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Deacon stood in the door of his daughter’s bedroom and stared in bemusement at the tea party taking place inside. Sydney sat on the rug, princess crown atop her head, the tea set that had been Julia’s as a child laid out before her. Chocolate cookies and cheese crackers graced their small plates. Elliot poured thin brown liquid into the china cups carefully, following Syd’s instructions to the letter. He noticed she used the same care with the china as she had earlier today when he’d caught her cleaning her gun in the library—meticulous to a fault, and thorough.
Would she be as thorough in bed? The remembered feel of her lips, her mouth, her tongue against his said it didn’t matter. If he got her in bed, he’d be too involved to keep score.
“And now a little milk,” Sydney said. Elliot set the teapot to one side, then took up the small creamer dish.
“I don’t know if I like hot tea.” Elliot’s tone was careful, as if she was trying not to offend.
Apparently this wasn’t the first time Elliot had mentioned her uncertainty about the tea, because Sydney’s sigh was long-suffering. “You have to have tea at a tea party, Elliot.”
The strained patience in his daughter’s expression made him want to laugh, but he choked the sound down. Elliot had said in Jack’s office that she’d never had a tea party. He wasn’t about to ruin her first time—or Sydney’s, for that matter. She’d never played tea with any woman but her mother, and even then she’d barely been two. Did she truly remember those rare, precious moments with Jules, or was she imagining the stories Deacon had told her since?
The question cramped his heart.
Elliot was stirring spoonfuls of sugar into each cup. Deacon watched both girl and woman pick up their tea, bring it to their mouths, blow gently. A small sip, right at the same moment. Swallows. Sydney’s expectant gaze stayed glued to Elliot, whose clear blue eyes turned thoughtful.
“Not too bad,” she said.
Sydney grinned. “Told ya.”
Elliot stuck her tongue out at her companion. They both laughed before getting down to the nitty-gritty of enjoying their tea party.
He gave them a few more minutes—and gave himself a few to enjoy watching them—before interrupting. Elliot’s head jerked up as soon as he entered, a bright pink blush staining her cheeks. “Deacon.”
It took him a moment to work through the reaction to her eyes on him, that kick to the solar plexus that hadn’t changed since that first moment in Jack’s office, and remember why he was here. They were supposed to work with Sydney this afternoon. Deacon played “the game” with her at least once a month, reminding her of safety procedures without seeming to. Given the alarm yesterday, he’d wanted Elliot to see the plan, not just read about it in a file. “Elliot.” He came to a stop, staring down at her. “You have crumbs on your lips.”
“Oh!”
Sydney giggled as Elliot grabbed a napkin to wipe her mouth. Elliot gave her a look. “I’m not the only one with crumbs,” she said pointedly.
Sydney grinned and popped a cookie in her mouth.
Deacon chuckled. “We have a date,” he reminded his daughter.
“Right!” Sydney jumped up, mouth still full of chocolate cookie. “Ha’ to cwean up.”
Deacon helped them stack china and move everything aside, promising to cart the dishes down to the kitchen in a little bit. First, “Are you ready to show Elliot our game?”
With a squeal that had both he and Elliot shaking a finger in their ear—there was nothing wrong with his daughter’s lungs, obviously—Sydney made a wild dash for the bed. Deacon took the opportunity to reach for Elliot where she still knelt on the ground next to the tea set. She hesitated, eyeing his hand as if it were a snake she wasn’t sure she could wrangle, and then her smaller fingers wrapped in his and he was pulling her onto her feet.
Her body heat warmed him across the foot of air that separated them, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“Elliot.”
Her name was low and gravelly, containing all the command he could infuse into it. Elliot’s gaze snapped to his. He let himself enjoy the faint pink blush that reappeared, sweeping across her cheeks, down her neck. Did it reach her breasts? Could he provoke that same reaction the first time he had her in bed, see exactly how far it spread without the barrier of clothes hiding her from him?
“Daddy?”
Shit. He could not keep doing this. He shook away the lust clouding his brain and turned to Sydney. “Ready?”
Her nod was excited, happy. The contrast between her childish innocence and the purpose behind this exercise made him ache. But just as she always did with these little “games,” Sydney seemed to see them as fun, picking up Katie Kitty and dancing her along the comforter as she waited for Deacon’s signal.
He motioned Elliot over to the corner and leaned against the wall.
“What are we doing?” Elliot whispered.
“Waiting.”
“Why?”
Her face drew him, even when concern for his daughter felt like it would tear apart his lungs. Staring down, he saw the same concern reflected in Elliot’s beautiful blue eyes. God, the color was stunning, almost a shock each time he saw them, especially in contrast to the white-blonde shade of her hair.
