Page 5 of Protected from Malice (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #1)

EDEN

Can this really be happening?

Is there really an intruder in my house?

Or could it be the nagging paranoia I haven’t been able to shake no matter how many counseling sessions I’ve been to?

I’m terrified it’s all in my head.

But.

I’m more terrified that it’s real.

That the noises I heard really were someone walking through my house. Searching for… what? A place to vandalize? Valuables? Me?

Right now, it’s hard to hear anything above the panicked thundering of my heart. Above the shallow gasps I keep trying to muffle by burying my face in the crook of my arm.

My phone is clutched in one hand, taunting me with its silence.

In the other, a pair of scissors I found in the drawer.

They keep slipping in my grasp, the handles slick with blood from when I cut myself searching for them.

Stupid me, not even looking, just reaching into the drawer and grabbing, gouging my hand in the process.

I’m wedged so tightly between the washer and the wall I’m not sure how I’ll get out. I just kept working my way further back, terror urging me to hide even more.

On the plus side, if the intruder does get in here, he’ll have a hard time getting me out, too.

Unless he just shoots me.

God. If Rafe finds me too late, he’ll never forgive himself.

Indy will be devastated.

Or…

What if Rafe gets hurt? Just because he’s former Special Forces doesn’t mean he’s invincible. He could be taken unaware; the intruder could be lurking in the hallway, waiting…

How long has it been since the door broke? At least, I’m assuming that’s what the cracking and splintering sounds were.

I sneak a look at my phone and the time my call with Rafe ended.

Has it really been less than a minute?

Time is funny in here; somehow slow and fast at the same time.

It reminds me of that night. When?—

No.

I can’t think about that now.

Think about Rafe.

He has to be okay.

I haven’t seen him in action, but I know what he does.

He goes after dangerous criminals on his own and brings them to justice.

And before that, he risked his life in the Middle East along with Indy and the rest of their team, using their years of training—marksmanship, martial arts, even throwing a knife with deadly accuracy—to eliminate threats against our country.

Surely this intruder is no match for Rafe.

I hope.

Outside the laundry room, I hear the faint sound of the floor creaking.

Then footsteps. In the hallway. Rapid. Purposeful.

Terror wraps its punishing hands around my chest and squeezes.

My heart stumbles. Stops.

My lungs seize.

Fresh tears spill down my cheeks.

Oh, please. Let it be Rafe. Please.

The doorknob rattles.

Oh, God. Please.

“Eden!”

Rafe!

His deep voice—so familiar, so close —jolts my heart back into rhythm again.

“Eden!” It’s worried. Fearful. “Are you in there? Are you hurt? Can you let me in?”

“Are they gone?” I call back, shocked at how weak and shaky my voice sounds. “Was… was there someone here?”

“Yes, someone was here.” Anger laces his tone. “But they’re gone. They bolted out the back as soon as they heard me come in.” He stops. Lets out a frustrated growl. “I couldn’t go after them and leave you alone, Eden. No matter how badly I wanted to catch them.”

“Of course not.” Setting the scissors down, I try to pull myself out from my hiding spot. But somehow I got all twisted and now my hips are stuck. Plus, my bloody hand keeps slipping each time I try to grab onto the slick metal of the washer or the smooth linoleum tile.

“Eden?” The doorknob rattles again. “Can you unlock the door? I need to see you.” A rare spurt of emotion roughens his voice. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m trying.” My voice cracks. “I’m stuck. I can’t…”

“Shit.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how I got like this. My hips… I need to work out more, I guess. Do more cardio. I thought pilates and weights were better for toning, but?—”

My mouth clamps shut.

What am I saying ?

Am I seriously talking about workout routines right now?

And did I just tell Rafe that my hips are too wide?

I bang my head on the side of the washer, startling myself with the resulting clunk.

“Eden.” Rafe’s voice rises in concern. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I mutter. “I just… I’ll figure out a way out. Just give me a second.” I make another grab for the edge of the washer and my stupid hand slides off it again, leaving finger-sized trails of crimson behind. “My hand is bleeding. So I keep slipping.”

“What? You’re bleeding ?”

In the distance, the rise and fall of sirens approach.

“I just cut my hand a little,” I reply.

“Shit!.” A pause, and then, “I’m kicking in the door, Eden. Keep your head down. Protect your eyes.”

I immediately oblige, taking a quick opportunity to wipe the dampness from my face.

