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The door clicks softly behind us, and we’re met with nothing but silence. At least at this end of the house. I’m sure the opposite wing is pure barely contained chaos. Debriefs, assessments, war council, because that’s what this fucking is, or what it was, what it has been for a long time coming.

A fucking war of Alain Robicheaux’s creation.

Whatever relief or calm I feel goes up in flames as Truie tenses in my arms. The calm and quiet spin her up, and stress her out.

“You’re good, remember? I’ve got you.” It’s nonsense said to make her feel better, sure, but is that all it is? No, not even close. “We’ll get you tucked away in my suite and get you warm.” This was my fucking mistake.

When all hell broke loose, Truie was in her suite, not mine. I made the piss-poor assumption that she would be okay there, that the mansion was enforced strongly enough to keep the monsters at bay. It never crossed my mind that she would cut and run. That wouldn’t have happened if she’d been in my suite. It shouldn’t have fucking happened at all.

This one fucking night one woman was stolen… and another stole away. That shit won’t stand.

The mechanisms whir when I press my hand to the panel on the wall and the lock clicks granting me access to my suite. Inside, I close the door and make a full sweep of the space. If the last several hours have shown me nothing else, it’s that there is no such thing as too careful. Satisfied that my rooms are secure, I set my Glock on the side table and wrap my arm around Truie again.

It feels good. Having her in my arms, knowing that she’s right here, and I don’t need to worry about her falling or letting go. She’s safe here and that… That’s…

Jesus, she’s got me tongue tied in my own damn head.

I stride through the sitting room and bedroom, only stopping once we’re in the en suite.

She’s shivering. Her whole body is shaking and trembling, and while I know that’s kind of her thing, the mud on her clothes and the outside temperature sure as shit aren’t helping the situation.

I pause in the center of the room, not sure which option is best. Or how I need to go about this, really. “Shower or bath?”

Truie tenses briefly before shifting her head from its place tucked against my neck. Her eyes meet mine in the black framed mirror above the vanity. There’s a lot there but oddly enough, not blatant terror. It’s been a rough week for this girl, so I’m taking that as a win.

Time drags out with no answer, and as much as I would love to stand here all night, to do whatever it takes to put this little bird at ease, I have work shit to deal with.

“To warm up, love. Do you want to soak in the bath or get in the steam shower?”

“I-I-I d-d-d-on’t—” Her lips press together in a thin hard line as her words stick in her throat.

“I don’t want to push you and I don’t want you uncomfortable—I’ll step out as soon as we have you set, but we need to get you clean and warm before I go take care of some things,” I explain.

Her gaze snaps to mine, and it’s filled with mild panic. Blown pupils. A little bit glassy. This is what I want to avoid with her. This girl has been through shit that no one should ever have to think about… let alone endure. I don’t know the details, but I saw where she was being held. I hold no illusions about how terrifying it was.

“Do you want me to have one of the maids come help you?”

The dissent is nothing more than a tight shake of her head. “W-winnie?”

“No, love. She’s not able to be with you right now. But we’ll arrange to see her as soon as we can, okay?”

She rolls her lips between her teeth and shifts her gaze away.

“Okay.” My deep breath has her rising with my expanding chest. “Bath?” I prod.

I don’t have time to sit here while she takes a leisurely soak. Every minute I stand here means more and more shit piling up on my to-do list.

Another tight shake has me nodding. And thank God for that.

“Shower, then?” As the question falls, I’m already moving around the en suite gathering anything she might need—a towel, wash cloth, the fluffy robe that I don’t think I’ve ever used. Not sure how it even got here. I set them all on the small bench just outside the shower door.

I reach into the glass enclosure to flip the taps and adjust the temperature, hoping it’s in the neighborhood of what she wants. And then, after a gentle squeeze, I set Truie on her feet.

She hesitates before releasing her hold on me and immediately folds in on herself. Shoulders high and forward, arms crossed protectively around her torso, gaze locked on her feet.

I hate it. Hate everything about the way she crumbles inward.

The battle I fight in my head is epic—to stay or go, to scoop her back up and say fuck it to everything else. I have to tear myself away, step out of the room, and give her some privacy. God knows I have no business being in here while she showers. So I’m not sure who I’m actually trying to reassure when I say, “I’m going to step out—just into the bedroom and get you something to wear, yeah? You get cleaned up and warm, and I’ll be right out there when you’re done.”