Page 14 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Tristan

There is fear in her eyes. Birdie is afraid of me, the man who has done nothing but save her over and over again.

It’s almost amusing, and in a way, exciting.

They should write about that in psychology books, fear as an aphrodisiac.

How the tremble in her lip, the way her pupils dilate like she’s prey caught in a snare, can ignite something primal in a man like me.

It’s mesmerizing, really, watching her mind race, trying to calculate her next move while knowing there isn’t one. Not for her. Every exit, every escape route, has already been sealed. I made sure of it when I chose this place.

She doesn’t realize yet that her fear is misplaced. That I’m not the monster she thinks I am—but I could be. Oh, I could be. Isn’t that the delicious part? The possibility. The potential.

What would it take to shatter that stubborn will of hers? To make her stop trying to wrest control of the story and accept her role in mine? Would it be pain? Betrayal? Or something simpler, more intimate, like a whisper in her ear, a hand at her throat?

I stop the car at the end of a winding dirt road wide enough for a single vehicle. Darkness engulfs us, save for the faint glow of the dashboard.

Birdie’s chest heaves. “Tristan, why did you stop the car? Where are we?”

“Get out and you’ll see.”

Blood drains from her face as she hesitates to grip the door handle. “What’s going on? Why are you—”

“Birdie.” My voice cuts through the tension, quiet but commanding. “Out. Now.”

Her hand trembles when it pushes the door open. I step out, circling the car to meet her. The cold air slices through me. I watch her wrap her arms around herself and take in the cabin hidden behind a natural curtain of towering pines and oaks.

“What are you doing, Tristan?” She forces herself to look me in the eye. “What is this place?”

A thrill courses through me. I step closer, too close, and she takes a half-step back, her breath catching as if she’s realized too late that retreat only makes the predator hungrier.

“Birdie,” I murmur, letting her name hang between us like a trap waiting to spring. “You think I’ve done all of this for you to fear me?”

Her silence is deafening, her defiance crumbling under the weight of her terror. She won’t answer, not because she doesn’t know, but because she does.

She takes another look behind the trees.

The property is surrounded by dense thickets, creating a fortress of greenery that muffles sound and obscures the house from view.

The cabin itself is rustic but sturdy, built of dark cedar shingles that blend seamlessly into the forested backdrop.

Its sloped roof is partially covered in moss, and the windows are shielded by heavy blackout curtains, ensuring no light escapes at night.

Around the cabin is a modest clearing, encircled by wild berry bushes and ferns.

A narrow footpath leads to a hidden beach cove just a short hike away, where jagged rocks shield the shoreline from prying eyes and the ocean waves crash loudly enough to mask any conversation or—some might think—acts of violence.

The perfect place to vanish from the world—or to hide from someone hunting you.

“It’s a safehouse.” I rented it when I took the job. Common procedure. “After what happened last night, there is no way you’re going back to your house, not until I catch the bastard.”

Her shoulders relax, and a long sigh seeps out of her lips. “I hate you right now. Why did you not say something? What’s with the scare, asshole?”

“Do you really scare that easily?” I smirk. “Or do you really not trust me?”

She arches a brow and drags her gaze toward the cabin. “I’m freezing.”

I put my hand on the small of her back to usher her in. “After you, my lady.”

Inside, the safehouse is spartan but functional.

The main living area is dominated by a large stone fireplace, its hearth stocked with chopped wood.

There are a leather couch, a sturdy oak table, and a pair of wooden chairs.

A small kitchen with all the necessary appliances is stocked with non-perishable supplies.

A trapdoor in the pantry leads to a small, concealed basement—a small space that serves as an emergency hideout—equipped with a cot, bottled water, canned food and a radio.

There are two bedrooms, each with a reinforced door and a closet hiding a gun safe and emergency supplies.

“The air smells of salt and pine. The only sounds are the distant waves and the occasional rustle of leaves.” Birdie looks at me. “Here, isolation is absolute. Is it where my haven lies or my demise?”

“No one knows about this place. There is no cell service so you can’t be tracked either, and I’ll never let you out of my sight.” I close the distance between us and meet her gaze. “No one can find you here, Birdie.”

“Should I be relieved or more scared?”

