Page 182 of Override

I'd stared down at it. "Mine?"

"Everyone's number is already in it."

"Everyone?"

"Unfortunately," he'd muttered.

From the kitchen, Wheels had yelled, "I'm his favorite."

Bullet hadn't even looked in his direction. "I'd rather chew glass."

Then he'd looked back at me and tapped the phone with one finger. "It's secure. No one can track it."

No one. The words had settled strangely inside me. I hadn't realized how much fear I'd attached to a phone until someone handed me one Ronan couldn't use to find me.

Now the red phone sits on the nightstand beside me. I stare at it from the middle of the largest bed I've ever seen in my life. Then I stare at the bedroom door. Then back at the phone.

This is ridiculous.

I shift against the pillows and pull the blanket higher over my legs.

I'm safe. The cameras in the bedroom are unplugged. The curtains are closed. The door locks from the inside.

Keaton is twenty feet away. Maybe thirty. I don't know how big the house actually is.

The point is that he's close. Close enough. I glance toward the door again. Apparently, my brain disagrees.

With a sigh, I fall back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling.

The old band T-shirt I'm wearing is soft against my skin, the faded fabric worn thin from years of washing. The leggings are stretched at one knee, and I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to wear something simply because I liked it. Not because it was appropriate. Not because it matched the image Ronan wanted me to present. Not because someone had laid it out for me before an event.

I run my fingers over the faded lettering across my stomach.

Mine.

The word makes my chest ache. My shirt. My leggings. My choice. I turn onto my side. The bedroom is completely silent. Too silent. I close my eyes.

Immediately, my mind fills the space.

Ronan coming home. Walking out to the garage. A hand wrapping around my throat. A man appearing behind him. My own terror.

Then—French Vanilla. I open my eyes. My heart is beating faster. Not because of the memory of being grabbed. Because of what came after.

Taibhse. Keaton. Skee. I still have questions about that last one. Apparently, there are three different versions of the man sleeping on the couch, and I know none of them particularly well. Except that isn't entirely true. I know Taibhse.

I know the man who sends ridiculous messages and somehow always knows when I need a distraction. I know the man who learned my coffee order. Who played music when the house became too quiet. Who got me to my parents when I needed them. Who kept a box filled with pieces of me that someone else had tried to throw away. I just don't know Keaton yet. And I definitely don't understand Skee.

My mouth curves slightly.

I close my eyes again. Thirty seconds later, they're open.

"Oh, for God's sake." I sit up. This is stupid. I'm an adult woman. I can sleep alone in a bedroom.

I stare down at my hands. Maybe that's the problem. I've felt alone for so long that now, when someone is finally close enough to reach, I don't want a wall between us.

That doesn't mean anything. It doesn't.