Prologue

 

“Did you hear they’re letting me blow this joint?” Miller curled up in a black leather armchair, her hair tied in a messy bun. She’d dyed it bright red since the last time he saw her. Her baggy clothes dwarfed her tiny frame, not an ounce of makeup on her face.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Fuck it.

Rogan worked hard to keep his feelings hidden. He’d had years of practice. But if anyone could erode his hard-won control, it was Miller. Beneath the cool, calm exterior, his blood heated, his heart raced. His cock, so rarely interested in much, stood at attention. All it took to turn him on was catching sight of her, a hint of her scent, or even just hearing her voice.

And her laugh was enough to make him see double.

He’d thought himself too cold and broken to ever react to a woman this way. If it wasn’t a quick fuck and good-bye, then he wasn’t interested.

Except when it came to her. Because, then, he imagined all sorts of things he could never have.

Miller in his arms. Kissing her. Touching her. Fucking her. Damn well owning her.

And having her own him.

“Yes, I talked to your doctor.”

She grimaced. “Of course, you did. Because Lord forbid anything be private around here. Have they never heard of patient-doctor confidentiality?”

He shrugged. He had his methods of getting people to talk.

She ran her gaze around the room. “I guess because you’re paying for all this, you get to listen to every sad little aspect of my recovery.”

He cocked his head. He’d seen her swing between emotions since she’d been at the drug rehab facility. Anger. Sadness. Despair. Fear. But, this time, something was different.

“What’s wrong?” He suppressed the urge to lift her from her seat and pull her onto his lap, to taste her, tease her into a better mood. He could do it. He’d seen the way she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking. With heat. Hunger. Need.

He couldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. She was his responsibility.

She scowled. “Wrong? What could possibly be wrong? I have no job, no home. I’m stuck in a fucking rehab center because that asshole, Iker, got me hooked on a highly addictive drug. And it’s my fault because I thought I’d play Nancy Drew and try to figure out who killed my mother. What kind of idiot does that? What did I think would happen? That that the Vipers would welcome me with open arms? That there would be a big arrow with a sign saying ‘This way to find evidence of who killed your mother’? I was utterly delusional.”

He didn’t bother to argue with her. Because he agreed. She’d been stupid to think she could infiltrate the Vipers and investigate her mother’s death.

Instead of earning their trust, she’d ended up at their mercy.

So, yeah, she’d been a naïve fool, and he wasn’t going to tell her otherwise. Best she learn from her mistakes and never put herself in such danger again. Although she hadn’t taken the drug voluntarily, Fizz was a highly addictive drug and she’d needed the help of specialists to cope with the withdrawals and cravings. Luckily, she hadn’t been on Fizz long. Longer use resulted in a longer recovery process. She had made good progress. As long as she learned to handle stress and had a support network, her doctor believed she would do well.

Soon she would be released and he wouldn’t see her again.

That wasn’t disappointment he felt but relief. At least that’s what he was going to tell himself.

She bit her lip. “I’m TSTL.”

“What?” he asked, confused.

Her brown eyes filled with misery. “Too stupid to live.”

Oh no.

“Ahh, I wondered what emotional stage you had reached,” he drawled.

She frowned. Shit. How did she manage to look so beautiful even when she scowled?

He was in so much trouble.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve gone through anger, fear, and despair and I couldn’t work out where you were at now. But, now, I see you’re stuck on pity.”

“Pity?” She sat up, glaring at him in righteous fury. Better.

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Rogan made certain to keep his voice calm. He even brushed some imaginary lint off his pants. His disinterest would fuel her anger. Better anger than self-pity. He knew all too well how destructive self-pity could be.

He’d spent too long feeling sorry for himself for being forced into this life. Forced to step up and become the boss of the Cavans.

But he had to embrace his life. As Miller needed to take charge of hers.

Perhaps he should have been more sympathetic. But he struggled to find the right thing to say.

“Don’t you think I have a right to feel sorry for myself? My life is a fucking mess!”

He frowned. “You’re alive.”

With an impatient sigh, she waved her hand through the air. “Fine, fine. You’re right. I could have died. I should be grateful to be alive.”

He found his lips twitching, and he had to fight hard to keep a smile from curling his lips. “You don’t sound very grateful.”

