeline arriving.

So much fucking chaos.

Luckily, I know these particular officers and have dealt with them before, so they let me leave with Willow—she’s going to the emergency room whether she likes it or not.

And she isn’t any happier with me than I am with her at the moment.

“We’ll handle everything here,” Atlas tells me. “Make sure she gets checked out. Another bump to the head this soon after the coma…”

“I know. Thanks.” I turn to Willow. “Let’s go.”

She blinks at my stern tone but then follows me out without a word.

We’re both quiet in the SUV on the way to the hospital.

There’s a part of me that wants to grab her hand, hold her, tell her everything is okay, but I don’t know if I can.

I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, trying to stay strong for Willow while simultaneously wanting to shake her.

I’d never touch her in anger, but I’m so fucking frustrated by what she did.

What was she thinking?

Dylan could have—probably would have— killed her.

And for what? A picture that we can almost definitely reproduce at some point?

I can’t wrap my head around her risking her life—the life we’re building together—for a picture.

I understand the sentimental value, but I’m struggling with this.

Struggling with her lack of thought—her complete disregard not just for her safety but for how her actions could potentially impact the rest of us.

How it would impact… me .

That’s probably selfish as fuck, but I’ve already lived through the nightmare of someone I love being reckless. So reckless he ended up dead. Without me there to have his back. Because he didn’t tell me what he was doing.

Why do strangers trust me with their lives but not the people who are fucking closest to me?

It’s tearing me up and making my head hurt.

And the worst part is—I have no idea where we go from here.

It’s two in the morning before we get home, and I’m still reeling, operating on autopilot. At Dylan’s house, at the hospital, when the cops came to get Willow’s statement—this is what I do for a living.

But it’s different with Willow.

This is the woman I’m in love with, and she took a risk for absolutely no reason, putting me in an untenable position.

Just like Colt.

He never should have re-enlisted without telling me.

I should have been there to have his back on that last mission.

I should have?—

“You’re mad at me.” Her voice interrupts my self-flagellation and I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, taking a big gulp in an attempt to postpone the inevitable conversation.

The argument I know is coming.

I don’t know how to respond because I am mad.

In fact, I’m not just mad—I’m fucking furious.

“Hudson? Will you talk to me? Please?” Her voice is soft, eyes filled with regret, and I look into them in frustration.

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” I snap, my control slowly beginning to crumble. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

“I just wanted my dad’s picture. I?—”

“Why?” I throw up my hands, sending a spray of water into the air since I'm still holding the bottle. “How is a picture of a dead man more important than your life?”

“It’s the only picture I have of him, dammit!” she yells back, folding her arms across her chest.

“Was it worth it? Was getting his picture worth it when Dylan had his hands around your throat and was choking you? Was it worth the new trauma and scaring the living shit out of me and all our friends?”

“I thought he was in Australia!” she snaps. “I wouldn’t have gone if I had any inkling he was still here but?—”

“So why didn’t you just fucking ask me?” I demand, my voice even louder than before despite my best efforts to keep my temper in check.

“I’d do anything for you—including breaking the law to send my men in to find it!

Why couldn’t you just fucking ask me before you went and did something so dangerous? !”

“You’re not my father! I’m not going to ask your permission every time I want to leave the house!”

I rear back like she hit me.

That stings.

“That’s what you think this is about?” I ask in a steely voice. “After all we’ve been through, you think this is about asking permission ?”

We stare at each other for a long moment and something inside of me breaks.

I’ve bent over backwards to help her heal, find her way out of the darkness, and come out the other side—with me. The last thing I ever want to do is control her.

But if she truly believes that’s what I’m trying to do, then everything I’ve done has been for naught.

And I can’t do this.

Not even for someone who literally owns every piece of me.

“Hudson, wait?—”

I hear her but I don’t look back, don’t stop moving.

If I do, I might say something I regret. Something I can’t take back.

So I head for the stairs, taking them two at a time until I get to our room.

I go straight to the bathroom and turn on the shower.

Then I strip out of my clothes and stand under the steaming spray.

With my hands against the wall, I let my chin hit my chest and memories ricochet through the windows of my soul.

The fear I felt when I realized she might be alone with Dylan was the most intense emotion I’ve ever experienced. Losing her was— is —unfathomable. There’s no universe where I’ll ever let anything happen to her, and all she seems worried about is her freedom.

I thought she trusted me.

I thought— fuck .

I thought she loved me the way I love her.