Ever lifted the basket of stuff and tilted her head to the side with an inviting smile.
“There's a bathroom just down the hall where you can change.”
Dillon’s knees were still a little shaky as she stood up and followed Ever out of the room, but the burst of satisfaction she got in watching Ever's biker husband step aside to give Elka a wide berth gave her strength.
Down the hall, Ever pushed open a door to a large bathroom that looked like it was straight out of the Magnolia catalog. Farmhouse chic, complete with a huge soaking tub and a shower big enough for three men.
Ever set her basket down on the white marble countertop and leveled a serious look at Dillon.
“If my son runs up to smooch your hellhound there, she's not going to eat him, right? No offense, he just has no sense of self-preservation whatsoever and that's literally the sexiest, meanest looking dog I've ever seen.”
Dillon looked down at where Elka sat, right by her heel, and couldn't help but rub her fingers deep into the sweet spot just beneath Elka's ear.
“She's a monster when she needs to be, but they shook hands. It's the cue her trainer taught her to know the difference between friend and foe. He's safe to smooch away.”
“Cool, well, I'll leave you to it.” Ever waved her hand at the bathroom. “There aren't any cameras in here, so take your time.”
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome. I'm sure it might not seem like it, but you're safe here.”
Dillon didn't want to argue with someone who'd gone to the trouble of being kind, so she just smiled and ducked her head in acknowledgment.
*****
Nasa pulled his phone out like he was texting, spinning to the side so none of the others would see him activating the cameras in the upstairs bathroom. He felt the slightest pang of guilt for spying on Dillon in there after hearing Ever tell her it was a camera-free zone, but he still didn't trust their guest.
He didn't think it would hit him as hard as it did, watching as Dillon rifled through the stuff Ever brought her with trembling hands.
She unzipped her hoodie and tossed it on the sink, her breath coming in choppy pants as she dumped hand-sanitizer into her palm and rubbed it over her chest and belly, using a washcloth to roughly scrape at her skin until it was red. Until not a speck of black ink of Ghost's orders remained on her flesh.
Huge tears spilled over Dillon's lashes, and Nasa felt his stomach turn sour as he invaded her privacy, spying on her at her most vulnerable. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to go up there and do something to make Dillon stop crying. To make her feel safe. To protect her. To do something. But he just sat there and watched that huge-ass dog of hers hop up on her hind legs to push her face against Dillon's.
The dog practically wrestled Dillon to the floor, wiggling into Dillon's lap as she used her impressive bulk to press Dillon back against the vanity cabinets.
Dillon was close to hyperventilating, but the dog continued to lean all her weight against Dillon, and her breaths slowly started to level out. Her arms came up to hug the dog, and for a long time, the two of them just sat there.
When she finally got it together, Dillon lifted her face from her dog's throat and let her head thunk back against the cabinets. She looked frail, terrified, completely drained.
For a moment, Nasa forgot she might be one of Ghost's spies and gave into curiosity, wondering what could have possibly happened to her that she needed an emotional support dog.
In the preliminary dive he'd done into her background, he'd found nothing that told him she was dirty. No offshore accounts, no strange connections to suspected terrorists, no arrests, no active warrants, not even a speeding ticket on her driving record.
In fact, she had no credit cards, she had no debt, and her credit score was in the high eight hundreds. She had no social media accounts, no email, and the phone he'd taken off of her was registered to a women's shelter in Dallas. The only thing of value she had to her name was the Bronco.
She had a birth certificate, a social security card, a driver’s license, and that was it as far as a paper trail.
He still wasn't done searching, and until his programs found something new, he was stuck feeling like a complete douchebag for doubting her.
But until he had concrete proof she was an innocent victim, he couldn't allow himself the luxury of belief. Not when his family was at risk.
“Thanks, Elka.” Dillon's husky whisper came through on the audio, and after a few more minutes of slow, deep breathing, the dog backed off and let Dillon up.
Dillon stumbled like she was drunk, bracing herself on the counter to take a minute before she finished cleaning herself up.
The video feed was clear enough for Nasa to count the scars on her back, and he couldn't imagine she'd have willingly put herself in a position to receive them.
As thick and raised as they were, she hadn't earned them through any form of consensual BDSM.
The wounds would have been deep, probably deep enough to need stitches, but hospital records would have popped on his search almost immediately.
What kind of hell had this woman been through?
Dillon bent and splashed water on her face, then raked her fingers through her short hair.
She pulled on the pink Harley Davidson tee and finished cleaning up, lifting her gaze to the mirror to give a short, sharp sigh.
“I've got to get the hell out of here.”
*****
“Blood work looks good,” Dr. Bly reported in a slow Texas drawl. The vet was in his late forties, short and stocky, his dark hair covered by a beat-up Stetson.
His nose was slightly malformed from having been broken one too many times, his skin tan and
