Chapter Four
1203 Words
Ryder’s POV
Night settled over the compound. I sat on the cold concrete floor beside my bike, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, grease staining my hands and forearms in dark streaks.
The ’90s Harley needed attention—carburetor was acting up again, and I wasn’t the type to leave a machine half-fixed.
I turned the wrench slowly, mind half on the engine and half somewhere else.
Protection. Of all the f*****g jobs.
The old man had called in a favor, and now I was stuck watching over a woman and a kid I didn’t know. Emma Hart. Small. Bruised. Looking like she’d been chewed up and spit out by something mean. I hadn’t asked for details the night we found her, and I still didn’t want them. Women with baggage always brought trouble. Always. And trouble was the last thing I needed right now.
I tightened another bolt harder than necessary, jaw set.
This was temporary. That was the deal. Keep them alive until the old man got back from Japan. Nothing more. No attachments. No complications.
A sudden crash cut through the quiet.
Metal on concrete.
I dropped the screwdriver without thinking. It clattered against the floor as I stood, rolling my shoulders once to loosen them. My hand went to the pistol tucked at the small of my back under my cut. I pulled it free, checked it and moved.
I stepped out of the garage and into the darker hallway that connected the workshop to the back rooms, gun held low and ready. The crash had come from the direction of the guest room.
My boots made almost no sound against the concrete. Years of this life taught you how to move when something felt off.
Another soft sound—fabric brushing against a wall. Then a quiet, broken whimper.
I rounded the corner and stopped dead.
She was there.
Emma stood in the middle of the hallway like a f*****g ghost.
She wore a thin white nightgown that drifted gently around her legs whenever she swayed. Her dark hair was tangled from sleep, spilling over one shoulder in loose waves, and her bare feet rested against the cold concrete as though she couldn't even feel the chill.
What held my attention wasn't the way she looked.
It was her face.
Her eyes were open, but there wasn't any awareness behind them.
They moved restlessly from one end of the hallway to the other, searching for something only she could see. Fear clouded them so completely that it sent a quiet sense of unease through me.
She wasn't awake.
She was sleepwalking.
A faint tremor ran through her body before another followed. Her shoulders shook first, then her hands, until the trembling spread through her entire frame. It was fear.
My gaze dropped for only a second, and I noticed the bruises.
The thin material of her nightgown hid very little beneath the harsh hallway light. Yellowing marks stretched across one arm. A darker bruise rested beneath her collarbone, while several older scars traced pale lines over her skin. Some had healed long ago. Others looked recent enough that they hadn't completely faded.
The sight settled heavily in my chest.
When we'd found her on the side of that highway, I'd noticed the bruises on her face and neck. They'd been impossible to miss.
This...
This told a much uglier story.
Nobody collected injuries like that from one bad night. Whoever had done this hadn't simply lost his temper once. He'd made a habit of it.
I didn't know much about Emma's husband, but I'd overheard enough during her call with the old man to understand he wasn't some drunk picking fights in a trailer park. He wore expensive suits, smiled for cameras, shook hands with voters, and played the role of a respectable man while turning his own home into a prison.
Men like that disgusted me more than the criminals I'd spent my life around.
At least the monsters I knew didn't pretend to be saints.
Emma shifted again.
One slow, uncertain step carried her farther down the hallway. Her lips moved soundlessly before another frightened whimper escaped.
She looked like she was trying to run from someone only she could see.
"Emma."
I kept my voice low. Gentle enough that it wouldn't startle her if she was close to waking.
She didn't respond. Not even the slightest flicker of recognition crossed her face. Her gaze drifted past me as though I wasn't standing there at all.
I took another careful step forward. Close enough to reach her if she stumbled. Far enough away that she wouldn't feel trapped if she suddenly woke.
"Emma," I said again. "You're safe."
The words disappeared into the silence. She lifted one trembling hand into the air. For a heartbeat, I couldn't understand what she was doing. Then I realized she wasn't reaching for something. She was shielding herself. Like she expected someone to hit her.
Emma took another unsteady step.
Her bare foot caught the edge of a rug, and she stumbled.
I moved without thinking.
My pistol disappeared beneath my cut as I caught her before she could hit the floor. One hand steadied her arm while the other rested lightly against her shoulder. She stiffened immediately, a frightened whimper escaping her lips.
"No..." she whispered. "Please..."
She wasn't talking to me.
She was still trapped in whatever nightmare had pulled her out of bed.
"It's okay," I said quietly. "You're safe."
Her breathing grew uneven. A tear slipped down her cheek as her fingers curled weakly around the front of my shirt. "Noah..." she murmured, panic creeping into her voice. "Please... don't hurt my baby."
My jaw tightened as I glanced toward the bedroom. Everything was quiet. The kid was still asleep.
Good.
Emma shook her head weakly, her grip on my shirt tightening for a second. "I'll be good..." she whispered. "Please..."
The words came out so broken they barely sounded human.
"Nobody's going to hurt you," I said. "And nobody's touching your boy."
Her breathing slowed just enough for the tension in her shoulders to ease. The grip on my shirt loosened, and she let out a shaky breath.
"I'm... sorry," she mumbled.
The apology hit me harder than it should have.
She had nothing to apologize for.
Keeping one hand ready in case she lost her balance again, I gently guided her back toward the guest room. She followed without resisting, moving slowly as if her body knew the way even while her mind remained somewhere else.
The door stood half-open.
Inside, Noah slept peacefully, curled beneath the blanket with a stuffed dinosaur tucked beneath one arm.
The moment Emma saw him, something in her relaxed. She crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and brushed a trembling hand through his hair before lying down beside him.
Noah shifted in his sleep and instinctively snuggled closer to her.
Emma wrapped an arm around him, and little by little, the trembling stopped.
I stood quietly in the doorway, watching for another moment before pulling the blanket over them both.
Then I switched off the lamp, leaving only the faint glow from the hallway.
- Writer
