“For all I knew, she was sent by Biba or some other faction in an outright attack. You saying I should have just sent her on her merry way without asking a few questions?” Each word cuts with my growing anger.
“What I’m saying is you should have run it by me. Something that sensitive needs to be handled carefully.”
“And I’m not competent enough to do that on my own, is that it?”
“That’s not what I said,” Renzo bites back.
“Check again, big brother, because that’s exactly what you fucking said.” I’m too pissed to keep talking. I hang up, knowing it won’t help matters, but I’m unable to care.
Fuck him.
He and our father, back when the man was alive, always questioned my abilities and motives. In their eyes, if they couldn’t understand my rationale, it must have been wrong. If I didn’t have the right words to explain myself, I didn’t know what I was talking about. Even compulsive behaviors irrelevant to my critical thinking skills somehow became excuses for dismissing my opinions.
I didn’t have the understanding or confidence to rebuke them back then. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m done being overlooked and dismissed. If Renzo wants me to prove myself, then I will. I’ll prove myself by not rolling over. I’ll show him that I’m just as capable as he is, and I’ll do it my way.
All that leaves me to do is figure out whatmy wayentails.
Fantastic.
I sit at the kitchen bar and lay out my situation as objectively as I can. Biba is after Danika. He’s so intent on getting his hands on her that he’s offered a million-dollar reward. His motive must be substantial, which means she didn’t just take something insignificant. But she refuses to tell me what she took. Why?
The most logical reason for her silence is fear. Fear of what? That I’d take the item from her? That I’d turn her over to Biba if I knew what she’d taken? At this point, she’s seen that not even a million dollars is incentive enough for me to turn her over. What then? What has her scared enough to risk her own life because that’s what she’s doing. I could have killed her multiple times over, yet I haven’t laid a finger on her, and it still hasn’t been enough to convince her to surrender her secrets.
The only way any of it makes sense—the only thing worth protecting with your life—is the life of someone you love. Maybewhat she stole isn’t a what; maybe it’s a who. Could she be hiding someone?
Man trouble.
The realization hits me with the force of a city bus.
Was I mistaken in assuming the man in her “man trouble” was Biba? Could she have been referring to a lover instead? Someone whose location she’s protecting with her life?
How had the thought not occurred to me? I’m absolutely livid with myself. With her. With the entire world. Danika Dobrev is not allowed to belong to someone else. She can’t come crashing into my world on behalf of another man. I won’t allow it.
She can’t belong to another man, not if she stays here with me.
With that sentiment echoing poignantly in my head, I take dinner out of the oven, make a plate for her, then take it to her bedroom. “Dinner,” I announce flatly, setting the plate on the dresser with a clatter.
“Oh, thanks.” Uncertainty coats her words.
I take a subtle look around. She has everything she could need in here for the night, so I don’t feel bad when I leave the room and lock the door behind me. I bought the lock so I could sleep without feeling in danger. That still applies, except now there’s more to it. Now, I’m locking her in because I don’t want to risk losing her.
“Tommy?” The sweet innocence in her voice freezes me mid-motion.
“Just locking the door for the night,” I explain, hoping to keep her from panicking.
“You’re locking me in?” she asks, her voice moving closer with each word until I know she’s only a step away. The door handle jiggles. “What if there’s a fire or something?”
“There won’t be.” And even if there were a fire, I’d burn alongside her before I’d let her die alone.
For the first time since she careened into me in front of that police station, I’m blanketed by a sense of certainty. Of purpose.
I want Danika Dobrev.
Everything else is superfluous. Her motives and secrets. The danger surrounding her. I don’t care whether my reason for wanting her is rational or not. Even my obligation to my family pales compared to my driving need to protect this woman and make her mine.
I’ve only experienced a similar sensation once before, and it led me to spend four years of my life away from home because I knew I needed Sante in my life more than I needed anything else.
I don’t regret that decision one bit. I listened to my gut, and I’m glad I did.
