Saving Liberty (Kissing #6) (17 page)

Very faintly, over the road noise, I could hear the men talking. They were discussing how I deserved everything that was about to happen to me: because of what my dad had done. Because of what America had done. Because I was rich. Because I was a woman.
I’m not those things,
I wanted to scream.
I’m just me!

As the car slowed to a stop, I could hear more men outside, gathering around. Discussing every horrifying thing they were going to do to me. I started to scream, wanting to drown them out, but their voices just rose in excitement, louder and louder until—

“Emily!”

Spread her and tie her and cut her and—

“Emily!”

My eyes opened and I saw the same bedroom as before... but this time the lamp by my bed was on and the man leaning over me was blessedly, wonderfully familiar. Kian had one hand on my shoulder—he must have been shaking me awake—and he was staring down at me, my fear reflected in his eyes.

I realized my wrists weren’t bound. I flung my arms around him, pulling him close and just
clinging.
I had to keep opening my eyes and looking over his shoulder at the room to reassure myself that the intruders weren’t there.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

I pressed my cheek to his, feeling his warmth. It was late enough in the night that his stubble had started to grow back and the scratch of it was gloriously real and reassuring, pushing the last of the nightmare away. I felt my breathing start to slow down.

It sank in that I was pressing my whole upper body against him, from my cheek all the way down to my waist, and that I wasn’t wearing a bra under my nightshirt. Every time I took a breath, my breasts pressed a little more firmly against his chest. Every time he took a breath, those hard pecs crushed against me.

I loosened my arms and fell back onto the bed. The sheets were damp with sweat and the covers were half off the bed where I’d been thrashing around. We gazed at each other as I calmed myself. It had been so vivid, I actually had to rub my wrists to get rid of the feeling of the bindings around them. “You... heard me?” I whispered.

He nodded. He hadn’t moved since I let go of him, so he was still hunkered over the bed, our faces only a foot apart. “You screamed,” he whispered. There was a jagged edge to the word, as if the thought of anyone making me scream, even in a dream, made him want to kill them.

I winced and glanced at the half-open door to the hallway. “Did I wake anyone else?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He half-stood, backed up a little and gently pushed the door closed with his foot, then knelt beside my bed and put his face close to mine again. “I was right outside.”

I looked at the door again. “You were sleeping right outside my door?” I whispered.

“
Standing
right outside your door,” he whispered.

My eyes widened. He’d already been on duty all day. It should have been some other agent on the night shift. But….

But he didn’t trust anyone else to watch me, away from the White House. My heart swelled.

“Just in case, ma’am,” he whispered. This time, he sounded a little sheepish. I wanted to hug him so bad.

“I’m okay,” I whispered. I think I was trying to reassure myself as much as him. “Just a nightmare. I’m used to them.”

He blinked, then looked aghast. “It’s like that every”—he realized his voice had risen and had to force it back to a whisper—”every
night?”

I nodded. “But I’m okay in the day—I mean, I’m not
okay
, but I’m getting better.”

“That’s because I’m there in the day,” he whispered.

He was right. The nightmares had subtly changed, since he’d started to guard me. Before that, I’d been alone, but now it was specific: the nightmares always opened with
him not being there—
I lost the source of my safety. “But they’re only nightmares,” I whispered angrily. “They can’t hurt me.” I felt stupid. I was a grown woman. I shouldn’t be scared by nightmares.

Then I saw the look he was giving me: a very firm
stop being silly
look. He moved a little closer to the bed and I felt myself gulp: it didn’t matter that I was lying there in a complete mess, with my hair stuck to my forehead with sweat and the sheets twisted around me—just having him so close felt amazing.
God, I am so ridiculously smitten with this guy.

“I’ve known guys twice your size wake up screaming,
crying,
from nightmares,
”
he told me. “Don’t pretend it’s okay. Not with me.”

“You mean soldiers? When you were in the Marines?” I asked.

He nodded.

“That’s different,” I said. “They got shot.”

“
You
got shot.”

“They were in a Warzone.” It felt ridiculous to be arguing in whispers, but I didn’t dare raise my voice in case we woke someone.

“They were trained for it. You weren’t. And that attack in the park came out of the blue.” He hunkered closer. “You thought the world was safe and suddenly, it wasn’t. Right?”

There was something about the way he said it. It wasn’t just that he was right... it was that he spoke from experience. I nodded.

“That’s the most damaging thing. You don’t feel you can ever relax again. You don’t feel you can let your guard down, or it’ll happen again.”

I drew in my breath. That was it exactly. I hadn’t been able to put it into words, but he’d nailed it. “
Yes.”

We stared at each other. And now I was sure of it: he knew what it was like because he’d been there, too. He’d been scarred like this as well and—I felt a sudden rush of emotion as things slotted into place—this was
it,
this was the cause of that pain that made him keep pulling away from me. “What do you do about it?” I croaked.