Some of it, at least. Because the tears are still flowing; both from relief and residual fear.

There’s another splintering crash like the first one I heard, followed by a loud thud as the door flies open and hits the wall.

I can’t see Rafe come into the laundry room, but I can feel his presence.

I catch his achingly familiar scent—amber and musk with a hint of honey, plus an indescribable something I’ll always associate with him.

Even his footsteps have a comforting solidity to them, and I can feel my muscles unclenching as they near me.

Then I see him.

Crouched beside the washer, looking at me with those incredible eyes. His strong features are tense with worry, lines etched deep into his forehead and around his mouth. In the first moments I see him, I quickly catalog everything, searching for anything different.

But no. He looks just the same. The same five o’clock shadow he always has, no matter what time of the day it is.

The same short-cropped hair, slightly messy, like he’s been running his hand through it.

The same Romanesque nose with the tiny scar on the bridge from when he was first learning how to shoot a rifle and smacked himself in the face with it.

Should I be staring—well, ogling, really—Rafe when he’s here to help me? When the intruder could come back any minute? When the police should be arriving soon?

Probably not. But crap. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him.

“Ah, Eden.” Rafe’s gaze moves across me, darkening as he spots the blood coating my hand. His voice gentles. “I’m sorry. I should have gotten here sooner.”

Then he stands and shoves the washer aside, moving the heavy appliance as if it weighs nothing. Reaching down again, he gently takes the phone from me and slips it into his pocket. His hand comes around mine and he pulls me to my feet, then he quickly wraps his arm around my waist to steady me.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs as I stumble against him. His arm tightens, pressing me close to his chest.

And oh.

Oh.

I’ve known Rafe for years. We’ve touched each other, of course.

But those were quick, friendly moments of contact. A pat on the arm. A joking shove. A lightning-fast hug after exchanging gifts during the Christmases he spent with us.

Rafe has never held me like this .

Our bodies flush against each other; so close I can feel his heart beating against mine.

His delicious aroma seeping into me, filling my lungs.

His strong arms holding me tightly, as if he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll disappear on him.

“Eden,” Rafe says. His breath ruffles my hair. “Let’s get you out here. Okay? I want to take a look at your hand. Check you out to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere else.”

He stops. Cocks his head. The sirens approaching sound closer. No more than a few streets away. “The police will be here any minute,” he adds. “They’re going to come in armed. So I’d like to be in the living room, where they can see us.”

Right. Of course.

Here I am fixated on how good it feels to be held by Rafe, while he’s actually using logic and common sense.

I give Rafe a jerky nod. “Okay.” As I start to pull away from him, he tugs me back.

Tucks me against his side.

As he guides me out of the laundry room, he explains, “You’re still shaky. You could be in shock. Plus. If someone tries to…” Trailing off, his jaw goes hard. “I just want you near me. Okay?”

It’s only once we’re in the hallway that I notice the gun tucked into his waistband. And the bulge in his pocket, which I know from experience is a knife and not a sign that Rafe is happy to see me.

I mean, I guess that would be weird, given the situation.

Still. I wouldn’t complain if he were.

“When the police come inside, it’ll be scary for a minute or two,” Rafe explains. He leads me into the living room, which looks much different from the last time I saw it. Mainly because the front door is now hanging loosely off one hinge with scraps of wood scattered on the floor in front of it.

Although on my second look around the room, I notice other damage, too.

Like the coffee table flipped over with one leg snapped off.

The shelf on the way to the kitchen—the one that holds my framed photos of my family and friends—is toppled over. Light glints off the cracked glass, reflecting spiderwebs in it.

Through the kitchen doorway, I notice the wheeled butcher block island on its side with the vase of flowers I set on top of it a mess of broken stems and spilled water.

A dismayed sound creeps up my throat.

I know they’re small things. Things that can be fixed or replaced. But it still hurts to see my home like this. Damaged. Invaded. Tainted.

“Hey. It’s okay, Brain.” Rafe jostles me gently. His expression is still hard. Intense. Angry. But there’s a softness in his eyes that makes my breath catch.

As he wraps a towel around my bleeding hand—I don’t remember him grabbing that from the laundry room, but I guess that’s not surprising, given the state I was in—he adds, “We’ll get everything fixed. I promise.”

“It’s okay,” I reply automatically. “They’re just things.”

