Page 15 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

But then, I’d have not had the chance to know Isla and Sadie the way I did. It’s difficult to reconcile, wishing the best could have happened for the three Wylders while also not wanting to lose what I had.

Instead of saying the wrong thing to my teammate, I say nothing.

I’m not home ten minutes before incessant rapping starts up on my front door.

There’s an urgency to it, and since only a select few people know where I live, I assume it’s Kit.

My heart rate spikes as I take the stairs back down to the first floor.

The rain pelting the sheet-metal roof normally soothes me—now it just amps up my pulse.

Not to be a misogynistic, overbearing asshole, but I do worry about her living alone. Nightmare’s a good noise-maker, but he wouldn’t be much help if she ever needed protection.

Throwing the door open, I find her soaking wet, shivering as raindrops stream down her face. She’s only wearing boxing shorts and a T-shirt, flip-flops on her feet. The woman dresses like we live in Hawaii, not next door to the Cascade Mountains.

“What’s wrong?” I demand, pulling her inside and out of the downpour. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she says adamantly, swiping wet strands from her cheeks.

“What happened?” I gently tow her farther inside, perching her in front of the gas fireplace. Flipping the switch, I grab the throw blanket off the sofa and wrap it around her. Kit follows my every move but doesn’t answer right away. “Kit?”

“Just say it, Kit,” she mutters to herself.

After a long exhale, her eyes pop up to mine.

“I’ve been thinking about what to say to you for days.

Writing notes, memorizing key points. I even practiced in a mirror, like a teenager preparing for an oral exam.

That’s why I’m not okay. You—you’re why I’m not okay.

You distract me. You’re like an intrusive thought.

I can’t focus for very long before your crooked smile conjures in my mind. ”

“I’m an intrusive thought?” I manage not to laugh, but my smile still forms.

“Yes! As is that smile,” she accuses, pointing at me.

“Should I smile less?”

“No.”

“What should I do?” I ask.

Kit’s nervousness doesn’t present like Lottie’s.

My sister turns inward—quiet, withdrawn—sometimes not speaking for days while she works through something.

We learned early to let her know we were there, but give her space.

Kit hasn’t told me how to support her, and I stupidly haven’t asked.

I can tell she’s struggling, walking a line between frustration and agitation.

The crease in her forehead is as prominent now as when I opened the door.

And I don’t think all the shaking is from being cold and wet.

“How do I help, Kit?”

“I don’t know.” Her hands ball into fists at her hips. “I had my life figured out, you know? I was content with what I had—and what I didn’t. Now? I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“Any of what? Talk to me. Let me help.”

She shakes her hands out, only for them to curl into fists again.

“You’re safe here, Kit. It’s just you and me. And I don’t judge, remember? You can say anything to me. I’ll stand here and hear every word.”

She takes a few deep breaths. Eventually, her shoulders lose a little of their tension. I want nothing more than to wrap her in my arms, carry her to my bed, and be the big spoon to her little one. I want to protect her through whatever internal battle she’s waging.

While her nipples pebble under the thin, wet cotton, it’s not sex on my mind right now—though I dream of her every night. Not Isla. Never Isla, anymore. Now isn’t the time for those thoughts. Right now, I only want to soothe her.

“I don’t date, Tyson. I never have. The one relationship I had with a man…

I’ve come to realize it wasn’t what I thought it was at the time.

I haven’t got the first clue how to date you, or how to be any sort of partner to you—or anyone.

” She pauses to steady herself while I try to keep my own emotions in check.

Her dark eyes glass over as she quietly pronounces her next words.

“All I know is that I want to be brave enough to try.”

I take a step forward, my hands reaching before I can think better of it.

“Can I touch you?” I pause mid-motion. “Your face—can I touch your face?”

“You’ve never asked before.” It’s not an accusation, just an observation. She’s right—I didn’t ask before. But I’ve never touched her with this kind of intimacy, either.

“That’s not an answer, Kit. Say the words.”

“Yes.” She tips her face up to mine as I take another step closer.

“There are no rules to follow with me,” I tell her, cupping her face in my palms. “You don’t need to know how to do anything but communicate with me. Whatever concerns you have, we’ll face them together. Okay?”

She leans into my right palm, and I rub my thumb across her temple.

“I’m not a virgin,” she says. “But I might as well be.”

That, coupled with her earlier statement, sends a sharp pain through my chest. But I don’t want assumptions—I want truth. If she’s willing to give it.

“What does that mean?”

A tear spills over her lower lash. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her cry, and my heart rages for her. I catch the droplet on my thumb and bring it to my lips before replacing my hand on her cheek.

“If I tell you, don’t look at me differently.” Her quiet words sting the air. Anger pools in me, demanding to know who hurt this perfect creature.

“I can’t promise that,” I tell her softly, wincing when her eyes shut in pain.

“I can’t promise you won’t say something that makes me see you as even stronger than I already thought.

I can’t promise it won’t make me feel more connected to you.

But I can promise that whatever you say next, I’ll be on your side. I’ll always be on your side.”

“Can you promise that, though? You don’t know me that well.”

“I know you well enough. I’ve practically placed myself in your back pocket for the last two months. That’s long enough for me to know your character. I hope it’s been long enough for you to know mine.”

We haven’t had long, deep discussions about life-changing events from her past. I know when I’m getting too close to a topic she’s not ready for. I’ve told her plenty of my own story. She holds the reins here. The control. All the power. I’m not here to pry or push, but to support.

Her eyes search mine. I let her read me, let her see what I’m offering—security, safety to be herself, to tell her truth. Her hand rests on my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. It takes her a few minutes, but I see the moment she decides she can trust me.

It’s the most empowering moment of my life—to be given such a fragile gift.

“I…I didn’t want it to happen. Not really. But the pressure was too much. I couldn’t keep fighting it,” she says, her voice the most vulnerable sound I’ve ever heard. “I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no, either.”

“If it’s not an enthusiastic yes, it’s a no.”

“I know that, now. Or maybe I did, then, too,” she says. “It was confusing.”

“Who?” The single word scrapes my throat, my hands wanting to be gentle on her skin, yet violent on his.

“My father’s coworker. He was around a lot, watching sports with my dad. Drinking beer, eating pizza. It was their chosen pastime. When my dad would get belligerent, Derik would step in. I felt…obligated.”

She means he made her believe she owed him. She’s not saying the words, but I hear them, all the same. A thousand questions and every negative emotion rush through me. I’ve never felt murderous in my life—until now.

“Nobody owes that. I’m sorry you were made to feel you did. I hate that for you,” I tell her, pressing my forehead to hers, not breaking eye contact, forcing my voice to stay soft.

“I tried to hold it off. I was so close to leaving—moving away. It was only weeks away, but he was so persistent. Always there. It became his mission, and I thought…”

“It would be easier to give in,” I finish for her.

“It wasn’t, though,” she says, another tear spilling over. Her fist tightens in my shirt. She’s anchoring herself—to me.

I hope to be worthy of such heavy weight.