Page 3 of Protected from Malice (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #1)

RAFE

This whole situation is all fucked up.

Eden out in Portland, all by herself, possibly in danger.

Eden calling me in tears, sounding more scared than I’ve ever heard her.

Even when she first learned about Indy, after immediately hopping on a plane and flying overnight to Germany to see him, she was calm. Focused on what needed to be done, on finding the best doctors, the best rehab facilities back in the States, anything she could do to support her brother.

I still remember Eden showing up at the hospital, frazzled but beautiful, so fierce as she asked—no, demanded —to talk to all of Indy’s doctors.

She didn’t shy away from the violence of it; of Indy’s soon-to-be amputated lower arm and the dozens of cuts and bruises littering his body.

She wanted to know the medical part. How long the recovery would be.

His options for prosthetics. The best specialists for his type of amputation.

And when Indy woke up and told her to leave, that he didn’t want her to see him like that, she told him in no uncertain terms it wasn’t happening. She wasn’t leaving. Not until he did.

Everyone was a little in awe of her, really. I was in awe of her, just like I’ve been for years.

But that wasn’t the Eden I talked to last night.

Last night, she sounded afraid. And I hated it.

I hate that she won’t tell Indy—her own damn brother—about whatever’s scaring her.

I will. Once I find out the whole story, if Indy needs to know, I’ll tell him.

How could I not? Even though we’re not on the same team anymore, he’s still my best friend. Shit, even though we’re not bonded by blood, he’s my brother in all the ways that count. So if his sister is in trouble, I’m not keeping it a secret from him.

Last night, Eden begged me not to tell him. “It might all be in my head,” she explained. “Work… it’s been stressful. I don’t want to worry Indy for no reason. If you’re sure you don’t mind coming… Maybe we could talk it through. And then decide if it’s something Indy needs to know or not.”

Another fucked up thing? How unconvincing she sounded when she tried to use work as an excuse.

Not that her work isn’t important or stressful—as a lead researcher for a prominent pharmaceutical company, I know she deals with high-stakes projects all the time.

But there was just something in the way she said it.

A hesitation. Something that made me think there was a lot more she wasn’t saying.

Glancing at the dashboard, I grimace at the time.

It’s almost nine PM, which is hours later than I intended to arrive.

But I had to finish that damned job last night, and I was so distracted by Eden’s call it threw me off my game.

The fugitive I should have been able to apprehend with no problem ended up getting the jump on me, and I have six stitches in my arm because of it.

Not that six stitches is a big deal. It’s not. And the other guy—a piece of garbage domestic abuser who jumped bail and fled to New Mexico—ended up hurting much worse than me.

Could I help it if he ran into a few walls while he was trying to escape? Or if he happened to trip over a coffee table and break his nose?

And if I don’t feel bad about it at all? Well. He sure didn’t feel bad when he beat his wife so badly she ended up in the hospital for weeks. So I think it’s karma. Hammurabi’s Code in action.

I’m not a violent guy by nature. I’m really not. But there are just some people who deserve a different kind of justice. Abusers. Killers.

And assholes who scare people like Eden.

Sweet, smart, kind, beautiful Eden.

Shit. It doesn’t matter if she’s beautiful.

I mean, she is. There’s no question about it. With curly brown hair that turns bronze and copper in the sun, bright blue eyes, a cute little nose that wrinkles when she laughs, and her body…

I shouldn’t have memorized what she looks like in a bikini.

But shit, how could I not? Indy and I were visiting Eden in Boston, and we took a day trip out to Orchard Beach.

Eden wore a bikini—not a skimpy one, but it showed enough—and it was fucking torture keeping my eyes off her.

Not to stare at her flat stomach and sweetly flaring hips and the swell of her small but perfectly formed breasts.

Not to want to get closer to the little double helix tattooed on her back, and run my fingers across it to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

But.

I’m going to Portland as a friend. As a surrogate brother, so to speak. And any other feelings I have about Eden are completely irrelevant.

All that matters is getting there. Finding out the whole story. Making a plan.

I’d be there already if I didn’t have to go to the fucking hospital after midnight to get stitches. I wouldn’t have even bothered, but the company I work for insisted. Liability and lawsuits and all that shit.

