"All you got is a three-story stripper pole in this ugly-ass building and no strippers. You should get Mr. Universe here to hook you up, he designs the ultimate dude-dwellings.”
“If you two fuckers are done takin’ the piss,” Nasa snapped, planting his feet wide, folding his arms over his chest.
Her heart started to race for reasons other than fear as she imagined Nasa standing over her like that while she impatiently waited for him to touch her. To soothe her. To drive her insane with the wildest pleasure she'd ever known.
It was neither a sane, nor normal reaction. She had to get away from him. Now.
Dillon shakily pushed to her feet and skirted her way around the table, putting it between her and the three large men taking up all the air in the kitchen.
“Dillon, where are you going?” Nasa clipped out, his tone edging towards the demonic growl she recalled from the other day at his compound.
“Somewhere else while the three of you shake your balls at one another.”
Protien Shake gave her a sexy grin but kept his trap shut. She could practically see the steam starting to roll out of Nasa's ears.
“Do I have to ask permission to take a shower?”
“Of course not,” Nasa murmured, his tone softening when he looked her way. “Everything you need is upstairs.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she highly doubted everything she needed was upstairs, but Dillon refrained and felt three pairs of eyes follow her as she left the kitchen.
When she pushed open the door to her temporary bedroom, she discovered the clothes covering every inch of the bed.
Jeans, shorts, T-shirts, tank tops, bras, three different pairs of shoes—biker boots, sneakers, and a pretty pair of sandals—night gowns, underwear both practical and sexy, two different dresses, three rompers, socks, and an oversized sweater.
Every article of clothing, except for a sexy black leather jacket and the biker boots were shades of blue. Her favorite color.
That certainly couldn't have been in any file or part of Tobais's retelling of their time spent in a black site. How had Nasa known blue was her favorite color?
On the bench at the foot of the bed was a bag full of all her preferred brands of toiletries.
“Fucker went through my stuff at the house,” she muttered under her breath, both insulted and relieved.
Everything on the bed were indeed things she would have picked for herself. More expensive than what she would have normally chosen, but still.
Taking into account another long car ride was forthcoming, she picked out a pair of cotton bikinis and the matching bralette, the soft, stretchy jeans, and a T-shirt in the same denim color.
She grabbed the bag of toiletries and crossed the hall to the bathroom, locking the door behind her to indulge in a long hot shower. She washed, scrubbed, and shaved until she felt human again.
Dillon used the brand of deodorant she liked, brushed her teeth with the peppermint toothpaste she preferred, rubbed the moisturizer she splurged for into her face, and smoothed the pomade she always bought into the too long strands of her hair.
Everything was familiar to her. The smell of her products, her routine—it was comforting to have them.
There was even a bottle of the perfume she rarely ever wore. Such a little thing.
A lot of little things that added up to a much-needed sense of normalcy despite the circumstances, and Nasa made sure she had them all.
Elka butted her hip and gave a soft whine to get her attention. Dillon smiled down at her, stroking her silky ears.
“Guess I was wrong.”
*****
The ride back was for the most part uneventful. She'd now been officially introduced to Raid, Damon, and the rest of Veracruz's team.
Dillon struggled to appear unaffected by the way they all treated her like she was fragile. Tiptoeing around her as though one wrong word, one wrong look, would send her into another tailspin.
It was beyond humiliating to know all of them had seen her completely lose her shit. The only other person who truly knew the depths of her PTSD was her therapist, and she hadn't seen Dr. White for over a year.
Dillon hadn't had a nightmare in months, she’d been feeling better, so Dillon hadn't made an appointment despite Dr. White's really bitchy secretary reaching out more than once to get Dillon back on the books.
Considering the recent upheaval and her complete break from reality, Dillon admitted she should probably make an appointment.
Damon drove the big white truck; Raid sat beside him in the passenger seat, and the two of them bickered over the health benefits of kale.
Nasa sat behind Raid with her in the back seat, Elka on the floor with her head resting on Dillon's foot, snoring loud enough to be heard over the engine of the truck.
Nasa had his tablet in one huge hand, his fingers moving over the surface with remarkable dexterity.
Ahead of them, a red Suburban carried four of the commandos. A hideous beige truck behind them—towing a white trailer that had six motorcycles, her Bronco, and an arsenal of weapons and equipment inside—carried the rest of the men.
With nothing to contribute to the conversation, and no desire to do so, Dillon stared out the window trying to reconcile herself with the unexpected twist her life had taken.
Her mind occupied with how she was going to keep herself safe in a situation she had no control over.
There hadn't been a single person in the last ten years she trusted completely. Not a single person she relied on to keep her safe—aside from Elka—and being surrounded by strange men who all claimed they'd lay down their lives to protect her was, in a word, uncomfortable.
Every instinct she had screamed at her to run and hide, but she'd done an excellent job of isolating herself. There was no place to go that wouldn't put someone
