He blinked at her in drunken confusion, not fighting too hard when she took it away and put the cap back on. She heard the part where he felt guilty for having taken part in her torture, and even though on some level Dillon knew she should be punching him in the balls or condemning him for it, she couldn’t.
In all the sleepless nights, the years of therapy, and horrendous memories of her time in that warehouse, Dillon only recalled two men being actively involved in hurting her. She only remembered John Lewis because he’d come to the hospital.
All she remembered about Tobias was his voice in her ear, promising to make the pain stop, telling her to hold on because he was going to get her out. Save her. Which he must have, or they wouldn’t be sitting beside one another right now.
“You know what I did with my life?” Tobias gave a miserable shake of his head, and Dillon acknowledged she wasn't harboring feelings of fear or hatred for this man.
He'd saved her, and gone on to save other women. That had to count for something.
“After realizing Styles used the threat of home grown terrorism to try and find his wife, the FBI gave me a shit ton of money to go along with my new identity.
“It took me a few years to stop falling apart every time a man I didn't know looked at me sideways, but with some therapy, I went to see a lawyer about doing something with it all. I buy homes and fortify them to give victims of abuse a safe place to live.”
Tobias frowned so hard furrows appeared on his forehead, his glazed eyes roamed from side to side, deep in thought.
“You're into real estate?”
Dillon shrugged, managing a crooked smile. “Sort of. I flip the houses and apocalypse proof them so whoever their demons are, the women know they have a safe place to rest and raise their families.
"I started the foundation eight years ago, and in all that time, no one from my past has come back to haunt me.
“Then a ghost breaks into my home and sends me to see a bunch of bikers, who tell me I'm being hunted by a gang of human traffickers, and a few hours later, you show up.
"Another ghost from my past, who now hunts the sort of human traffickers I was accused of helping. Pretty sure my therapist would call it coming full circle.”
Tobias nodded slowly. “If I weren't drunk off my ass, I'm sure I'd agree. You see a therapist?”
“I stopped going a year or so ago,” Dillon confessed, silently admitting what a mistake that had been.
“Duke keeps telling me I need therapy, but the booze seemed like a better idea at the time. You're not wearing pants.”
Nasa reminded her he was there by giving what sounded like a territorial growl, but Dillon didn't look his way.
“You're not wearing a shirt.”
Tobias looked down at himself and grunted. “Toosh.”
“It's, touché, asshole,” Nasa snapped rudely.
Tobias gave a good-natured shrug, rubbing the heel of his uninjured hand against his sternum as he sank down lower on the couch and leaned his head back.
“Prolly. I think I'm gonna stop drinking after I wake up. Doesn't feel as good as I hoped it would. Meh-be I'll try ffh...fherapy.”
So saying, Tobias promptly passed out. If not for the rattling snore he gave, Dillon might have assumed he'd just died.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“We'll head out as soon as Veracruz and his guys do a final sweep of the area.”
Dillon looked up from the sweet potato speared on the end of her fork, grounding herself in reality as she offered Nasa a brief smile and took a deep breath.
“It's clear as it's gonna get,” the deep voice made Dillon flinch, which of course made Elka sit up immediately to give the newcomer a suspicious glare.
The man wasn't nearly as tall as Nasa, but then Dillon didn't know many people who were actually seven feet tall. She didn’t know any, actually.
His hair was jet black and cut high and tight; his face was on the longish side, his jaw angular and square.
His lips were almost feminine in their pouty thickness, his nose long and wide, separating his chocolatey brown eyes.
His skin was a rich, beautiful coppery tan, and he had muscles stacked on muscles beneath his black tee and dark green cargo pants.
“We're good to go any time after rush hour. That cool with you, Nasa?”
Nasa gave a short nod, glancing at her briefly before pulling a tablet from inside his vest.
“I'll check the satellite trajectories to be sure.”
“Dude!” Veracruz sighed heavily. “You're not being watched by the government.”
Nasa brayed a short bark of incredulous laughter.
“I worked on projects so top secret, the people in charge of creating them didn't even know the whole story.
"I might not be a terrorist, or some kind of anarchist, but I could fuck shit up for Uncle Sam so bad the economy would never recover. You ever wonder why I don't fly? Or leave the state very often? I'm on every watchlist there is.”
The commando rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively through the air.
“Whatever, Mr. Universe.”
He turned his deep, soulful eyes on her, and Dillon felt as though she'd stepped into one of those full body scanning tubes at the airport. Exposed to the marrow of her bones. Veracruz gave a manly jerk of his chin, giving Elka a respectful look.
“I've seen my share of working dogs, but you've got the best. Who trained her?”
Dillon licked her dry lips, feeling the rough edges catch on her tongue.
“Joshua Warren.”
The man gave a hike of his thick black brows, smiling appreciatively. “He still using his kid as the practice dummy?”
“Um, far as I know. You know Josh?”
“We've met a time or two. I'm Issac Veracruz.”
Eager to rid herself of the fluttering feelings of anxiety, Dillon asked the only question she could think of that
