Page 79 of The Billionaire's Angel

“The vest?” Iwhispered.

“Did its job,” Gage confirmed, “but you scared the hell out of me. No more confrontations with armedmadmen.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Agreed.”

I opened my eyes and peeked over Gage's shoulder to see police officers surrounding a groaning Anthony. In a low voice, Gage said, “He's going to jail for a long time, Angel. He's not going to bother youagain.”

I let my eyes slide closed and pressed my face to Gage's chest. “Are you still mad at me?” Iasked.

His arms went tight again, and he said with a growl, “I'm fucking pissed at you, Angel. You almost got yourself killed. It's going to take a long time for me to forget him pointing that gun atyou.”

I had a feeling it would take me a long time to forget that,too.

“Do you still love me?” I asked, hoping I already knew theanswer.

“Always, Angel.Always.”

Epilogue: Part One

Gage

Sophie handledAnthony Armstrong with a steely nerve I hadn't expected, but the aftermath was messy. Not his arrest. Thanks to Sophie, they had him admitting to murder and repeated spousal abuse, on top of the charges ofkidnapping.

With an irate Mrs. W as a second witness, at least to the kidnapping, he wasn’t getting away with anything. He’d snatched Amelia from the parking lot outside her doctor’s office, leaving Mrs. W tied up in her sedan with a bump on the head, but fortunately no serious injuries. Between her testimony, the camera in the parking lot, and Sophie’s wire, there was plenty of evidence to send himaway.

Anthony went straight to prison, and after his disappearing act on the marshals, the judge wasn't inclined to grant bail. Her divorce was proceeding—complicated slightly by Anthony's uncertain legal status—but it was proceeding. It was the rest that washard.

Neither of us slept much the week after Anthony shot Sophie. Her back was black and blue, and her cheek bruised from her fall, but her body was otherwise undamaged. Her mind, on the other hand, struggled to process everything that hadhappened.

At night, she barely fell asleep before she jerked awake, gasping and crying out in fear and pain. I was there, every time, drying the tears on her cheeks and holding her until she slept again. I had my own bad moments. I'd been doing better since I'd been home, feeling more grounded, less on edge, but seeing Sophie go down after that gunshot had knocked me offbalance.

I tried to hide it from her, but the few times I fell asleep I was forced to watch the same scene play out in my mind, only this time Sophie wasn't wearing the vest. This time Amelia was dead, her throat slit, and Sophie bled out on thefloor.

It was a good thing we'd scheduled those appointments. We needed them. By the time we went, Sophie was looking forward to hers. I'll admit I was still reluctant. I didn't want to talk to some stranger about all of the shit swirling around in my head, especially after Sophie's close call. It was toopersonal.

I didn't have a choice. Sophie needed help. She needed sleep. And when I'd suggested I might postpone my own meeting with the therapist she'd squeezed my hand and said, "I'll go if you go."Fuck.

So I went. It wasn't that bad, in the end. I was never going to be buddy-buddy with the guy. He asked way too many questions, made me explain too much, but it turned out he'd done two tours himself, mostly in Afghanistan, and he'd seen a lot of shit firsthand. He'd also worked with a lot of guys who had the same problems I did, and he assured me that if I stuck with it, things would getbetter.

Sophie and I both went in twice a week. It wasn't a miracle solution. That first month, Sophie’s nightmares didn't improve at all. I think they may have gotten worse, though we were so sleep deprived it was hard to judge anything. By the end of those first weeks, her skin was so pale I could see the blue veins beneath, and she had dark circles under hereyes.

Gradually, something inside her settled, began to ease, and she started sleeping for longer and longer stretches, waking less often with her breath caught in her throat. And when she started to sleep, so didI.

By the third month after Anthony's arrest, we were back to where we'd been before the day he'd taken Amelia. Still waking in the night, but mostly chasing off the nightmares with sex. If I had anything to be grateful for in Sophie's horror of a marriage to Anthony Armstrong, it was that he hadn't seemed interested in hersexually.

I didn't want to imagine what a man like that could've done to her, the way he could have destroyed her natural sensuality. He'd left that part of her untouched, and it was mine from thebeginning.

We were in a waiting game. Anthony was doing everything he could to fight the divorce. Out of delusion, or spite, we didn't know. It didn't matter. He had money, so was immune to bribery. I’d tried that avenue more thanonce.

The only thing he wanted was Sophie, and she was the one thing he couldn'thave.

Cooper Sinclair had told us to be patient. His guess was Anthony would never see trial. He'd testified against the Accorsi crime family after stealing from them. He was in solitary confinement for his own protection, but Cooper was positive it wouldn’t be enough. He'd violated his agreement with the marshals when he'd taken off, and they'd washed their hands of him. So wewaited.

I was working full time at Winters, Inc. by then, slowly moving out from under Aiden’s shadow and finding my own place in the company. I still didn’t have an official title, but I didn’t care. We all owned equal shares in Winters, Inc., which made titles kind ofirrelevant.

What mattered was that I was home, things were right with Aiden, and I was moving forward with my life. I’d never regret my years in the military—the last six months aside—but living in Winters House and working with Aiden, I finally felt like I could put my demons behindme.

I just needed one more thing. A wife. Not just any wife, I needed Sophie. She refused to discuss the future until she was divorced from Anthony. My girl was sweet, but she was stubborn as hell. And old fashioned. Not only did she refuse to talk to me about getting married, she wouldn’t move into myroom.