The Military K-9 Unit Collection. Valerie Hansen
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sat on a trunk and dropped his head into his hands. There was a long moment of silence. She waited, hoping he would let down his walls and fully open up. He couldn’t leave her hanging with such a shocking revelation.
“It was my fault.”
His despondent tone broke her heart. She absorbed the blow. “Help me understand.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. Torment swirled in the blue depths of his eyes. “I was ten when it happened.”
So young.
“We were in a busy restaurant,” he continued, his gaze dropping to his boots. “My feet were big. Too big. I was awkward, gangly even.”
She couldn’t imagine him clumsy and self-conscious. When Westley ran alongside the dogs during training he was nimble, but his six-foot frame contained the same sort of coiled power the dogs had. Unlike Felicity, who had cornered the market on gawkiness.
“I tripped over my feet, knocking a man’s drink into his lap. He said something harsh to me and my dad took exception.” Westley let out a mirthless laugh, a sound she didn’t understand.
“They got in a fight. Dad punched the guy hard, he went down and hit his head on the metal foot of the table and died.”
Her stomach knotted. What a horrible incident for a child to witness.
“My dad had a long rap sheet for assault and battery so the judge gave him a ten-year sentence for first-degree manslaughter. He died when I was seventeen.”
Stunned, she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, stopping her from touching him. “No reason for you to be sorry. He was a hothead who couldn’t control his anger. It landed him in prison, where there were bigger, angrier men. I’m just surprised it took so long before someone beat him to a pulp.”
The breath left her lungs. His callous words echoed with an underpinning of unfathomable pain. She’d had no idea Westley had a traumatic past. And she had no words of comfort to offer. The urge to wrap her arms around him and hold on tight gripped her, but doing so wasn’t a good idea for either of them. They had to maintain a professional demeanor if they hoped to work together at the training center in the future. A future where, God willing, the Red Rose Killer was once again behind bars and her father’s murderer would be brought to justice.
Despite her warning, she moved closer to sit beside him and put a hand on his strong shoulder, now bowed with undeserved guilt. He made a distressed sound, as if her offer of comfort hurt him. Her hand floated to her lap.
A thought intruded as she recalled his earlier reaction to remembering the event that led to his father’s incarceration and a cold sweat broke out over her skin. “Was your father violent with you? With your mother?”
He stood and paced away. “He was rough. On both of us.”
Her heart contracted painfully in her chest with empathy and sorrow. Was that why Westley was so self-contained and unwilling to show emotion? The man had rarely smiled in the six months she’d been under his command. Not for her lack of trying. She’d assumed all this time he was displeased to have her in the training center. Could it be his attitude was more of a shield he hid behind rather than a reflection of his feelings for her?
She’d have to process this at another time. Right now, with him looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here, she sought to ease the hurt stirring within him. “You can’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control. You were a child. They were grown men who made the choice to fight.”
“Logically, I know that, but that doesn’t stop my mother from blaming me. It’s why she left. Why I was sent to live in foster care.”
The injustice of it all made her so sad and angry that she couldn’t ignore her emotions. Professional demeanor could take a flying leap. She went to him and put her arms around his waist. He tensed, holding himself ramrod-straight, his stiff arms at his sides. Frustration pulsed through her. He’d offered her comfort when she’d needed it, yet refused to take it from her.
“Westley,” she said, her tone half plea, half censure.
The tension suddenly drained from him and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer. She laid her cheek against his chest. His aftershave—spicy, woodsy and masculine—teased her senses. His heart thudded in time to her own.
His strong arms made her feel safe, cherished even. It was a feeling she could get used to if she allowed herself. She should step back, break the contact before her emotions got too tangled up with him. But she had no willpower. Nor the desire to step away.
He used the crook of his finger to lift her chin and draw her gaze to his. The tenderness in his eyes made her breath hitch, but it was the flare of attraction she saw in them that sent her pulse skyrocketing.
He dipped his head but halted inches from her lips, giving her the choice.
She didn’t have to think about it. She wanted him to kiss her. Had for so long, even though she would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all to herself.
Had her former irritation and annoyance with Westley been more about an attraction she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge?
Deciding to stay in the moment rather than analyze the past, she rose on her toes, closing the gap, and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and firm, yet so gentle.
One hand stayed at the small of her back, while his other cupped the back of her head.
A low growl filled her head. It took a moment for her to register the sound. Dakota. They’d left him on guard duty in the hall beneath the attic opening. Was he protesting being left out?
Westley drew back. Their gazes met, and questions ricocheted through her mind. What did the kiss mean? Did she want it to mean something? Did he?
Dakota’s growl turned into a bark of alarm, sending apprehension cascading over her limbs.
Westley nudged her behind him and leaned cautiously over the side of the attic opening. Unwilling to be coddled, Felicity dropped to her knees beside him to see for herself what had upset the dog. The hall was empty, but Dakota faced her father’s room, his tail erect, his ears back and teeth bared, guarding them from an unseen threat.
Westley grabbed Felicity’s elbow and tugged her behind him as he reached for the weapon holstered at his thigh. “Stay here.”
In a move that was both athletic and fluid, he dropped quickly through the attic opening, landing soundlessly beside Dakota. Frustrated to be sidelined again, Felicity watched the pair advance down the hall, two warriors on the hunt. Dakota’s growls and barks bounced off the walls.
Felicity’s fingers curled into a fist. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She needed a weapon.
She’d understood Lieutenant General Hall’s refusal to let her carry. It would draw attention to her and make Boyd less likely to attack. Not that Westley and Dakota weren’t enough of a deterrent. At the moment, she could only pray for Westley’s safety.
Dakota erupted in a barrage of vicious barking.
“Halt!” Westley’s shout came from her father’s bedroom.
The sound of several gunshots rang out. A canine yelp punctuated the air.
Felicity’s heart jackknifed. “Westley!”
Fearing the worst, she scrambled out of the attic, landing ungracefully with a jarring thud on the carpeted hall floor. As she regained her balance, she sent up a prayer, asking God for Westley and Dakota to be all right.
Cautiously, she made her way to the entrance of her father’s bedroom, pressing her back against the wall. Anxiety clogged her throat, her mind already preparing her for devastation. She flashed back to the day she found her father’s motionless body, and a shudder of dread worked over her flesh. With air trapped in her lungs, she peered around the doorjamb.