Cara

It may have been a mistake to provoke Marcus. I don't even know why I did it. Because he's angry, and I've never seen him angry before.

We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long moment. His grip on my arm remains painfully firm but I refuse to even flinch. The heat in his eyes evokes memories of secret nights we spent together, the only other times I've ever seen him without his mask of calm, almost indifferent self-possession.

A sound from down the hall breaks the spell I didn't even know had been cast over us. We both freeze. But only for a second, because Marcus drags me by the arm to my bedroom, and flings us both inside. He shuts the door quietly.

I yank my arm free. "Who is it?" I ask.

He's staring through the peephole. Raising his hand, he puts an index finger over his lips to signal to me to be quiet.

The view from my peephole has a limited view of the long hallway outside, but Marcus waits a minute before turning away from the door.

"Please, come in and make yourself at home," I say dryly, crossing my arms.

He slips his hands in his pockets and looks at me. "How is my grandfather?" he says.

I shrug. "He's fine, obviously. You saw him."

"I'm not a nurse."

There's something in the way he says it that sets alarm bells ringing in my head. His mask of cool indifference is back, but I can imagine the wheels turning in his head.

Shit. He knows.

"Well, I'm not either. Not anymore." I unfold my arms and show him the ring my supposed fiancé made me wear. "Armin will be taking care of me now."

Marcus moves closer. "You're going to give up your job? That's funny. The Cara I know would never do that."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

He's examining me so intensely, I almost lose my nerve.

"My grandfather isn't well, is he?" His expression has changed, and the concern in his eyes breaks my heart.

I don't have to tell him anything. Armin's medical condition isn't mine to divulge, even if I didn't sign the NDA that came with this job. Even to his grandson who I know genuinely cares for him.

He nods, as though he's read my thoughts. "You can't tell me, can you? Because he's your patient."

I stand there, stunned, as he turns to leave. God damn it. What do I do now?

"Marcus, wait."

He stops and turns to look at me. "Yes?"

I had a plan. But as with all plans created a moment of panic, it just seems stupid now two seconds later.

Too late.

The panic must be showing on my face because he frowns and takes quick steps back toward me. "Cara, what is it?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

I swallow. "I think someone tried to shoot me today."

He stares at me, his frown deepening in confusion. "Shoot you? With a gun?"

"Yes... Well, I assume it was a gun. I didn't..." My mind races for a way to describe what happened. "I didn't see anything. I was outside, and I felt the bullet go past me— Hey!"

Marcus has grabbed my hands, lifting my arms as he scrutinizes me all over. "Are you hurt?"

His strong hands feel so warm that my knees nearly buckle upon contact. The sudden rush of heat that courses through my body nearly knocks me off my feet.

Flushing, I pull away. "I'm fine. I wasn't hit or anything, I don't think."

"Okay." He frowns. "Where did the bullet go?"

"I ... I don't know."

"Cara, are you sure it was a bullet?"

"Yes, I'm sure. What else would it be?"

He shakes his head. "Maybe a bee? A wasp that flew past your head?"

I let out a huff of frustration and grab the scarf I left hanging on the back of a chair. "This was not a wasp, Marcus." I hold up the scarf to show him the hole. "I was holding this at the time."

He studies the scarf and the hole that right now looks rather small in his hands.

A sliver of doubt slices through me. Could I have imagined this whole thing? It was a small hole. It might have caught on something without me noticing.

"That's a bullet hole, right?" I say.

"It could be," he says, still studying the fabric. "Are you sure you didn't just accidentally rip this?"

I stare at him, almost speechless in surprise. "Of course I'm sure." I'm not, not really. But it annoys me that he could dismiss what I just told him, like I was some hysterical woman who would lie about something like this. Anger burns in my chest and I make a grab for the scarf. He keeps a firm hold on it, refusing to let go. "Do you think I'm making this up?"

"Why not? You've been lying to me since we got here."

"You know what? Forget it." I let go of the scarf and take a step back, my hands raised in mock surrender. "Forget I said anything. You can leave now."

He's quiet for a bit, looking at me with an inscrutable expression. Any concern he may have had for me is gone. He glances down at the scarf in his hand. "Did you tell Armin about this?"

"Get out." I'm fuming now. The nerve of this man to assume he knows me and then assume that I would actually lie about getting shot at.

"Cara, I'm trying to help you."

"I don't need your help. And why ask me questions if you won't believe anything I say, anyway?"

"Stop being childish."

"Get. Out." It's all I can do to not throw the nearest chair at him. But if he didn't leave, I just might.

"Fine."

I watch him as he leaves the room, carrying the scarf with him.

After he shuts the door behind him, I run to it and lock it.

I can admit to myself that I might be mistaken about what happened this afternoon. My anger wasn't all toward Marcus, but myself, that I actually thought he would take my concerns seriously. Instead of sympathy, all I got was an interrogation, like I was a criminal instead of the victim. I should have known better. Men like Marcus who were born to privilege and wealth don't trust anyone they believe to belong to a class below theirs. He'll sleep with me, but he would never respect me.

Armin at least treated me like an equal. Which is why I didn't tell him about what could have been a brush with death. He would have sent me home right away. But I can't leave. He's stubborn enough to remain here, even without a nurse. I refuse to abandon a patient.

I just have to be careful from now on. If one of his grandchildren wants me dead, they're going to have to work a little harder. I'm smarter than any of them and I'm not afraid to fight dirty.

It would be convenient to have Marcus on my side, but I can see now that I can never rely on him. He's just like the rest of his family, all looking down their noses at me. He's just better at masking his contempt for me.

Marcus

"That's all right, Claire," I say. "I can do that myself."

The elderly housekeeper smoothes the bed sheet she just fitted over the mattress. "You got me out of bed for this," she says. "I might as well do a good job of it."

"Sorry about that. I just wanted to know where the linens were. I, uhm..." I put my hands on my hips, trying to figure out a way to explain why I wanted to move to a different bedroom so late at night. "I'm a little concerned about grandfather, I thought I should stay close by in case he needs anything."

"He seemed all right at dinner." She fluffs a pillow vigorously before plotting it on the bed. "And his friend seems a capable lass, I'm sure she takes good care of him."

I ignore the curious look she gives me and set my laptop on the desk. "I'm sure she is."

"Should I get the rest of your things from the other room?"

"I'll take care of it tomorrow, Claire. Thank you."

"Suit yourself. Well, good night, pet."

After she leaves, I take the green scarf from the closet and lay it on the desk. Using my phone, I take a photo of the small, round hole. Under the bright lights of the desk lamps, I can see what looks like burn marks around the edges of the perforation, almost hidden by the black print pattern on the silk muslin. It's too small a hole to have been made by a shotgun, but an expert will give me a more accurate analysis. I attach the photo to an email, type a short note, and hit send.

I put the scarf in a zip lock bag I took from the kitchen, and put the bag in the drawer of the desk with a lock.

Returning to the closet, I take out the shotgun I hid there so Claire wouldn't see it. I would have preferred something smaller, a handgun, but shotguns are all we have in the house. I double-check the gun then slide it gingerly under the narrow space under the bed. The rounds I keep in the drawer of my nightstand, within easy reach in case I need them.

Cara won't be happy to learn I just moved into the bedroom next to hers. But she hasn't told Armin what happened to the scarf, which means I'm the only other person who knows she might be in danger. Apart from whoever took a shot at her. Until I can confirm whether it was a bullet that nearly got her this afternoon, I'm not taking any chances.

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