Page 55 of Oathbreaker

No more stress and dissension and throwing chairs.

Our family is finally together again.

We’re not going to be torn apart.

Nodding sharply to myself, I use my keycard to unlock the door, turn the knob and push into Dash’s security office.

It’s quiet, most of the desks in the large open space empty, the computers shut down for the night. Some of his employees are out in the field, acting as personal security for the rich and famous in SoCal. Others are traveling with Dash’s clients as they work on location, shooting music videos, movies, or commercials, providing bodyguard services wherever the need is.

A lucky few are in a tropical location, escorts as the client vacations.

And several unlucky fellows—the ones still at their desks this late in the evening—are watching security feeds.

Boring as hell.

But probably one of the most important aspects of the services Dash provides.

Because they don’t do full twenty-four hour a day monitoring unless someone is in danger.

So, those watching the screens need to be on top of their game.

They are—or Dash wouldn’t have hired them.

Dash, whom I can see from my position just inside the door, is pacing back and forth in his office, phone pressed to his ear.

Stressed.

Frustrated.

And this shit between us isn’t helping.

I wave at the guys scouring those monitors then head to Dash’s office, knocking at the glass door.

He spins around, a scowl on his face.

Then freezes, his expression smoothing out.

I point to the door, silently asking if I can come in, and he unsticks, nodding rapidly, moving toward me.

But the time I’m pushing inside his office, he’s hung up the phone, shoved it in his pocket, and met me three feet from the threshold.

“Thorny,” he whispers, his voice raspy with emotion, regret etched into his face.

I don’t make him wait any longer.

I throw myself into his arms.

He catches me—as I knew he would—and holds me tight. I don’t miss that his lungs hitch before he buries his face in my hair, saying, “Fuck, Briar, I’m so damned sorry.” He pulls back, cupping my jaw in one big hand, gently turning my head from side to side.

The tiny bruise I had faded days ago, but that doesn’t stop him from smoothing his thumb over the spot, from pressing his lips there.

“You’re good, Dash,” I whisper. “We’re good.”

“I hit you,” he mutters, dropping his hands and pacing away from me. “I'm such a dick.”

“Was it my favorite thing?” I say, moving toward him. “No. But it was an accident, and it’s done now.”

“I hit you.”