I fired up my computers, the screens blinking to life, casting a blue glow in the room. The familiar lines of code and spreadsheets appeared. But for the first time ever, I couldn't lose myself in them. My focus wasn't on the numbers.
It was on the silent, watchful sentinel in the corner of my office. The man who had crashed into my life with the force of a hurricane, who cooked bacon with the same focus he used to neutralize threats, and who looked at my work not as dry accounting, but as a critical battlefield.
And the most terrifying, exhilarating thought of all was this: I didn't want him to leave.
The rhythmic click of my keyboard, the soft whir of the computer fans—these were the sounds of my world, the metronome of my concentration. Or they usually were. Today, they were a feeble attempt to create normalcy in a space that felt fundamentally altered. The numbers on the screen, usually so crisp and commanding, seemed to blur and dance, refusing to coalesce into their usual logical patterns.
My entire awareness was funneled to the corner of the room. To him.
Clyde Adams hadn't moved in over an hour. He sat in that simple chair as if it were a command post throne, his posture relaxed yet utterly alert. He wasn't staring at me, but I felt his attention like a physical touch, a constant, warm hum against my skin. He'd produced a small, wicked-looking knife from somewhere—a boot? his belt?—and was quietly, methodically cleaning under his nails with the tip. The casual intimacy of the act, the inherent danger of the tool in his capable hands, was so at odds with the sterile environment of my office that it short-circuited my brain.
I'd catch the flex of a muscle in his thigh when a car passed a little too slowly on the street outside. I'd see his eyes, those pale, laser-focused blues, flick from the window to me and back again in a continuous, silent loop of assessment. He was a symphony of controlled vigilance, and I was the captivated, slightly terrified audience of one.
I was trying to trace a particularly elusive transfer from Aether Holdings through a bank in Cyprus when my personal cell phone buzzed on the desk, shattering the intense quiet. The sound was abnormally loud, jarring. I flinched, my hand freezing over the mouse.
Clyde's head snapped up. The knife vanished. "Who is it?" he asked, his voice low but cutting straight through the air.
I glanced at the screen. "Dennis O'Malley. My boss."
He gave a single, sharp nod. "Answer it. Put it on speaker."
The command was immediate, leaving no room for question. My heart did a little stutter. Putting my demanding, often irascible boss on speakerphone with a Navy SEAL silently judging the conversation felt like a bizarre collision of worlds. But I did it. I tapped the screen and set the phone down between us.
"Nash," O'Malley's gruff voice barked out, filling the room. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened? I get a call from some spook at DOD saying you were nearly snatched out of a Safeway? Are you intact?"
I opened my mouth to respond, to offer my usual professional, I'm-fine-everything's-under-control spiel, but Clyde held up a single finger. His expression was granite. He wanted me to listen.
"I'm okay, Dennis," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "It was… handled."
"Handled? I'll say it was handled. The guy's wrist was pulverized. They had to sedate him for the pain. Is Clyde Adams with you ?
My eyes flicked to the man in question. He was watching me, his gaze intense, giving nothing away. "He's here with me now," I said carefully.
"Good. Christ, that's good." O'Malley let out a heavy sigh. "Listen, Troy, this Meridian thing… it's hotter than we thought. A lot hotter. These people aren't playing games. The fact that they made a move on you in public means they're desperate to shut you down."
"I'm aware," I said, a thread of dryness in my tone. The memory of the knife was a fresh brand on my memory.
"Are you? Because I need to know if you're still in this. I can pull you. I can assign a whole team to sift through your notes. It wouldn't be a mark on your record, not after this. Nobody would blame you."
The offer hung in the air. A way out. A return to my quiet, ordered, safe life of numbers that didn't come with knives in grocery stores. I could go back to my silent townhouse and my frozen pizzas. The thought was so seductive it was a physical ache.
I looked away from the phone, my eyes finding Clyde's. He wasn't nodding or shaking his head. He wasn't giving me any direction at all. He was just watching me, waiting. His expression was neutral, but in the depths of his pale eyes, I saw something else. A challenge. A silent question: What are you made of, Troy Nash?
And in that moment, I knew. The fear was real, a cold knot in my stomach. But the thought of walking away, of letting these bastards win, of never seeing this through… and, a smaller, more terrifying voice whispered, of him leaving, his duty done… that was unacceptable.
