Page 130 of Anton

“I see you.”

Her head snaps up, and the phone slips from her fingers. By the time I park, she’s already running toward me, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks streaked with tears.

I barely make it out of the car before she throws herself into my arms, buries her face against my chest, and clutches fistfuls of my shirt. My arms hesitate around her, unfamiliar with what she needs from me, but then I draw her close and hold on tight. Her body shakes against mine, and the pain of feeling her come apart in my arms is unbearable.

Is this what it means to care for someone?

Do I care for her?

The harder she trembles, the louder the rage pounds through me until it no longer matters what I call this. All I know is whoever hurt her is going to answer to me.

“How about we go back to my hotel?” I cup the back of her head. “We can talk, or you can say nothing and lie in bed all day if that’s what you want.”

A small, shaky laugh leaves her, muffled against my shirt. “That actually doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She nods, but she doesn’t move right away, and I don’t make her because I’m perfectly content being needed however she wants me.

“We’ll use your car,” I tell her. “I’ll come back for mine.”

When she loosens her grip, we return to the vehicle. I open the passenger door and wait until she’s seated with her seat belt fastened before closing it and rounding the hood. The second I settle behind the wheel, my gaze finds her again. She’s staring out the window, tears still sliding silently down her face while I sit here, completely useless.

I don’t like it. It bothers me too much. I would rather get punched in the face a dozen times than see her like this.

Once we get to the hotel, I help her out of the car, hand clasped with hers as we ride up the elevator and enter the penthouse suite. She slides out of her shoes and lies back against the blanket, staring up at the ceiling without saying anything for a while.

When I sit on the edge beside her, she finally looks at me. “I’m not actually a Whitlock.”

“What?”

Of course she is. Who else would she be?

She lets out an exhausted sigh. “They kidnapped me.”

My fingers cinch around the edge of the mattress. She needs to start explaining before I go on a Whitlock rampage.

“Start from the beginning.”

It takes her a while to find the words, but once she does, it all pours out of her, and all I can do is listen.

Holy shit. And I thought my family was crazy.

“That’s a lot,” I say.

She wipes under one eye and sits up. “I’m so glad you said that, because they made me feel like I was overreacting.”

“You’re not. I think you’re not reacting enough. In fact, I can react for you. With my gun.”

“Um…maybe don’t?” Her nose scrunches up in a damn cute way.

“You sure? Because I can make it as painless or painful as you’d like.”

“I mean, I’m pissed. I just don’t know if I’m homicidal-level pissed, stub-a-toe pissed, or somewhere in between. I need some more time to think.”

“Okay.” I shrug. “I’ll be here. So will my gun.”

“That’s very reassuring.” Her grin widens. “Thank you.”