“Well, I’m not going to start singing about whiskers on kittens while I dance on roof tops.”

“I think you’re mixing your movies up.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never watched those movies all the way through.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I started watching them, but they were too…”

“Too what?”

“Farfetched. I mean, it’s not real life. They’re fairy tales.”

“You don’t like fairy tales?”

She shrugged. “Hansel and Gretel made sense.”

A story about two children being abandoned by their family.

“Even though I’m getting out of here, I understand I need a damn babysitter. As though I need someone to watch over me. Tilly will insist I stay with her, and I don’t know how I’m going to tell her I don’t want to.”

She didn’t? He’d been gearing up to say good-bye. Growing attached to her wasn’t smart. Miller wouldn’t be just a fling. And he couldn’t offer anything more.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because she’s got this—this perfect life. She’s engaged to be married to a wonderful man; she’s happy.”

He failed to see the problem.

“Everywhere I go, I bring trouble. I don’t want to ruin things for her. And, truthfully, I don’t think I can be around all that happiness right now.”

Rogan let out a deep breath. “You’re not a walking plague.”

“Feels like it. But there is no one else I can stay with. I can’t stay here forever. It’ll bankrupt you.”

It would take a lot to bankrupt him, but he didn’t say so. He studied her. He was missing something.

“You hate it here.”

She glanced away, her lip caught between her teeth. What wasn’t he getting?

“You don’t want to leave?” he asked. Her eyes flared. Bingo. “You’re scared to leave?”

She picked at loose thread hanging from her T-shirt. He winced, wanting to pull her hand away. The ugly, gray T-shirt was already threadbare—pick the wrong thread and it would all come apart.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Miller,” he bit out, not about to let this go.

“Everybody wants me to talk,” she grouched. “What are you thinking, Miller? What emotion are you experiencing, Miller? How does that make you feel, Miller? I’m sick of talking.”

He ran his finger over his lower lip. “Yeah, I can see how that would be annoying, but they know what they’re doing.”

She shrugged.

“You’re trying to dodge my question.”

“God, are you always this persistent?” she grouched.

“Yes. And you’re still avoiding the question. Why don’t you want to leave?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to leave? This place sucks.”

He waited. He could be a patient man when it mattered.

“But it’s safe, isn’t it?” she added.

“And outside these walls isn’t safe.” He could understand her fear. So much had happened to her in such a short space of time, she clung to the one thing she knew.

“I’m a coward. I should put on my big-girl panties and get out there.”

Rogan wondered how many times she’d had to push aside whatever she felt and get on with things. It didn’t seem like anyone in her life had put her needs before their own. Her mother had abandoned her when she was young; her father, who was in and out of prison, had left her to be raised by a strict, religious grandmother.

He grunted. If she wouldn’t live with Tilly, few options remained open to her.

She could live with you.

Fuck, no. A disastrous thought. Not only because he wanted to fuck her until he found oblivion, but living with him could well put a target on her back.

So what’s the alternative? Leave her here? Let her go off on her own to get into God knows what trouble? Because although he’d told her off for calling herself a plague, he had the feeling Miller attracted trouble like a magnet.

She needed a goddamned keeper.

It can’t be you. You have no right to have someone like her in your life.

Rogan stood. “I have to go.”

Startled, she gazed up at him, a hint of disappointment in her brown eyes.

“Umm, okay. Thanks for visiting.”

Loneliness surrounded her like a dark cloud, and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out to her, from pulling her close, and promising to look after her.

Instead, with a nod, he left.

Rogan stepped out of the rehab center and took a deep breath of air, trying to clear his head. If only he could forget Miller so easily.

“Short visit tonight,” Colm observed.

Rogan glanced over at his bodyguard. The large Scot raised his eyebrows questioningly before falling into step beside him as he walked through the parking lot to his car. Colm kept enough space between them to draw his gun, but stayed close enough to leap into the line of fire if needed.

Rogan hoped Colm would never have to risk his life for Rogan’s.

Fuck it.

He knew better than to get close to those around him. As his bodyguard, Colm accepted the risks involved in protecting him.

He lived in a dangerous world. Threats lingered around every corner. He couldn’t afford to let anyone close. The more people he let close, the more people he had to worry over. To protect. Because danger was a part of his life.

