The Protector (Game of Chance, #1)(26)

Carlise sighed in relief. She wasn’t ready to talk to Riggs about Tommy. About how scared she’d been of her stalker . . . that he’d escalate from petty vandalism and threats to something more physical. “Like what?”

“How old you are. Where you grew up. What you do for a living. That kind of thing.” He turned to the small table next to the couch and handed her a mug of steaming tea.

Carlise had no problem sharing more general things about herself. Mostly because she was just as curious about the man sitting next to her. Now that he was coherent, she wanted to learn more about him. More than the fact that he had scars all over his body and a cute beauty spot on the side of his neck, just under his ear.

She cupped the mug and inhaled the scent of cinnamon and apple before saying, “I’m thirty. Grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, and I translate books from French into English.”

Riggs turned and grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch, shaking it out before turning to her. “May I?” he asked, gesturing with the blanket.

Carlise nodded, and Riggs gently placed the blanket over her lap, tucking it in tightly.

“You warm enough?”

“Perfect,” she told him. And she was. She felt more relaxed right this second than she’d been in days. Weeks.

“I’m thirty-four, but there are days I feel decades older. I grew up in Macon, Georgia, and you know that I’m a tree guy.”

“What branch of the military were you and your friends in?” Carlise asked as she took a sip of the delicious tea.

“Army. We were Special Forces.”

Her eyes widened. “You were? Like a SEAL?”

He chuckled. “Well, SEALs are navy.”

“I knew that,” Carlise said quickly.

“Yes, like that, but for the army.” Riggs sighed and reached for another blanket. He covered himself, then settled into the other corner of the couch. Carlise felt his foot brush against hers on the cushion, but instead of pulling away, she pressed her foot harder against his own.

He smiled slightly, then sobered. “On our last mission, everything went wrong. Our intel was bad, the soldiers with us panicked when shit hit the fan, and in the end, my team and I were captured.”

Carlise gasped. “Oh no!”

“Yeah. It wasn’t a good time. That’s when we decided we were done. That when we got home—if we got home—we were going to go into business together.”

“I . . . were you hurt?”

Riggs nodded. “Yes.”

“Your scars,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, they aren’t pretty. But we all got off pretty lucky compared to Cal.”

“Wait . . . Callum Redmon, you said? Why does that name sound familiar?” she asked.

“He’s originally from Liechtenstein, and yes, that’s a real country. We all gave him a rash of shit about making up the name of some fictional country, but it turns out it’s legit. He grew up mostly in England, even has the English accent, but he’s fluent in German—that’s what his people speak—and also knows a bit of French. He’s the fourth son of the fourth son in line for the crown . . . or something like that. I can never keep it straight,” Riggs said.

“Holy crap, I remember now! There were videos on the internet of him being tortured.” She gasped and her eyes got huge. “Wait—you were there too?”

“Yeah. Our captors loved that they had royalty in their clutches. He got the worst of their attention.”

Without hesitation, Carlise leaned over and put her mug of tea on the floor, then moved toward Riggs. She hugged him, resting her head on his chest and clutching him tightly in her arms. “I’m so sorry.”

Riggs shifted until his feet were on the floor, back against the cushions of the couch, and effortlessly maneuvered Carlise until she was sitting on his lap. He clamped an arm across her upper thighs, the other around her back, holding her against him. “It wasn’t so bad.”

Carlise snorted.

“Okay, it was. It was awful. But I’m here, as are my friends. Alive and thankful for every day I’ve got on this Earth.”

“But he’s okay? Your friend? Cal?”

“Yeah. He has his bad days, but he’s getting better.”

“You mentioned him and your other friends . . . you know, when you were sick? You yelled out for them in your sleep. Were worried about them.”

Riggs shrugged. “Not surprised. I’d do anything for those guys. We’ve been to hell and back together.”

“I’m glad you have them,” she murmured. Carlise had hugged him impulsively, unable not to offer him comfort, but now she didn’t want to move. He was extremely comfortable and so warm. Her eyes drooped.

“You don’t have any close friends?” he asked.

“I do,” she said. “Susie. I met her when I moved to Cleveland. She lives in my apartment complex. We got close pretty fast, just sort of clicked. But . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“But?” Riggs prompted when she didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“I don’t know. Lately it feels as if we’re drifting apart. I mean, I work from home, so I don’t go out a lot, and she used to be able to coax me to a bar with her on the weekends. We had a lot of fun, but I always say no when she asks now. I can tell it frustrates her. But . . . I just don’t want to go out anymore.” She didn’t want to tell Riggs why. That she didn’t feel safe, not knowing where or when Tommy might show up. “We still go to lunch, talk and text all the time, and we hang out at each other’s apartments, but I know she wishes things were the way they used to be.”