“I installed the CCTV system myself. It covers every inch and has multiple levels of security to stop any hacking attempts for each camera individually and—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I swallow, catching the undercurrent in her voice. Swirling in the blue of her eyes is something beyond fear now, something that makes my pulse quicken in an entirely different way.

“You’re not as scared of a psycho stalker as much as you’re scared of this?

” I gesture at the space between us, and I realize we’re standing too close to each other but never close enough.

I can’t take my gaze off her lips. Birdie’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t retreat. I’m one breath away from inhaling hers.

I’ve been fighting for so long, but, in her presence, I’m only a man, and she’s an electric and undeniable storm here to break me. With a gulp, I bend my head down to her mouth, ready to surrender.

Her lips part. “You said you’d protect me.”

“I am protecting you.”

“From everything, but no longer from myself, no longer from you.”

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. “When will I ever learn? I can’t win this game, not with you.” My eyes squeeze, and I grit my teeth on a shaky breath. Pulling back, I claw at my chest as if I could rip my heart out and end all this suffering once and for all.

“Tristan—”

“Stop. I beg you to fucking stop.” Both my hands run through my hair, pulling at the ends, and I turn away from her. “I’ll go check in with the team and tell them to come over to take their posts here.”

“No. No guards.”

I face her. “Excuse me?”

She folds her arms across her chest. “I…don’t want anyone else here.”

“Why, so you can toy around with me a little more, watch me burn to satisfy whatever sadistic urges you have every time you give me hope and then brush me off?”

Her expression pales and then darkens in a split-second, as if I’ve just stabbed her in the back. “You really think this is what I’m doing?”

You really think I’m falling for your crocodile tears you won’t even shed? “If I’m wrong, enlighten me.”

Her mouth opens and then closes. She presses her lips and shakes her head before she says, “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I didn’t mean no guards because I wanted you here alone for whatever fucked up reason you thought I had. I don’t want other guards, period.”

“Well, I wish I could stay up twenty-four seven and guard you by myself indefinitely, but I hate to break it to you that I need more manpower and weapons to fully protect you, Mrs. Abel.”

“Then bring Brandon, only Brandon.”

The one guard on the team she hates the most? I’m about to ask why, but then it all registers in my brain. Brandon is the only one she can trust because he was there, talking to her, when Butterfly Man was in her bedroom.

She puts her hands in front of her to pacify me. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s—”

“You’re right, I don’t. Wake up and smell the coffee. Your stalker is Torrance, Birdie.”

She cocks a brow in defiance. “Or one of the guards.”

“For God’s sake, not again. Did you hear him at the lighthouse?

He asked if you couldn’t get the same sunrise and ocean air from your terrace, not house, not office, not front yard, not room, terrace .

There are only two terraces in the house, Birdie.

One in your bedroom and one in mine. The only one that has an ocean view is yours.

As far as I know, he’s never been to your room or upstairs at all, how the fuck did he know that? ”

Her gaze slants around the corners, and then she shakes her head pensively. She understands where this is leading. She just doesn’t want to believe it.

I throw my hands in the air. “How could you be so blind?”

“How could you? You said it yourself, no one came in or out of my house. The most viable explanation is that it’s someone who is already inside and isn’t expected to leave.”

“Unbelievable,” I scoff.

“Is it? Put your emotions aside for one minute and tell me if it’s not possible.”

“How about you do the same and admit that Torrance is also a viable possibility?”

“I do, Tristan. I’m here, aren’t I? I let you drag me down to the middle of nowhere, and I’m staying without a single argument because it is possible that Jacob is Butterfly Man and so is any of your men.”

I force myself to consider her theory through the haze of anger and jealousy.

Of Torrance. Which is exactly why she thinks I’m not being objective.

“Fine. I’ll bite.” I lean against the wall, crossing my arms. “Who do you think it is? Marcus, who was out looking for your husband at the time of the breach? Or Dixon and Riley, who are both from Minnesota and have never set foot in Florida except when each of them got married, and I treated them and their wives to a weekend in Miami as their wedding gift?”

She blinks rapidly, pursing her lips. “What about the last member of the team? I can’t even remember his name, the one who is always in charge of guarding the back gate?”

“Morrison?” I chuckle.