Chapter 1072
“We need to get you underground,” Victoria said. “Gabriel found a potential bug in the penthouse Wi-Fi. It might be how Harper knew we were coming. Until we sweep the place, we need to move to the safe house.”
“The bunker?” Skye groaned.
“The bunker has been upgraded,” Victoria said with a grim smile. “It has a medical bay, a command center, and soundproofing. It will feel like a spa compared to this war zone. Come on. Alistair is already prepping the transport.”
They drove to the secure facility under the guise of a spa day to throw off any tail.
Inside, the facility was disguised as an exclusive wellness center. Skye and Victoria settled into a secure, white-tiled room that looked like a massage suite but had walls of reinforced steel.
“He is terrified,” Victoria murmured. “He thinks if the tapes come out, you’ll leave him.”
“I won’t,” Skye said.
“Logic doesn’t cure trauma, Skye.”
The door to the suite burst open.
Alistair stood in the frame, weapon drawn, chest heaving. He scanned the room, his eyes wild.
“Clear the room!” he roared at the confused staff member who had just entered carrying towels.
The staff member dropped them and fled.
“Alistair!” Skye jumped up. “What is it? Is it Harper?”
Alistair holstered his gun, but he was shaking. He marched over to Skye, grabbing her shoulders, checking her for injuries.
“The perimeter sensor tripped,” he gasped. “Heat signature. Unidentified male. Entering this sector.”
“That was the masseur, you idiot,” Victoria deadpanned from the corner. “I ordered a deep tissue for Skye.”
Alistair froze. He looked at the door through which the terrified man had fled. Then he looked at Skye.
“A masseur?” he repeated, the adrenaline crashing into confusion.
“Yes,” Skye said, taking his face in her hands. “Alistair, look at me. You are hallucinating threats.”
“I don’t want strange men touching you,” he growled, the panic shifting into a dark, possessive jealousy. “Not now. Not when we are being hunted.”
“It’s just a massage, Alistair.”
“I can do it,” he said, his voice rough. “If you need muscles worked on, I know anatomy better than anyone. I know where every nerve is.”
“You want to give me a massage?” Skye asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I want to be the only one who touches you,” he corrected. “I want to kill anyone else who tries.”
Skye looked at him—at the raw, ugly, beautiful jealousy pouring off him. It wasn’t funny. It was tragic. He was so afraid of losing her that he saw enemies in the shadows and rivals in the service staff.
She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his rigid torso.
“Okay,” she whispered. “No masseurs. Just you. But you have to calm down. Harper wants you like this—paranoid and exhausted. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
Alistair buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent.
“I hate it,” he mumbled against her skin. “I hate that she is out there. I hate that she has my voice on a tape.”
“We will find her,” Skye promised. “But right now, you need to breathe.”