The decision crystalized with a clarity that shocked me.
"I'm not out," I said, my voice firm, losing its tremor. I was talking to O'Malley, but my eyes were locked with Clyde's. A flicker of something—approval? respect?—passed through his gaze so quickly I might have imagined it. "They want to shut me down because I'm close, Dennis. I can feel it. Pulling me now would be exactly what they want."
O'Malley was silent for a beat. "You're sure? This isn't a spreadsheet anymore, Nash. This is real."
"I'm aware," I repeated, the words laced with a new steel I didn't know I possessed. "More aware than I've ever been. But this is what I do. I follow the money. And I'm not stopping until I find where it leads."
"Alright," O'Malley said, his tone shifting to pure, grim business. "Alright. Then Adams is your shadow. You listen to him like he's gospel, you understand? His word is law. If he tells you to jump, you ask how high on the way up. He's there to keep you breathing so you can do your job."
"I understand," I said, my gaze still held by Clyde's. The air between us was thick with unspoken things.
"Good. Check in later. And Nash… be careful."
The line went dead. The silence that descended back into the room was profound, but it was different now. The nervous tension had been replaced by something else. Something charged and decisive.
I reached out and took the phone off speaker, the click echoing in the quiet.
Clyde didn't speak immediately. He just continued to look at me, his head tilted slightly, as if seeing me for the first time. The intensity of his focus was a physical weight.
"You didn't have to do that," he said finally, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between us.
"Yes, I did," I replied, the conviction solid in my gut.
"He gave you an out. A clean one." He stated it as a fact, not a judgment.
"I don't want an out." The words were truer than any I'd ever spoken. I wasn't just talking about the case anymore, and based on the way his eyes darkened, he knew it.
He unfolded himself from the chair in one smooth, powerful motion and walked over to my desk. He didn't stop until he was standing right beside me, looking down at me where I sat. He was so big, blocking out the light from the window, his presence overwhelming every one of my senses.
He placed one hand on the desk, leaning down slightly, bringing his face closer to mine. I could see the faint stubble along his jawline, the tiny scar on his chin, the impossible pale blue of his irises.
"Okay," he said, the word soft, final, and laden with a meaning that went far beyond the simple agreement. It was a pact. A recognition.
He held my gaze for a long, heart-stopping moment, then straightened up. "Then let's get to work."
He returned to his chair, and I turned back to my screens. But everything was different. The numbers were sharp and clear again, the patterns emerging with brilliant clarity. I wasn't just Troy Nash, forensic accountant, anymore.
I was Troy Nash, who had looked into the abyss and chosen to stay. And I had Clyde Adams, the most dangerous man I'd ever met, watching my back.
The fear was still there, a cold undercurrent. But now, it was joined by something else, something warm and terrifying and exhilarating.
Anticipation.
The numbers had finally stopped dancing. They'd snapped back into their razor-sharp formations, lines of code and columns of figures weaving the story I was desperate to tell. The primary routing account was a ghost, a specter in the machine, but I could feel it. I was close, so close I could almost taste it—a metallic, electric tang on my tongue that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the hunt.
The focused silence in the room was a living thing, shared and charged. Clyde's presence was no longer a distraction; it had become the bedrock upon which my concentration was built. The occasional shift of his weight in the chair, the soft sound of his breathing, the sheer, solid fact of his vigilance—it all fused into a strange, new kind of rhythm. My world had constricted to this room, to this puzzle, and to him.
And then my stomach growled, a loud, embarrassingly organic sound that shattered the digital spell.
A glance at the clock on my monitor showed it was noon. Right on time. My body, unlike my mind, was a creature of habit. I had a routine for a reason. Skipping meals meant low blood sugar, which meant a tremor in my hands and a foggy brain, and I couldn't afford either. Not now.
I saved my work with a few quick keystrokes and swiveled my chair around. Clyde's eyes were on me instantly, questioning, alert.
"It's noon," I announced, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet. "I need to eat."
He just looked at me, waiting for more. The soldier, ready for orders or intel.
I pushed on, feeling a faint heat creep up my neck. Explaining my bodily needs to this paragon of physical perfection was… unnerving. "I have a… thing. A routine. If I don't eat on a schedule, my blood sugar dips and I get… unwell. Headache. Shaky. I can't work like that." It sounded ridiculously fragile compared to whatever hellish conditions he'd undoubtedly endured without a hot meal.