But as I look around again at the proof that no, I wasn’t paranoid, and someone really did break in, a shudder runs through me. My teeth chatter.

“Shit,” Rafe mutters. He closes my hand around the fluffy towel and clasps his fingers around it for a second. “You really need to sit down. But the cops?—”

And as if he summoned them, he’s interrupted by the screeching of tires in the driveway. Sirens shrill, the sound making me wince. Flashing lights illuminate the front yard and bounce into the house through the open door, turning the living room into an eerie red disco.

Rafe steps slightly in front of me. He sets his gun and knife on the coffee table.

Seconds later, four uniformed police officers come rushing inside, guns drawn and shouting.

Even though Rafe tried to prepare me, I didn’t expect this.

Harsh voices yelling at me. At Rafe. Ordering him to step away from me.

Telling us to freeze. Drop our weapons. Put our hands up.

Rationally, I know they’re here to help. That they don’t know we’re both innocent. That the criminal already left.

My brain gets it. But my body doesn’t understand.

Seeing the men pointing guns at us, shouting, their faces so angry…

And they want Rafe to leave .

To move away from me.

My anchor, the one person I can trust right now, gone.

My pulse speeds so quickly I’m lightheaded from it.

Waves of hot and cold rush through my body.

I know I’m shaking, but I can’t make myself stop.

“ Rafe ,” I hear myself begging. “Don’t leave.” To the police, I plead tearfully, “Rafe helped me. He protected me. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Rafe’s hands are in the air, and if it were anyone else, it would make them seem harmless. But he still has an air of danger to him. A tension, like a spring close to snapping.

In a carefully calm voice, Rafe says, “I’m Rafe Castello. Eden is a close friend. I was on my way here when she called to say an intruder was breaking in.”

One of the police officers snaps, “You should have waited for the professionals to get here.” A beat, and then with a hint of skepticism, “Assuming you didn’t plan the whole thing.”

A muscle in Rafe’s jaw twitches. His eyes flare with anger. His shoulders set. But he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he replies, “Make some calls. I work for Black’s Bail Bonds. Out of Texas. They’ll vouch for me. Or?—”

He lifts his chin and gives the cop a defiant look. “Call Cole Mitchell. At Blade and Arrow Security. I served with him. Special Forces.”

One of the other officers asks, “You served? With the Blade and Arrow guys?”

Rafe nods. “I did. Out of Fort Campbell. A couple of the guys at the Texas branch were my teammates. And if you want someone else to talk to, call Cruz Livingston at the FBI office in San Antonio. I helped him with a job last year.”

The four officers glance at each other, exchanging loaded looks.

I hold my breath.

Then, in unison, they all lower their weapons.

The friendliest of the four—the one who asked about Blade and Arrow—lifts his chin at Rafe. “Coming in like this, seeing you next to her, you know we had to assume?—”

“I know.” Rafe takes a quick sidestep towards me and wraps his arm around my waist.

The relief is so great, it’s all I can do not to burst into tears again.

“The intruder went out the back door,” Rafe explains briskly. “I didn’t see him, but I heard the back door open. I’m sure he heard my car, and I had to break the door to get in.” His jaw clenches. “I couldn’t go after him. Eden was my priority.”

“Of course,” one of the other officers says. His gaze darts to the kicked-in front door and admiration flares in his eyes. “Making sure she was safe was the most important thing.”

As the officers split up—two of them heading back outside and the others moving through the house—Rafe turns to me. “Come on, Brain.” His lips curve slightly. “Let’s take a look at your hand. See if you need stitches.”

On numb legs, I let him lead me to the couch and sit me down. It’s the strangest feeling, like I’m a marionette with all my strings cut.

Sitting down beside me, Rafe takes my hand in his. Then he carefully unwinds the towel to look at the cut on my hand. He curses at the still-bleeding wound.

“I think it’ll be okay,” I tell him quietly. “Just a couple of bandages should be fine.”

Rafe keeps staring at my hand. In profile, his face is all hard lines and dark shadows.

“I wasn’t sure,” I start. “I thought… maybe I was imagining things. That I was just being paranoid. That the car last night was just bad luck.”

Or I hoped it was, at least.

“We’ll talk about it,” he finally replies. His jaw works. He wraps the towel around my hand again, his gentleness a contradiction to the fire in his eyes. “Not now. Not until I make sure you’re okay. But then—” His gaze meets mine. “Then you’re going to tell me everything .”