Then the damn flight got delayed.

The rental company couldn’t find my reservation, so that was another hour of pissing around with paperwork and wasting time.

And now I’m three hours later than I’d planned to get here. Which, in the scheme of things, isn’t that long.

But when it means Eden is sitting at home, scared and alone, three hours is a big fucking deal.

I asked if she had any friends to stay with her, just until I arrived.

But independent Eden insisted she was okay.

“I’ll leave work on time so I’m driving home with lots of traffic around,” she explained.

“And I have security here. A camera at the front door and the back. So I’ll be perfectly fine until you get here. ”

Somehow, I doubt her idea of adequate security is the same as mine. But that’s something else I can check when I get there. I may not be a security systems expert, like my buddies, Matt and Leo, but I know enough.

A quick look at the map on the dash tells me I’m less than ten minutes from Eden’s place.

I’ve never been there before, but I’ve seen pictures of it—ones that Eden sent when she first moved in two years ago, and the ones I pulled up from the property listing while I was doing some research last night.

Her little ranch could be safer. I’d prefer the yard to be fenced in rather than just surrounded by a border of trees that anyone could hide in.

The front door seems like it’s well lit, at least from the photos, but the sliding patio doors in the back would be far too easy to break into, security camera or not.

But once I’m there, I can take care of those things.

Install alarms on the patio doors and all the windows.

Add some more cameras around the garage and the back of the house.

And while I doubt I’ll have time to put up a fence, I can string up a series of motion detectors around the perimeter.

Call up some fence installation companies and wrangle a good deal out of them.

Dammit, I should have come sooner and done this already.

Why didn’t I? In the two-plus years since Indy’s injury, Eden’s always been the one flying out to DC to see him. Probably insisting she’s fine any time he asks, assuring him that her house is safe, that she’s happy, that he has nothing to worry about.

Pre-amputation Indy would have wanted to see for himself. But my friend hasn’t been the same since his career-ending injury, and aside from the wedding he reluctantly attended a few months ago in Texas, he’s been isolating himself ever since.

Shit. I should have come here. Checked on Eden in person instead of just calling or texting.

And if seeing her alone brought up feelings I’d rather not think about, I should have been man enough to deal with it.

I should have been the protector I promised Indy I’d be in those terrible minutes when we weren’t sure if he’d survive.

When he was laying there, trapped by rubble, fucking bleeding all over, and he begged me to take care of his sister if he didn’t make it.

Dammit.

Guilt swells up inside me, choking my breath.

Ten minutes—no, more like seven, now—is too long to wait before talking to her.

As I tell my phone to call Eden, I rationalize away the urgency.

It’ll be better if I let her know I’m almost there, rather than showing up at her doorstep and possibly startling her. Yes, I texted when I landed in Portland, but I never gave her a specific time I’d arrive. So it’s really the polite thing to do.

Even as I’m thinking it, a derisive laugh bursts out.

Me? Worried about manners?

Not that I’m rude, exactly. Not unless someone deserves it. But I’ve always been more of the cut-straight-to-the-point kind of person.

I prefer action to words. Words can be misinterpreted. Words can be deliberately left out, so you don’t even know the person you care about is in trouble until?—

“Rafe?”

The moment I hear Eden’s voice, I make a quick assessment.

Does she sound scared? No.

Upset? Not particularly.

Eager to see me?

Wait. Where did that last part come from?

Dragging my mind back to more pressing matters, I say, “Hey, Brain. Just wanted to let you know I’m almost to your house. Maybe—” I glance at the little map on the dash again. “Five minutes. Unless I get stuck behind a granny driving ten miles an hour.”

A little giggle carries across the line, loosening one of the bands that’s been wrapped around it since last night. “Are you still calling me that?”

My lips curve up in response. “Well, you are the smartest person I know. And don’t think I forgot what your IQ is. So I should really call you Genius, if you want to get technical about it.”

Eden huffs, but I can practically hear her smiling. “I don’t know why Indy thought you guys would want to know what the IQ test I took when I was ten years old said.”

Slowing as I come to a stop sign, I reply, “Because he was proud of you. He is proud of you.”

Silence hangs.

Shit.