He slid his hand into the hip pocket of his fatigues. “To catch her off guard,” he answered and pressed the button on the remote he carried.
A loud beep sounded from the small speaker mounted above their heads, similar to the one that sounded on the team members’ comms when there was a breach, but aloud instead of only in their earbuds. Deacon knew the same tone was being repeated in every room in the house. No matter where Sydney was, no matter where he was, he wanted her warned as early as possible.
His daughter knew exactly what to do. Clutching Katie Kitty to her chest, she hopped off the bed and went directly to her closet. Just inside, she grabbed her small purple backpack and pulled it on as she ran for the door. So little, so eager.
Elliot took a step to follow.
“Wait.”
She turned her head, probably to argue, but he laid a finger against her lips. “I know. I hate it too, but she knows where to go. Every damn time I have to force myself to stay put, wait it out, not help her—because if I have to sound that alarm, I won’t be here to help her. She has to do it on her own.”
A vee formed between Elliot’s brows, but she clamped her lips shut against any protest. The drag of her skin along his fingers made his breath catch. He allowed himself a single soft tap, a small show of his gratitude, and then he dropped his hand.
“What’s in her bag?” Elliot asked.
Was the hushed quality of her voice a reaction to his touch? “Cereal bars, water, juice boxes. A flashlight and a burner phone so she can call for help once she’s secure. I replenish the perishables regularly, and each hiding spot is stocked with additional supplies, a couple of toys, and a blanket.”
“A four-year-old shouldn’t have a go bag.”
“No, she shouldn’t.” Deacon shifted against the wall, remembering the arguments he’d had with himself, the uncertainty of how best to take care of Sydney on his own. In the end the conclusion had been simple: his daughter had to be prepared, and not just for criminals. “Families have similar procedures for severe weather, tornados, earthquakes out west. Fire. It’s not comfortable to think about your child being scared and alone, but at least I have some small peace of mind knowing she has a chance.”
Elliot nodded, but she wasn’t looking at him; she was looking at the door to the hall, her eyes haunted. By what? And what would it take to get her to share it with him?
He glanced at his watch: five minutes. “Let’s go.”
There were four hiding spots in the house: one in the back of Sydney’s closet, one in the kitchen, one under the stairs, and a final one in the gym above the garage. As part of the game, Sydney chose one of the cubbies that was not in the same room as Deacon, and he came to find her. Whichever cubby was locked closed, Sydney was inside. And once he discovered her, they started the game all over again. Deadly hide-and-seek—or practical parenting; it was all in how you chose to look at it.
The hiding spot at the back of the closet in the front room opened readily. Not there. He tried to check the locations in a random pattern, but today, with Elliot along, he went in order. The kitchen was empty except for King, who glanced up from a stack of reports spread out on the table at their entrance. Deacon closed the door silently, a finger against his lips to keep the man from speaking. He led Elliot toward the pantry, which extended approximately four feet on either side of its door before terminating in cabinets that lined the rest of that wall. Most of the space behind the wall contained the actual walk-in pantry, but on the left side a hollow had been built between the pantry and the outer wall. Deacon knelt to run his fingers along the baseboard, found the shallow dip barely noticeable to the naked eye, and pressed.
The cubby didn’t open.
He sent Elliot a ragged grin. Using his knuckles, he rapped three times on the drywall, paused, then three more.
A two-foot-wide panel opened in front of him. Inside, Sydney sat on a fleece blanket, grinning up at him. “Surprise!”
Deacon held his arms out. When Sydney slammed into him, he wrapped them tight around her. “Surprise, Little Bit. You did good.”
She leaned back to look at Elliot. “See?”
“I see.” Elliot’s smile strained across her face. Deacon recognized the emotion behind it, but she didn’t dwell on it any more than he allowed himself to. “Ready to go again?”
And the game was back on. For half an hour he and Elliot tracked Sydney through the house, laughing and joking while inside they fought the sick juxtaposition their playing represented. Deacon had finally called a halt to get his daughter some lunch when an alarm sounded in his ear.
Damn it!
Elliot didn’t hesitate; she scooped Sydney up as they walked through the kitchen door, ignoring the palpable tension to cross the room toward the fridge. “What are we having for lunch, Syd?”
“Ice cream!”
“I don’t think so,” Deacon called after them, gratitude filling his chest as he watched Elliot secure his daughter, care for her. That left him to confront King and Fionn, now leaning over King’s laptop.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Fionn straightened, frustration and anger a mask sharpening his playboy looks. With a flick of his wrist, he twisted the laptop around until Deacon could see the screen. “You won’t be liking it, Deac.”