He didn't smirk. He didn't look dismissive. He gave a single, solemn nod, as if I'd just delivered a crucial piece of mission intelligence. "Understood. What's the routine?"
The simple acceptance undid me a little. "I usually just make a sandwich. Turkey. Whole wheat. No mayo. A handful of baby carrots. It's… predictable."
"Predictable is good," he said, rising from his chair with that fluid, effortless grace. "Predictable is safe. Kitchen secure?"
He was already moving, his body angled toward the door, his hand going to the small of his back—a habitual check for a weapon that wasn't there, I realized. The gesture was so innate it was like breathing.
"I swept it this morning. It's clear," I said, standing up. My legs were stiff from sitting for so long.
He led the way downstairs, his steps silent on the treads, his head on a constant, subtle swivel. I followed him, my own footsteps echoing his. The open-plan living area felt different in the stark noon light. It felt exposed. The large windows, which I'd always loved for the sense of space, now felt like vulnerabilities. Clyde's eyes scanned them all, cataloging sightlines and potential cover.
He didn't just enter the kitchen; he cleared it again with a quick, professional glance. He positioned himself at the end of the island, giving himself a clear line of sight to both the front door and the patio doors leading to the small backyard. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, a silent sentinel granting me permission to proceed with my mundane ritual.
I moved to the fridge, hyper-aware of his gaze on my back. I pulled out the turkey, the bread, the bag of carrots. The familiar actions felt surreal under his observation. This was my domain. I knew the exact weight of the knife I used to slice the tomato, the precise number of seconds it took for my kettle to boil for tea. But today, every movement felt performed, witnessed.
I assembled the sandwich with meticulous care, as if my culinary skills were being graded. I placed the carrots in a small blue bowl. I poured a glass of water. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was… loaded.
"Do you want one?" I asked, finally turning to face him, holding up the pathetic-looking sandwich. "It's not much, but…"
He shook his head. "I'm good. I'll eat later."
Of course he would. He was probably fueled by tactical protein bars and sheer force of will. I took my plate and bowl and went to sit on a stool at the island, directly across from him. Eating felt like an intimate act under his watchful eye. I took a bite of the sandwich, the flavors bland and familiar.
"You're making progress," he stated. It wasn't a question.
I nodded, swallowing. "I am. They're good. Really good. But everyone makes a mistake. They get greedy. Or lazy. They leave a fingerprint. A digital one, but a fingerprint all the same."
"And you're the one who sees it."
"It's all there," I said, gesturing vaguely upstairs with my carrot. "In the numbers. Most people see random noise. I see… music. A pattern. And this pattern has a dissonant chord. I just have to find it."
He was watching me, his head tilted. The intensity of his focus was no longer just that of a bodyguard assessing his charge. It was deeper, more curious. "You love it," he observed, his voice a low rumble. "The hunt."
I paused, a carrot halfway to my mouth. Did I? I'd always thought of it as a job, a complex, satisfying puzzle. But he was right. There was a thrill in it. A chase. "I guess I do," I admitted softly. "I never really thought of it that way."
"It's the same," he said, his gaze holding mine. "Just a different battlefield."
The simplicity of the statement, the way he equated my world with his, sent a shiver through me. We were, in our own ways, hunters. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating.
I finished my lunch under the weight of that new understanding, the food settling in my stomach not as a mere routine, but as fuel for the pursuit. When I was done, I stood to take my plate to the dishwasher.
As I passed him, he uncrossed his arms. His hand came up, not to stop me, but to gently, briefly, squeeze my shoulder. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, undiluted heat that seared through the fabric of my sweater. His hand was large, warm, and impossibly strong. It was there and gone in a heartbeat, but the imprint of it lingered on my skin, on my very bones.
"Good," he said, the single word rough with an approval that meant more than any bonus or promotion ever could.
He dropped his hand and moved past me, heading for the stairs, already back in mission mode. "Let's go find that dissonant chord."
I stood frozen for a second in the middle of my kitchen, my empty plate in my hand, my shoulder burning where he'd touched me. The world had righted itself on its axis, but it was tilted in a completely new direction, and at the center of it all was him.
