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"Mila," I whisper, and then I fucking break down and cry like a baby.
"I have to tell you something," she whispers hours later.
We're in the emergency room, in a tiny fucking bed with sterile white sheets and plain white walls. Wires and monitors run all over the place, stuck to her chest and abdomen. She's got a blood pressure cuff around one arm and a pulse oximeter on one finger.
She's safe.
I'm wrapped around her like a blanket. I can't stop touching her, can't stop reminding myself that she's here with me, and not still in that fucking house. Aside from a burn on her left arm and some coughing from smoke inhalation, she's okay.
She's safe.
The battle-axe of a nurse keeps glaring at me like I'm in her way as she checks Mila over, but I don't care. I'm not moving away from her. It's been three hours since she threw herself into my arms, and I haven't let her go yet. I fucking can't. I'm terrified if I do, she'll disappear.
"What?" I whisper back, running my nose up and down against her throat, breathing her in. They let me put her in the shower a few minutes ago. The stench of smoke still clings to her, but it's faint. She smells like soap now. It's not that peaches scent that drives me crazy, but I think I love this one even more. Because it's proof that she's really here, safe in my arms.
She flicks her gaze up to the nurse messing with the monitor beside the bed, then to Dwayne Livingston, the LAPD officer stationed right inside the door to her room, and then back to me.
"Can you give us a minute?" I request, catching Livingston's gaze.
He jerks his chin up in a nod and then asks the nurse to follow him out, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. The old lady huffs and glares at me anyway before stepping out, but I don't give a shit if she's mad at me or not. Aside from putting her in the shower, I haven't been alone with Mila since I left for work almost twenty hours ago.
I need five minutes with her, and I know she needs it too.
She waits until Livingston pulls the door closed behind the nurse and then twists and turns in my arms until she's facing me. One small hand slides through my hair and then down my face.
"I didn't think I was ever going to see you again," she whispers, tears filling her eyes as she stares at me.
I press my forehead to hers, and exhale a shaky breath.
"I thought you were dead," I admit, my throat raw as I remember how that felt. When I was on my knees out there, believing she was still in that house, my soul tore in half. I will never forget that pain. Having her in my arms now does little to calm the rage that's been boiling through me since the second she called me. I'm going to fucking kill Guerrero and the motherfuckers he sent.
Listening to her tell LAPD what she overheard inside the house, I wanted to kill Guerrero right then and there. Feeling the way her body trembled long after she'd given her statement…the only thing that's kept me from going after them is her and the fear in her eyes anytime anyone but me tries to touch her.
As soon as she's out of harm's way, they're mine. Even if I have to tear the entire fucking city apart to find them, I will.
I think Finn knows it too.
Livingston isn't here to keep an eye on Mila. He's here to give Finn a heads up in case I leave. My boss isn't stupid. He knows damn well the only way he's going to get Guerrero alive is to beat me to him.
I don't give a fuck about the house. I can replace everything in it. But his people were planning to kidnap Mila. They damn near killed her when they set the house on fire with her inside.
Finn better pray to God he gets to them before I do.
"I need to tell you something," Mila whispers again, and then bites her lip, worry creeping through her gaze.
"What, baby? You can tell me anything." I run my hands up and down her back, trying to ease her mind and give her a little comfort. She's been so fucking brave through this entire thing. I'm in awe of her and that strength of hers.
"I forgot to reset the alarm when I got home," she says.
"Fuck the alarm," I mumble. Even if she had set it, that wouldn't have stopped them, and I don't want her blaming herself. None of this is her fault. "They still would have burned the house down, baby. Things like alarms and deadbolts don't stop people like Guerrero. They don't–"
"That's not my point. Listen," she says impatiently, pressing her fingers to my lips to silence me.
I bite my tongue and nod.
"I forgot to set the alarm because I was worried about something else." She fidgets above me, her gaze sliding away from mine and then back. She takes a deep breath and then exhales. "I'm late."
"For what?" I feel my eyes narrow and my lips turn down into a frown, not sure where the fuck she planned to go at almost nine o'clock at night on a Tuesday.
