Page 18

SINCLAIR

Denver says goodbye to my father and Halliday, then slides the bolt into place on my front door.

I reach down to pet Monty. He’s recovered much better than I have.

He came in from his walk and ate a whole bowl of scrambled eggs that Halliday made for him, then curled up on the couch with his head in my lap and dozed while my father asked Denver to go over the attack again and again.

Denver put a call into some friends who are NYPD officers, and they came to take statements too.

“You okay?” Denver asks, walking over to me.

I nod, but my lower lip trembles. “Just cold. I haven’t been able to get warm since we got back.”

He studies me. “It’s the adrenaline. I’ll run you a bath.”

He walks past me, and I follow him through my bedroom and into my bathroom.

“I’m fine.”

“I never said you weren’t. But it’s okay if you’re not.”

He leans over the bath and sets the tap going.

“How do you do it?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, watching as he checks the towel heater is on.

“Do what?” He glances at me from beneath dark brows as he goes into my bathroom cabinet and takes out some bath salts.

He sprinkles them into the tub and rolls his shirt sleeve up to his elbow so he can swirl them around until they dissolve.

I’m not used to seeing him without his jacket on.

It’s strange seeing him on his knees doing something as domesticated as running a bath while his gun is in its holster by his hip.

“All the danger.”

He pulls his hand from the water and wipes it on a spare towel. “It’s my job.” He looks at me, then exhales. “You get used to it. And when you’ve got something worth protecting, it’s simple, because not doing whatever you can to keep it safe isn’t an option.”

He pauses in the doorway as I stand aside to let him pass. We’re so close that I can smell the mint on his breath as I blink up at him.

“Get in the bath, Sinclair. I’ll wait out here for you.”

“Will you fetch Monty?”

His eyes soften. “I’ll bring him in.”

I lie in the bath staring at the ceiling while Monty snoozes in his throne bed next to the bath. Denver brought it in for him before I got in. I never thought he’d noticed it in the living area. But this is Denver, he’s paid to notice everything.

“You okay in there?” Denver’s deep rasp floats through the door. I can tell by where it’s coming from that he’s sitting on the floor on the other side.

“I’m still okay,” I reply.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been lying here. But it’s been long enough for Denver to ask me that six times.

I sigh as I sit up and step from the water, wrapping a towel around myself. Monty stirs in his bed and watches me as I dry.

“I love you, baby. You can sleep under the covers tonight.”

He tilts his head, then whines until I go and pat him.

“I’m coming out,” I call to Denver.

“I’ll be in the other room.”

I wait until I hear the sound of him closing my bedroom door before I hang up my towel and open the bathroom door, walking out into my bedroom and into my walk-in closet. I’m pulling on a clean pair of lace panties when my phone buzzes on my bed. I walk over and open the message.

Zoey: I’m on my way over.

Me: It’s okay, I’m fine. I’m about to go to bed. And Denver’s here.

Zoey: I’ll be there in the morning then. Love you.

I was going to call her after my bath. It’s been non-stop with my father and the cops since we got back.

“Denver? Did you call Zoey?” I shout.

His answer comes immediately from outside the door. “No. But I can call her now for you.”

“It’s fine,” I say, clicking onto the internet.

I don’t even have to search for it. It’s top of the news site I open first.

Sinclair Beaufort in dog-napping scare.

“Where’s your phone?” Denver asks suddenly. “Sinclair?” He knocks on the door. “Sinclair, don’t go online.”

My eyes ping-pong over the report. Attached is a video filmed on a passerby’s phone.

The guy has grabbed Monty by the scruff of the neck and lifted his front paws off the ground.

You can’t tell who he is because of his ski mask.

But you can see the moment he’s almost knocked out by one punch as Denver hits him square in the face.

Screams echo from the video. Mine.

It cuts out as Denver lifts a barking Monty into his arms.

“Sinclair.” Denver’s warning rolls through the door as he presses down on the handle.

“Stop. I’m not dressed,” I screech, running over and holding the door shut.

But it’s an excuse. The fingers on my free hand are scrabbling as fast as they can as I read comment after comment beneath the video.

“Poor dog, I hope he’s okay.”

“She deserved to lose her dog. Did you hear how she attacked that other model?”

“Screeching bitch, my ears hurt.”

“What’s with the stupid sweaters she makes him wear? Animal cruelty. #Takeherdog”

“You should all be ashamed. He’s an animal. They were probably going to kill him.”

Denver growls, “I’m coming in. Move back from the door.”

I step back, my hand flying to my mouth as I read the last comment.

“Next time, we won’t fail. RIP Monty.”

“Sinclair!”

Green eyes burn into mine.

Then my legs give way.