I took a shaky breath and followed him back upstairs, the ghost of his touch a brand and a promise.
The shower was a necessity, not a luxury. The focused intensity of the morning's work had left a film of mental static on my skin, a residue of chasing digital ghosts through a labyrinth of my own making. The hot water was a baptism, washing away the last clinging tendrils of fear from the grocery store and the sterile focus of the hunt. I stood under the spray until my fingers pruned and the mirror was fogged over with a thick, impenetrable steam.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I padded back into the bedroom, the plush carpet soft under my bare feet. The room was cool compared to the bathroom's humidity, raising goosebumps on my arms and across my chest. I was reaching for the drawer where I kept my comfortable, worn-in sweatpants when a firm, deliberate knock sounded at the door.
My heart gave a single, hard thump against my ribs. There was only one person it could be.
A flutter of self-consciousness, sharp and sudden, went through me. I was standing in the middle of my bedroom in nothing but a towel, my skin flushed and damp, my hair dripping onto my shoulders. It felt… exposed. Vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with knives or threats.
"Just a second," I called out, my voice slightly rough from the steam.
The knock came again, a little more insistent. "Troy?" Clyde's voice, that low, calm rumble, was slightly muffled by the solid wood of the door. "Your phone's been buzzing. It's… persistent."
Right. I'd left it on the kitchen island after lunch. Of course he'd answer it. Of course he'd bring it to me.
Taking a steadying breath, I crossed the room and opened the door.
The sight that greeted me stole the air from my lungs. Clyde Adams filled the doorway, his sheer size making the spacious hallway seem narrow. He was holding my phone out, his expression its usual neutral mask of alertness. But his eyes… his winter-blue eyes did a quick, involuntary dip, sweeping down my body from my damp hair, over my bare chest, down to the towel knotted at my hips, and back up again. The journey took less than a second, but the heat in its wake was instantaneous and profound.
I saw the faintest tightening of his jaw, the slightest dilation of his pupils. It was there and gone so fast I might have hallucinated it, but I felt it like a physical touch. My skin prickled everywhere his gaze had landed.
"Uh, thanks," I managed, my voice a little breathless. I took the phone from him, our fingers brushing. Another jolt, straight up my arm.
That's when I looked down at the screen. The caller I.D. was like a dash of cold water.
Leo.
My ex. Leo, who was so deeply, fundamentally gay that he practically glowed with it, but who was so terrified of his wealthy, conservative family's disapproval that he'd chosen a life of whispered secrets and darkened bedrooms. A life where I was his dirty little secret. I'd ended it six months ago, telling him I refused to be someone's shame ever again. I'd climbed out of that particular closet at sixteen, and I was never, ever going back in.
The phone buzzed again in my hand, Leo's name flashing insistently.
Clyde was still standing there, a silent, imposing statue. His eyes were back on my face, reading my reaction with that terrifying perceptiveness of his. He didn't ask. He just waited.
Feeling a bizarre mix of exposed and defiant, I swiped to answer and put the phone to my ear. "Leo," I said, my tone flat.
"Troy. God, finally." His voice was strained, anxious. The sound of it brought back a wave of old frustrations, of hushed arguments and promises never kept. "I've been calling. I heard… someone at the club said there was an incident? That someone tried to… are you okay?"
He'd heard. Of course he had. Our social circles, while not overlapping entirely, brushed up against each other. The story of a forensic accountant getting attacked in a Safeway was probably juicy gossip.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice clipped. I was acutely aware of Clyde's presence, of his silent, watchful intensity. It made me stand a little straighter, my shoulders going back. "It was nothing."
"It didn't sound like nothing," Leo pressed, his voice dropping into the intimate, worried tone he used to use when he thought no one was listening. "Troy, maybe… maybe you should step back from whatever case this is. It sounds dangerous. You could get hurt."
The concern might have been genuine, but it was smothered in the same old condescension. The implication that I, Troy Nash, was too fragile, too civilized, to handle a little danger. That I needed to be protected, hidden away.
"I appreciate the concern, Leo," I said, my voice colder now. "But I'm exactly where I need I'm not stepping back."
"Don't be stubborn," he pleaded, the whisper now edged with frustration. "This isn't one of your spreadsheets. This is real life."
