“Ana, wait.” Her name whispered from his mouth, but she couldn’t look up at him, couldn’t allow him to see the battle she forged to keep her expression smooth. “I need you to understand something.”
Six words. That was all it took for that small glimmer of hope she’d held on to to burn through her, but she couldn’t afford to give it oxygen. It infiltrated the invisible barrier she’d built over the course of the past seven years, uninvited, and threatened to break through her control. Their relationship—however powerful it’d been—was over. She’d made sure of that when she’d transferred back to Washington, DC, without telling him.
“My kids are all I have, and I will do whatever it takes to protect them and to get my son back.” One step. Two. He shortened the space between them until that hint of pine teased her senses again. “Even if that means throwing a wrench in the FBI’s investigation.”
What the hell did that mean?
“You requested me to work this case, Benning, to recover your son. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, but if you want the person who took him to pay for what they’ve done, you’re going to have to trust me.” Turning toward the front door, she huddled inside her coat to head back out into the cold. Where she belonged, an outsider looking in. Not with Benning. Not with his daughter. This was just another case. Once upon a time, they’d talked about having a family of their own, but this one wasn’t hers. They never would be. She’d meant every word during the drive out here. She’d dedicated her life and her career to finding the missing and that decision had ended their relationship. Attachment to each and every victim and their families was only a distraction to that cause. She’d learned that the hard way. Seven years ago she’d let those emotions get the best of her. She’d made a mistake, and a victim had paid the price. “You should get some rest. You and Olivia have been through a lot.”
A wave of dizziness directed her shoulder into the nearest wall.
“You’re not going anywhere.” A strong hand threaded between her arm and the uninjured side of her rib cage and spun her into a hardened wall of muscle. She pressed against his chest, but Benning’s massive body wouldn’t budge. He’d put on more muscle over the years, the ridges and valleys fighting to escape his long-sleeve T-shirt. She imagined it’d partly been due to the fact he lived on the outskirts of town, on the property he’d inherited after his parents passed away. Calluses on his palms spoke of working the land with his bare hands. He was so much bigger than she was at over six feet; stronger, too, but he’d never used that strength to intimidate her. It wasn’t part of his genetic makeup. He released his hold on her, giving her a chance to retreat, but she was paralyzed. Frozen in place with him so close. “You’re bleeding through your coat.”
“Comes with the territory of getting shot.” Pain lightened through her nerve endings as though reminding her she had yet to pull the slug from her side. Right. With the rush of adrenaline from the shootout and every cell she owned tuned to every cell in his, her body’s priority had been pushed to the back of her mind. Then again, she wouldn’t be able to do her job if she bled out in the middle of the safe house.
He maneuvered her toward the dining room table. “You got a first-aid kit somewhere in this place?”
“Should be under the kitchen sink.” She pulled one of the chairs away from the table and collapsed into the seat, hand clamped to her side. Sweat slid down her spine, her heart pounding at her temples. It’d been two hours since she’d been shot. Looked like her body had decided it wasn’t going to be ignored any longer.
In seconds Benning returned with the red-and-white box, set the case on the table and settled into the chair beside hers. “Get rid of the shirt.”
“I can stitch myself.” She reached for the needle and thread inside the kit.
“I know you can, but you took that bullet for me and Olivia.” He took the supplies from her hand. “The least I can do is help get it out of you before you lose consciousness.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” At this point she wasn’t sure she cared.
“Owen needed stitches last year after running headfirst into that old fireplace on our property I should’ve knocked down years ago. My sewing skills seemed good enough for him.” Cold worked across her skin as he cleaned away the excess blood with alcohol pads in efficient strokes.
“Do six-year-olds usually have strong opinions about head wounds?” she asked.
“He was more concerned about the fact the gash would leave a scar.” Silence descended between them, every move made, every brush of his fingers against her skin, every breath he took, pinging on her radar. Loose strands of hair hid his face, but she didn’t have to see him to know what was going through his head right now. She’d memorized his tells a long time ago. “Why did you come back here?”
“You don’t remember? You requested me to work this investigation.” She studied the deep lines set around his mouth. Not much had changed about him over the years. He was still handsome as ever, but there was a heaviness in the set of his eyes now. The same man she’d left behind sat mere inches away, but the past few years had left him weathered, battle torn. Rugged. He’d taken on the sole
