Chapter 8
Daniella stood on the curb, clutching her purse. It was the only thing she had left.
Exactly four minutes later, a black SUV screeched to a halt. Two men in tactical gear jumped out.
"Miss Diaz?" One of them flashed a badge. "Wyatt York. Head of Security. The boss sent us."
They ushered her into the back of a second car-a sleek, armored Maybach.
Crockett was in the back seat. The interior light was on. He was reading a file.
Daniella slid in. The warmth of the car hit her, smelling of leather. She started to shake. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving her hollow.
Crockett turned. His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her neck.
His pupils dilated. The air in the car seemed to vanish.
He closed the file. He reached out. His fingertips brushed the red marks on her throat. His touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the violence that put the marks there.
"Does it hurt?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Daniella flinched, then nodded. Tears spilled over.
Crockett pulled his hand back. He looked at the front seat.
"Wyatt," he said. "Initiate Scorched Earth. I want the Yates family to wake up to an IRS audit tomorrow morning."
"Copy that, boss," Wyatt said.
The car moved. They didn't go to a hotel. They drove to the Upper East Side.
The car pulled into a private garage. An elevator took them straight to the penthouse.
It wasn't the hotel room. This was a home. Cold, modern, full of black marble and grey velvet, but a home.
"Guest room is on the left," Crockett said. "This is a safe house. No one comes up here without my biometric authorization."
Daniella stood in the middle of the living room. She felt dirty in her torn clothes.
"I... take the rent out of my salary," she whispered.
Crockett looked at her. "I don't charge rent. But in exchange, you are on call 24/7."
He pointed to a door. "Go shower. There's a first aid kit in the cabinet."
Daniella went into the bathroom. It was bigger than her entire apartment. She washed the smell of Xander off her skin.
She realized she had no clothes. She put on a thick, white bathrobe she found on a hook.
When she came out, Crockett was sitting on the sofa. He had the first aid kit open.
"Sit," he ordered.
She sat. He uncapped a tube of ointment.
He leaned in. He applied the cool gel to her neck. His face was inches from hers. She could count his eyelashes.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly. "This isn't in the job description."
Crockett didn't stop. His thumb grazed her pulse point.
"Because I don't like it when people break my things," he said.
The words hung in the air. My things.
Daniella felt a cold stone settle in her stomach. She wasn't a person to him. She was an asset. A broken printer he was trying to fix.
"Go to sleep," Crockett said, capping the tube. "Tomorrow is a war."
Daniella went to the guest room. The bed was soft, but she lay awake for a long time.
On the balcony, Crockett lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke curl into the night air. He frowned.
He had lied. He cared. And that terrified him more than any audit.
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