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“And is that where you stayed? Until Winnie came home? Until the police came and the bodies were taken?”

“No. God, no.” The minute Winnie said she needed to call the police, I had to leave. I had to go to the woods, had to hide. Had to make sure no one found anything if they searched the house, so I went to the tree deep in the woods. “Did you kill them?”

“I did not. I had no reason to. They hadn’t crossed me.”

“But… Christophe? He killed Winnie’s parents. And then paid for their funerals.” A nod confirms both statements, so I continue. “And he took us from the cemetery?”

That one doesn’t feel right, but I don’t remember all the parts of what happened or the order of them.

“He took Winnie. I drove you in her car. You have to know that I hated calling Hibou, the doctor Christophe has on staff, hated that he sedated you, but I was worried. You shut down. I think I scared you and I hated that I was the one to cause you to crumble.”

I shake my head, small tight movements. “You talked to me, wrapped me in your coat—your coat that smelled like you. You carried me, stayed with me until I fell asleep. You were there every time I needed you, every time I woke.” My voice drops to barely a whisper, “And even when I slept. You stayed with me through all of it.”

He huffs a small laugh, void of humor. “And the one time I left you alone, unattended, to take care of the bastard who was obsessed with hurting young girls, you stole away. Scared the shit out of me when I saw you on Alain’s lawn, gun in hand, wide-eyed and trembling. How did you even get there?”

“The door didn’t shut all the way—just like after.” He knows exactly what I’m referring to. “I heard guys talking, followed them through the woods and picked a gun from one of the bodies they left in a trail behind them.”

“That was another failure on me.”

“It wasn’t a failure.”

“It absolutely fucking was.” I flinch at his tone, but Teague pushes on. “What if you’d been taken? Again, we’re right back to my biggest fear, right? I can’t live with myself if something happens to you.”

“So you want to chip me⁠—”

“Location tracker,” he amends. “Fine, yes. I want to always know that I can find you, no matter what.”

I think on that, turning his words over and over. It’s not like I want to hide from Teague, I really don’t. Maybe him having the ability to find me is a good thing. But I don’t know that I can give up that kind of control without getting something in return.

“Will you get one too? Would you do the same for me?”

Teague stills. My question shocking him into…I don’t know, a glitch? Is he buffering? “You want me to insert a tracker under my skin. Why?”

“Same reason.” My confidence surprises me. “I want to know where you are.”

“That’s an occupational hazard, Truie. And how will you track me? Who will you tell? I don’t think⁠—”

“If you want to chip me, I get to do it right back to you. That’s it. That’s the only way I’ll agree.” My nostrils flair as I stare him down. “And I’ll need a phone, with the app.” This is a big ask, it wouldn’t shock me if he laughed in my face and flat out refused.

But he doesn’t. What he does instead is mutter low and under his breath, “Should have just done it while you were asleep. Asked forgiveness instead of permission.” Then louder, staring deep into my eyes, he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Surely it can’t be that easy. This man, soft and caring to me, but a tiger not to be fucked with to the rest of the world, just agreed to allow me to put him on a leash? To always have my finger on the pulse of where he is.

“I told you, hummingbird, I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

And there it is…

The promise made.

A promise honored.

And a promise kept.

“Is it…” My hands start to tremble. It’s slight at first, but as seconds tick by, the tremors increase in severity. “How do you do it? Is it going to hurt?”

Teague wraps his arms around me and pushes to standing, carrying me through the mansion he calls a cabin. He sets me down on the granite counter in the kitchen—the cold stone sending chills through my body—and pulls open a drawer to my left.

He rummages through the surprisingly normal chaos of a kitchen junk drawer, extracting a box of syringes and a handful of small packages. The drawer to my right holds more phones than a person could possibly need. And alcohol wipes. Which is decidedly not normal.