He reached down and brushed a few strands of hair off my face. “You talk about it,” he said, and I could hear the Irish in his voice more than ever. “With someone you trust. You figure it out... before things set in too deep.” He settled himself more comfortably beside the bed. “Tell me,” he whispered.

And, slowly, I began. I told him about what happened in the nightmares and how it made me feel. I told him about the men and being taken, about being at the mercy of people who detested me. The light from the lamp wrapped us in a tight little cocoon of warmth, the rest of the room falling off into shadow. It felt like we were the only two people in the world and having to whisper made it more private still: I could say things I didn’t dare to speak.

It helped. I don’t know why, but it did. Just describing my fears took some of their power away, as if they were strongest when they could shift and change and remain formless. It’s like the monster in a horror movie: it’s always scarier when you can only glimpse it in the shadows.

“But—” I had a sudden realization and it made me start to choke up. “We can talk about it, but it doesn’t go away, does it? It’s not just the attack, it’s not just PTSD. I’m living this life. I’m the President’s daughter.
This is real.
There really are people who want to take me, or kill me.”

He put his hand on my cheek, the same way he’d done in the park when he first saved me. I pushed my face against him and his warmth helped to hold back the tears. “Yes,” he said at last. “There are people like that. It is real.”

I hated him for saying it—part of me wanted him to lie to me. But most of me loved him for giving it to me straight.

“So we should do something that maybe you’ve never done: we should
plan.
We should think about what would happen if someone
does
take you,” he said.

I drew in a shuddering breath and shook my head. I could feel the dark waters of panic swirling around me, threatening to rise. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“It’s okay. I’m here.” He leaned on the bed a little, his muscled forearm close to my leg, and the bed creaked under his weight. Somehow, that creak was reassuring. “What would you do?” he whispered, his voice gentle. “What would you do, if they
did
take you, and put you in a car?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Panic. Scream.” My stomach lurched at the thought of it and I turned away from him.

He cupped my chin in that big, warm hand and gently turned me back to face him. “Here’s what I want you to do: keep calm.
Listen.
Listen to where they’re taking you.” He looked right into my eyes. “And know that
I will always find you.
No matter what.”

The way he said it made me really believe it. I nodded.

He took something out of his pocket and held it up: a tiny cell phone, from that era when they were getting smaller and smaller, before they swelled into smartphones with huge screens. “I want you to have this,” he said.

“I already have a cell phone.”

“Have this one too. Just in case. But keep it on
you,
not in your purse.”

He put it in my hand. It was the size of a box of matches. I nodded and closed my hand around it.

He cupped my chin a second longer and then slowly drew his hand away. He didn’t have to say anything: his eyes said it all.
Better?

I nodded. I did feel better. Talking about it
had
helped. And it made me wonder: could I help him, too? Could I free him of whatever pain
he
was carrying around?

He caught my questioning look and stared back at me for several seconds. Then he gently shook his head. I remembered what he said about doing it
before things set in too deep.
Did he think it was too late for him?

I felt the idea harden into a promise. I wasn’t giving up that easily. He’d helped me; I’d help him.

Kian stood and took a step away from me. I was fine until he put a hand on the door handle, but then a sudden stab of panic shot through me. The idea of closing my eyes in that room, alone, filled me with sick dread. “Kian?” I whispered.

“Ma’am?”

I swallowed. “Can you stay with me? Just until I’m asleep?”

He hesitated for a second, maybe thinking about the consequences if someone realized he was in my room in the dead of night. Then he slowly sat down with his back resting against the door. “Of course, ma’am.”

I lay down. And with Kian watching over me, I had the best night’s sleep I’d had since the attack.

***

Those few days were idyllic. I could have happily stayed at Camp David for months but, the next evening, we had to get back into the motorcade and head home to DC. I looked back through the rear window of the limo, trying to catch the last glimpses of greenery before the gray city swallowed us up. When I turned around, Kian gave me a reassuring smile:
I’ll be there. It’ll be okay.
But I could only manage a weak grin in response and the closer we got to DC, the more the feeling of dread increased.

DC was home; the White House was home.

So why did I feel like we were driving right back into danger?

Kian

The day after we returned to DC, Emily had to attend a drinks reception: basically a meet-and-greet hosted by the First Lady where she could thank all the senators and other bigwigs who’d donated to her favorite charity this year.

In theory, it should have been an easy evening: without the President there, everything was a little more scaled down and there were no crowds to worry about. It was peaceful, with a string quartet playing in one corner and flowers everywhere. The doors onto the garden were open and the warm breeze blowing through the room stopped it feeling claustrophobic, even though the guests were almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Emily was nervous in the limo, but once we got inside, she seemed to be okay as long as I kept a gentle hand on her back. She looked fantastic: shining hair cascading down over her shoulders, red cocktail dress slit just high enough to show off her gorgeous long legs.