I looked up then, directly at Clyde. He was watching me, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his head tilted. He'd heard every word. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was steady, unwavering. A solid rock in the shifting, uncomfortable sand of this conversation.
"I know exactly what it is," I said into the phone, my eyes locked with Clyde's. "And I'm handling it. I have everything I need right here."
The double meaning hung in the air between Clyde and me, thick and undeniable.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Leo knew me. He heard the finality in my voice. The new steel. "I just… I worry about you, Troy."
"Don't," I said softly, but with absolute finality. "That's not your job anymore. Goodbye, Leo."
I ended the call without waiting for a response and dropped the phone onto my dresser with a soft thud. The silence in the hallway was heavy, charged with everything that had just been said and everything that hadn't.
I felt raw, exposed. Not just because I was half-naked, but because that entire pathetic chapter of my life had just been laid bare in front of this man. This warrior.
Clyde didn't move. He just continued to look at me, his gaze thoughtful.
"Ex-boyfriend?" he finally asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between us.
I let out a short, humorless laugh, crossing my arms over my chest, a feeble attempt at covering up. "Something like that. He preferred the term 'discreet companion'."
Clyde's eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something dark and possessive in their pale depths. "He was a fool."
The statement was so simple, so blunt, and so utterly certain that it stole my breath. He wasn't offering sympathy. He was stating a fact as irrefutable as gravity.
My arms slowly uncrossed, falling to my sides. The towel felt precariously loose. "Yeah," I whispered, the fight going out of me. "Yeah, he was."
Clyde's eyes did that thing again, that quick, scorching sweep down my body and back up. This time, he didn't try to hide it. The look was pure, undiluted male appreciation, and it made my knees feel weak.
"Get dressed," he said, his voice a rough caress that was somehow both a command and an endearment. "The money's not going to trace itself."
He turned then and walked back down the hall toward the stairs, leaving me standing in the doorway, half-naked, my skin humming, and my entire world tilted off its axis once again. Leo's call, his fears, his closeted life—it all seemed like a distant, faded dream. A poorly written prologue to the story that was starting now.
And the main character had just looked at me like I was something worth seeing.
The world had shrunk to the glow of my dual monitors, the intricate dance of numbers and algorithms, and the solid, silent presence in the corner. After the charged moment in my bedroom doorway, something had shifted. The air in the office felt different—thicker, more intentional. Clyde had returned to his post, and I'd pulled on soft sweatpants and an old university hoodie, the fabric comforting against my still-humming skin.
I'd dived back into the work with a ferocity that was new, even for me. Leo's call, his pathetic, condescending worry, had lit a fire under me. I wasn't some fragile thing to be hidden away. I was a goddamn bloodhound, and I was on the scent. The ghost in the machine was getting clearer, its digital footprints becoming more distinct under my relentless scrutiny.
Clyde was a statue. He didn't fidget, didn't sigh, didn't ask pointless questions. He was just… there. A monument to watchful patience. His presence was no longer a distraction; it was a catalyst. It was as if his sheer, focused energy was fueling my own, pushing me deeper, sharper, faster.
I didn't realize I hadn't moved, hadn't blinked, hadn't so much as shifted my weight in my chair for four solid hours until a cramp finally protested in my lower back. I winced, stretching my arms over my head with a groan that sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room. My spine gave a series of satisfying pops.
A low, rumbling sound came from the corner. "Finally."
I swiveled my chair to face him. He was still in the same position, but his expression had softened from mission-ready to something approaching amusement.
"Finally what?" I asked, my voice raspy from disuse.
"I was beginning to think you'd been replaced by a very focused android," he said, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Four hours. No movement. Not even a bathroom break. It was… impressive. And a little concerning for your renal health."
A surprised laugh burst out of me. It felt good. "My renal health is fine, thank you for your concern. I was in the zone."
"The zone," he repeated, nodding sagely. "Right. Is that what we're calling a state of near-catatonic focus that ignores basic human needs? Because in my line of work, we just call that 'target fixation' and it usually ends with someone getting shot."
I grinned, swiveling my chair side to side. "In my line of work, it ends with a subpoena. Less dramatic, but the paperwork is a nightmare."
He unfolded himself from the chair, a study in controlled power. "Well, whatever you call it, it's after four. Your body's internal clock is probably having a meltdown. Time to prep the meal." He said it with the same gravity he'd use to announce a change in tactical operations.
