Page 6 of Blade’s Protection

"You're protecting me. Least I can do is feed you." She sat across from me at my small table, and the domesticity of it made my chest constrict. Normal people did this. Shared meals. Conversation. Things I'd never wanted until a terrified nurse with dangerous curves walked into my life yesterday.

"You served," she said, not a question. "Military, I mean."

"Army. Special Forces." I focused on the omelet rather than her face. "Long time ago."

"The scars aren't that old."

Observant. Of course she was—nurses noticed everything. "Some are. Some aren't."

"Is that why you're called Blade?"

The question everyone asked eventually. "Training exercise. Knife fighting. Instructor said I moved like a blade through water. Name stuck." Better than the truth—that I'd earned it putting a knife through an enemy combatant's throat to save my squad. That I'd been their blade in the dark, cutting down threats before they knew death had arrived.

"You don't talk about it much. The service."

"Nothing worth talking about." Dead friends. Failed missions. Scars inside and out that would never fully heal. Nothing a twenty-four-year-old nurse needed poisoning her sunshine world.

She reached across the table, her fingers grazing my hand. "I don't believe that."

I pulled away, standing abruptly. "You should shower. Get ready for bed. Long day tomorrow."

Hurt flashed across her features before she nodded, disappearing into my bathroom. The sound of water running became another form of torture. Tiffany naked in my shower, water sluicing over those curves, using my soap, my towels.

Fuck.

I checked the windows, the door, anything to distract from the images my mind supplied. When she emerged twenty minutes later, hair damp and wearing my t-shirt—the one I'd tossed her last night—I nearly broke.

The shirt hit mid-thigh, drowning her but somehow making her sexier. No bra underneath—the soft bounce when she walked made that obvious, nipples pressing against worn cotton in the apartment's cool air. Those legs, soft and pale, made for wrapping around my waist while I buried myself deep enough to forget my own name.

"The bedroom door stays open," I said, voice rougher than intended.

"I know. You mentioned that last night." She moved toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. "You really should take the bed tonight. The couch is⁠—"

"I'm fine."

"Blade—"

"Go to bed, Tiffany."

She disappeared into my bedroom—my fucking bedroom where my sheets would smell like her, where I'd never be able to sleep again without remembering her there. I grabbed a beer, then thought better of it. Needed to stay sharp. Alert.

The sedan from this morning hadn't returned, but that meant nothing. They were out there, planning, waiting. And I'd be ready when they made their move.

I settled on the couch, hyperaware of every sound from my bedroom. The rustle of sheets as she got comfortable. A soft sigh that made my cock twitch. The quiet rhythm of her breathing that gradually deepened toward sleep.

Two hours passed. Then three. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her in that storage room, looking up at me with invitation in her expression. Saw her in my kitchen, making herself at home like she belonged there. Saw her in my t-shirt, legs bare, looking like everything I didn't know I wanted.

A sound from outside snapped me to full alert. Footsteps on the exterior stairs, trying for stealth but the third step creaked—I knew because I'd tested it myself.

I moved silently to the window, peering through the blinds. Male figure, hood up, shoulders hunched. He was checking door numbers, looking for something. Looking for someone.

For her.

The rage flooding my system burned hot and violent. This fucker had come to my building, threatened what was mine. Every instinct screamed to go out there, introduce him to the knife strapped to my ankle, show him what happened to people who threatened those under my protection.

But that would mean leaving Tiffany alone. Unguarded. Vulnerable.

The figure moved closer, and I got a better look. Young, maybe twenty-five. Nervous movements, checking over his shoulder constantly. Not a professional. Just some junkie looking to score by pressuring a young nurse.