Page 9 of Protected from Malice (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #1)

Rafe shifts on the bed, his knee bumping mine.

“Do you want some tea?” he asks. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I can call the front desk. I won’t leave to pick it up, but I’m sure I could convince the guy to leave it outside the door.”

As I look at him, I waver between what I should do—which is insist I’m fine, try to go back to sleep, and hope he gets at least a little rest—and what I really want.

If it were daytime, if I were fully dressed instead of wearing sleep shorts and my old Yale sweatshirt, if I had my metaphorical armor back on and didn’t feel so darn weak and vulnerable, I might go with the first option.

But sitting here on the bed with Rafe in this darkened hotel room, the quiet wrapping around us in a comforting bubble, I find myself asking for the second instead.

“I don’t want tea,” I blurt out.

Rafe blinks at me. “Okay. That’s fine. Do you want some water?” He starts to get off the bed. “We don’t have ice, but we’ve got some bottled water. I could ask the front desk?—”

I grab his arm, tugging him back down. “No. I don’t want water. Or ice.”

His features crease. “Can I get you anything ?”

“Well.” My heart skitters.

Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?

It’s not like Rafe is a stranger. I’ve known him for years.

But.

This is different. It feels different.

Not just because of what happened at my house.

But because this time, it’s just me and Rafe.

No Indy around, no other teammates, just us.

Sitting so close together, I can feel the heat of his body radiating into mine.

So close I can count the dark bristles on his jaw, if I wanted. So close I could lean over and kiss?—

Eeep.

No kissing. Rafe’s a friend. That’s it.

“I don’t want to sleep,” I admit. “I don’t think I could, honestly. Not yet.”

“Eden.”

“I was thinking… maybe we could just watch TV? Not a cooking show, but one of those weird documentaries you like? And you could sit here”—I pat the empty spot beside me—“instead of on the floor? We could call the guy at the front desk and ask him to raid the vending machine for us since we never had dinner.”

Rafe glances at the television, then back to me again. “Are you sure?”

“Unless you don’t want to.”

Rafe hesitates.

Long enough for me to worry he’s about to reject my idea.

Then he gets off the bed, and my stomach plummets.

It shouldn’t matter this much. I know it shouldn’t.

“Nevermind,” I add quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll just… watch something on my phone. Forget I said anything.”

“Brain.” Rafe’s hand rests on my shoulder again. His gaze flickers with an unreadable expression. “I don’t want to forget it. That sounds like a great idea.”

He grabs the remote from the bedside table and takes it with him as he rounds the bed and settles onto the other side of the mattress.

It dips with his weight as he stretches out his legs and leans back against the headboard.

Then he grabs a pillow and gives it a quick shake before shoving it behind his back.

With a small smile, he asks, “So you want to watch one of my weird documentaries instead of your cooking shows?”

“I watch cooking all the time,” I reply. “It’s fine. But some of the shows you watch are really intriguing. Like that one about the cheese rolling in England. Or the people who dance with their dogs.”

Smile expanding, he chuckles. “I seem to recall you and Indy making fun of me for the dog dancing episode. Offering to buy me a dog if I thought it was so interesting.”

My lips twitch. “I still stand by my claim that you’d be really good at it. You could get a big dog, like a Great Dane or a Newfoundland, so they’d match your size.”

Rafe bursts out laughing. “You want me to do interpretive dances with a Newfoundland?”

“Or a Cane Corso,” I offer. “They’re not quite as big.”

Shaking his head, he jabs a button on the remote to turn the television on. “I’m not going to start competing in dog dancing, Eden. Or fling myself down a hill chasing after a wheel of cheese. Just in case that’s your next idea.”

“You’d probably be good at it. Although—” Pausing, I give him a teasing smirk. “You might be getting a little old for stuff like that.”

“Old?” Rafe playfully pokes my side. “I’m not old.”

“I know.” I pat his arm. “You’re only six years older than me. So you can’t be old yet.”

“Five and a half years,” he corrects. “Not six. Since your birthday is in July and mine is in January.”

A little flutter of happiness takes flight in my chest.

It shouldn’t matter that he remembers when my birthday is. But it makes me feel good, just the same.

Turning his attention back to the TV, Rafe flips through the channels as he says, “Once we find something, I’ll call the front desk. Ask whoever’s there to empty out the vending machine for us.”

He pauses on a show that’s apparently about a hot pepper eating competition. “What do you think? Want to watch a bunch of people melt their mouths competing to eat the hottest peppers in the world?”

I edge closer to Rafe, until my shoulder rubs against his. “That sounds interesting.”

He clicks on it, and the intro starts playing. A series of clips begin—competitors crying as they try to finish a tiny pepper, one person puking into a garbage can, and another accusing a fellow contestant, “Chasing it with milk is for pussies! I’ll show you how it’s really done!”

“Remember when Fox dared Indy to drink an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce?” I ask Rafe. “How dumb was that?”

That was years ago, back when Indy was still with the Green Berets, and he’d brought Rafe and Fox, another teammate, to visit me in Boston during one of their leaves.

The three of them took great pleasure in coming up with ridiculous dares, like drinking Tabasco sauce and rappelling down my building in the middle of the night.

“Not as dumb as some of the things they did when you weren’t around,” Rafe retorts with a smile. “I won’t even tell you some of the things Indy did. But trust me, they were worse than that.”

As I think about it, a pang of loss hits me.

I didn’t lose him. And I’m incredibly grateful for that. But I wish I could have my old brother back. The one who laughed. Who enjoyed stupid dares and loved making fun of me. The brother I wouldn’t have hesitated to go to when I was in trouble.

“I miss him,” I find myself saying. “I’m glad he’s okay. But…”

Rafe’s smile slides into something more serious. Understanding fills his gaze. “I know.”

Those stupid tears threaten again.

Not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes, I focus on the TV screen, watching intently as some sort of pepper expert talks about the Scoville heat unit scale.

After a few moments, Rafe’s arm comes around my shoulder.

It’s strong. Firm with muscle. Reassuring.

Gentle.

And it feels so perfect, I never want him to let me go.

“I’m sorry Indy’s not here,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry you had to settle for me, instead.”

My breath catches.

“I didn’t settle.” My heart pounds with the truth. “I’m glad you’re here. Not Indy. You.”