"Right. The meal." I stood up, my legs feeling a little like jelly. "And then… I was thinking maybe we could… watch TV for a while?" The suggestion sounded absurdly normal, almost childish, after the day we'd had.
He looked at me, his head tilted. "TV."
"Yeah. You know. That big black rectangle on the wall downstairs that shows moving pictures? Sometimes with talking?" I teased, walking toward the door. "It's a wild concept, I know."
He followed me out, a low chuckle echoing behind me. "I've heard of it. Mostly used for monitoring satellite feeds and security cameras. But I'm told some people use it for… entertainment." He said the word like it was a foreign, slightly suspicious concept.
"We can give it a try. See if it lives up to the hype."
Down in the kitchen, I fell into the familiar, soothing rhythm of dinner prep. Chopping vegetables for a stir-fry was a kind of meditation. Clyde resumed his position at the end of the island, his watchful presence now a comfortable part of the landscape. He didn't offer to help, and I didn't expect him to. This was my part of the operation.
"So," he said, as I tossed garlic into a sizzling wok. "The ex-boyfriend."
I nearly dropped the spatula. I shot a glance over my shoulder. He was leaning against the counter, looking deceptively casual. "What about him?"
"He sounds like a dick."
I barked out another laugh. "That's a very accurate and concise psychological profile, Agent Adams."
"I have a knack for these things," he said deadpan. "The 'discreet companion' thing. That's a new one. I've heard 'don't ask, don't tell,' but that's just sad."
"Tell me about it," I sighed, stirring the chicken. "His family is old-money, very concerned with appearances. He thought asking me to be his secret was a grand romantic gesture. Like we were living in a tragic Regency novel instead of modern-day D.C."
"Idiot," Clyde stated, with utter finality. "A man should be proud to have you on his arm. Not hide you away like a shameful receipt."
The words, delivered with such blunt, unshakable certainty, made my breath catch. The simple, profound respect in them was more potent than any flowery compliment Leo had ever whispered in the dark. I focused very hard on the stir-fry, feeling a warm flush that had nothing to do with the stove.
We ate at the island again, the food hot and good. The silence was comfortable now, easy.
After cleaning up—Clyde insisted on wiping down the counters with a military precision that made my own haphazard cleaning look like a toddler's effort—we moved to the living room. I grabbed the remote and flopped onto one end of the large, L-shaped sofa. Clyde didn't sit in the adjacent chair. He sat on the other end of the sofa, a respectful but not distant space between us. He moved with a predator's awareness even in this, angling his body to keep the front door in his sightline.
I flipped through the channels, landing on some mindless action movie full of explosions and terrible dialogue. It was perfect. I let my head fall back against the cushions, the adrenaline of the day finally, truly, draining away, leaving a deep, bone-weary fatigue in its place.
The next thing I knew, a soft, clicking sound roused me. The room was dark, the TV off. The only light came from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. I was slumped deep into the corner of the sofa, and a warm, heavy weight was settled over me.
A blanket.
I blinked, disoriented. I must have fallen asleep. A glance at the clock on the cable box showed it was past midnight.
Clyde was still there. He was sitting in the armchair now, closer to the door, a shadowy figure in the dim light. He wasn't watching me. He was looking out the window, his profile sharp and alert against the faint glow. He was still on duty. Still guarding.
He must have felt my gaze because he turned his head. "You were out," he said, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet dark.
"Sorry," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. "The movie was…"
"Terrible," he finished for me, a hint of humor in his tone. "I turned it off before my IQ started to drop."
I huffed a sleepy laugh, snuggling deeper under the blanket. It smelled faintly of him—that clean, soap-and-leather scent. He must have found it in the linen closet and put it over me.
The care of the gesture, the quiet watchfulness, the sheer, steadfast thereness of him… it unspooled the last knot of tension in my chest. Leo had hidden me away. Clyde Adams, a man who embodied danger and strength, was sitting guard over me while I slept on a sofa, making sure I was warm and safe.
The contrast was so profound it ached.
"Thank you," I whispered into the darkness.
He was silent for a long moment. I could just make out the glint of his eyes in the shadows. "Go back to sleep, Troy," he said, his voice so low it was almost a vibration. "I've got the watch."
And believing him utterly, completely, I did.