She had to keep him safe.
With her gone, Walkson would chase her, and leave Hunt alone.
“Goodbye, Hunter,” she whispered.
It almost tore her apart to rise and walk silently out of the bedroom.
She’d stealthily snuck out of the bed, dressed, and grabbed a few things. Her belly contracted, tears pricking her eyes. She had to leave her paintings, her sculpture. She was only taking a bag with some clothes. She knew that Hunt would take care of her art.
In the living area, she spotted her sketchbook and snatched it up. She could at least keep the sketches of Hunt that she’d done. She pressed the book to her chest and closed her eyes. It was something, at least.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She glanced up, then forced herself to move.
She spied his car keys on the counter, and sent a silent little apology to him. Stealing a police detective’s car was not how she wanted to leave, but she’d make sure she left it somewhere where he could find it.
Clutching the keys, she crept down the stairs. He’d parked on the street, and a part of her was terrified to go outside.
What if Walkson was waiting?
She straightened. He wouldn’t be right out the door. If he was close by, then he’d chase her, and she’d get her asshole stalker far away from the good man who was asleep upstairs.
She shut down the alarm, just as Hunt had showed her earlier, and slipped outside.
It was three AM. The street was eerie and empty. There was no movement anywhere.
She hesitated.
Damn. This hurt more than she’d thought. The painful ball in her chest made fresh tears spill down her cheeks.
She had to protect Hunt. She was doing the right thing. She had to protect all the people here on the street. None of them were safe from Walkson.
She hitched her bag up on her shoulder and headed toward the Charger. The locks bleeped and she winced. It sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet of the night.
She threw her bag in the backseat and slid into the driver’s seat. She sat there for a second, then sucked in a breath and pressed the start button.
Nothing happened.
Her pulse jumped. No.
“Oh, no.” She pressed the button again, then again.
The engine didn’t even make a sound.
This couldn’t be happening. She had to leave tonight.
A rap on the driver’s side window made Savannah scream.
But it wasn’t Walkson’s plain, normal face staring back at her through the glass. It was Hunt’s rugged, very-pissed-off face.
She unlocked the car, and he yanked the door open.
“Get out of the car, Savannah.” He said the words in a clipped tone.
She swallowed. “I have to go—”
“Get out of the car, or I’ll carry you out.”
“You aren’t listening to me! I have to go. I have to keep you safe.”
He leaned in and she registered idly that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Their noses brushed.
“Get out of the car,” he said again.
Savannah’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “You did something to the car.”
“Yes.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her out.
She started to argue, but she saw the way his gaze carefully swept the street. She realized that he was alert, cautious. It wasn’t safe out here.
She let him pull her inside.
“I knew you’d run.” He towed her upstairs.
“I don’t want to,” she cried. “But I don’t have a choice.”
At the top of the stairs, he whirled. “You do. You stay here, and you trust me to protect you. But you don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“I trust you,” she yelled. “But I know him. He’ll never stop. He’s obsessed, he’s evil. I don’t want you hurt. I…couldn’t handle it.” Her voice cracked.
Hunt cursed. He crossed to her and yanked her against him. She clung to him.
“I won’t survive if he hurts you,” she mumbled against his chest.
“He’s not going to hurt me. And he’s not going to hurt you. I’ve put away worse bugs than Walkson.” He stroked her back. “You’re safe. I will put Walkson in a cage.”
She clung to him harder. She wanted to believe that so badly.
He dropped into an armchair and pulled her down with him. She snuggled into him, tucking her head under his chin.
His hand slid over her belly, and his fingers spread.
“Tell me,” he said.
She knew what he wanted. After sharing her ordeal with the police, and then having them doubt her and accuse her of murder, she’d never told anyone.
She trembled. “I’m not sure I can.”
“I’ll start. I was on a mission with my Delta Force team, in a rough, not-very-nice place. I had a bad parachute landing, and blew out my knee.”
His tone was devoid of emotion. Savannah waited. She knew there was more. There was hard, resolute resignation in his voice.
“I drugged up and completed the mission, but I did irreparable damage to my knee. The doctors told me I couldn’t be special forces anymore.” He dragged in a deep breath. “And I didn’t want a desk job.”
“So, you came home.”
“Yeah. It took me a while to acclimatize, but I decided to become a cop, like my father had been. He died of a stroke a few years back, but he was proud as hell. Luckily, I took to it.”
Savannah pressed her cheek to his chest. She was unsurprised.
“I was just getting settled at SFPD when I got the call.”
His dark tone made her tense. He smoothed a hand down her thigh.
“My old team had gone on a mission. It went FUBAR. Three of them, three of the best men I’ve ever known, died. They bled out on fucking sand, half a world away from their families.”
She held on to him. “I’m so sorry, Hunt.”
“I wasn’t there. I’d had their backs for years, and I wasn’t there when it counted.”
She kissed his jaw. “It’s not your fault. You’re not all-knowing.”
“And it’s not your fault that Walkson is obsessed with you, or killed that woman.”
Damn, he’d turned it around on her.
It was hard to beat down the volatile mix of emotions stewing in him.
If Savannah had managed to leave, she would’ve run. She would’ve slipped through Hunt’s fingers and disappeared. She was good at it.
He might never have found her.
He tightened his hold on her. Here he was, baring his battered soul to her.
He didn’t talk much about his Delta Force buddies, or the ones he’d lost: Eric, Mitchell, and Manny. He rarely talked about the crushing guilt. Occasionally, after a few too many beers or Blanton, he and Ryder would talk. Ryder had his own scars, but his brother had an easier-going personality. He didn’t dwell as much.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Hunt couldn’t help but think of the friends he’d lost, their families. Once a year, he visited their widows, and took toys and gift cards for the kids. The kids were getting older, growing up without their fathers. Hell, some barely remembered their dads.
“Hunter.” Savannah stroked his cheek. “Your friends’ deaths are on the people who killed them. I’m sure you all knew the risks when you signed up.”