Page 7 of Ranger’s Protection

Four. Five. Six seconds of silence.

Seven. Eight. Nine—

"Delilah." Graham's voice. Rough. Breathing hard. "You can come out now."

I don't move.

"Delilah," he says again, gentler this time. "It's over. You're safe. Open the door."

"How do I know it's really you?" My voice comes out small and shaky. Pathetic.

A pause. Then: "You asked me why I came alone. I said because one person is harder to track than two. You said you'd been packed for two days. Then you said there was nothing you wanted to remember about this place."

It's him. Has to be him. Nobody else could know that conversation. I uncurl slowly, my joints protesting from being compressed into such a small space. Climb out of the tub on legs that feel like they might give out any second. Unlock the bathroom door with hands that won't stop shaking.

The door swings open.

The first thing I see is Graham standing in the middle of the room, gun still in his hand, pointed at the floor. His jacket is torn. There's blood on his knuckles. I can't tell if it's his or someone else's. His breathing is elevated but under control.

The second thing I see is the bodies.

Three men on the floor. Two by the door: one is not moving, one is groaning and clutching his leg where blood is seeping through his jeans. One near the window, definitely not moving, blood pooling under his head where it struck the corner of the nightstand.

The third thing I see is the fourth man.

The man from the office. David's killer. The snake tattoo is still there, still crawling up his neck. The scar through his eyebrow is split further now, bleeding from where Graham must have hit him. Those dark eyes that don't blink enough are glaring at Graham with pure hatred.

He's on his knees with his hands zip-tied behind his back, blood running from his nose.

"You got lucky," the man spits, and his voice, that cold, high-pitched voice, makes my skin crawl the same way it did when I heard him order David's body dumped in the river.

"No," Graham says calmly. "I got trained."

He looks at me then, his hazel eyes doing a quick assessment. Checking for injuries, for shock, for anything that needs immediate attention.

"You hurt?" he asks.

I shake my head. Can't speak. My throat has closed around words that won't come.

"Good. We need to leave. Now. Before whoever they called for backup arrives." He nudges the zip-tied man with his boot. "He's coming with us."

"What?" I finally manage. "Why?"

"Because he's leverage. And because Phoenix is going to want to have a conversation with someone who knows where Demon is hiding."

Graham moves to the man by the door who's still groaning, zip-ties his hands despite the leg wound, then does the same to the unconscious man by the window. The one who isn't moving at all, the one whose head hit the nightstand, he checks for a pulse, finds none, and leaves alone.

Dead. That man is dead.

Graham killed him.

The thought should horrify me. Should make me afraid of Graham instead of the men who came to kidnap me. But all I can think is that the dead man was going to break down the bathroom door. Was going to drag me out of that tub. Was going to take me to Demon.

And Graham stopped him.

"Can you walk?" Graham asks me.

I nod. Test my legs. They hold.