Do not care about her.

“Let’s go home.”

He nodded to his other bodyguard, Cillian, who stood next to the car, before climbing into the backseat. The cold leather seats did nothing to cool the fire in his blood. Years of honed control kept him from showing his turmoil. Two devils sat on his shoulders, fighting for dominance.

Take her home with you. Fuck her. Get her out of your system.

Bad idea. You cannot get involved. You’ve done your part. It’s time to wipe your hands of her.

He’d never experienced domestic bliss. Any woman who got involved with him would forever be at risk. His one real attempt at a relationship had been a disaster.

Shaking his head, he tried to remove Victoria from his mind. The Vicious Viper as his cousin Aedan had nicknamed her.

Silence filled the car as they sped through the streets of San Antonio.

“Fuck!” Cillian swore, looking in the rearview mirror. “I wasn’t speeding, Boss.”

Rogan glanced behind him. “They were probably lying in wait for us. Pull over.” He grabbed his phone and sent off a quick text.

Cillian pulled over and Rogan waited. This shit was getting old. He pinched the top of his nose. He was getting too old for this…at thirty-three.

As the officer approached, Cillian wound down the window.

“What’s the problem, Detective?” he asked.

“You ran a stop sign. License and registration.”

Rogan rolled his window down. “There must be very little going on in the city if the police department is putting their best detective on traffic duty.”

Detective Maran glared at him as Cillian handed over the paperwork.

“I trust everything is in order.” Rogan smirked up at the man.

Maran sniffed a few times. “Smells like pot in here. I’m going to need you all to step out so I can frisk you.”

Rogan stiffened. There were very few people he let touch him. The detective most certainly was not one.

“So you can plant evidence and arrest us?” Colm drawled from the front passenger seat.

Maran puffed up like a rooster. “Are you suggesting I’m corrupt?”

“Not suggesting anything,” Colm replied.

“Detective, you obviously have very little to do at the moment.” Rogan stared at him. “It’s a shame you’re not out there investigating real crimes instead of following me around.”

“I’m going to get something on you one day, MacGuire, and on the day you get what’s coming, I’ll toast your rotting corpse.”

“Think about it a lot, do you? I thought you pulled us over for running a stop sign. I wasn’t aware I murdered anyone.” Rogan felt his temper slipping. It was bad for business to have a detective following him around. Rogan didn’t know why the detective had the hots for him so bad, but he needed to get him off his back.

“Get out of the car. All of you.”

“We’ll have to decline until my lawyer gets here. Luckily, we’re close to his house.”

“Your lawyer? When did you call him? I pulled you for a traffic violation, or have you got something else to confess?”

“If it’s a traffic violation, why do we have to get out of the car?” Colm asked.

Maran scowled at them. “Out now. Before I arrest all of you.”

Rogan nodded at Colm and Cillian. Moving slowly, they climbed from the car. Colm opened Rogan’s door as another car pulled up behind them. Maran stiffened, placing a hand on the weapon strapped into a shoulder holster.

“Easy,” Rogan murmured. “I won’t be happy if you shoot my lawyer.”

Maran rubbed his hand over his face. “Get out of the fucking car.”

“Now, now, Detective. No need to get all riled up.” Fergus Bryson stepped up beside the taller detective.

Maran turned to glare down at the short, rotund man standing next to him. Fergus volunteered to play Santa each year at the local children’s hospital, went to church each Sunday, and was an absolute shark in the courtroom.

“Mr. Bryson,” Detective Maran spat out. “Overkill for a routine traffic stop.”

Fergus shrugged. “I get paid by the hour.”

“And I’m sure this will cost me a pretty penny,” Rogan said dryly, straightening his pants as he stood.

“After hours and short notice.” Fergus grinned. “Now, Detective, what’s the problem here?”

Twenty minutes later, Rogan leaned back against the backseat as they pulled out into traffic. He closed his eyes.

“I need a vacation,” he muttered.

“Boss?” Colm queried.

“Nothing.”

His phone rang and he ignored it. The caller could wait.

“Is Ms. Toresso all right?” Colm asked.

Rogan bit back a growl. Couldn’t the man see he wanted some peace and quiet? But Colm had a huge protective streak when it came to women and he’d seen Miller at her worst—out of her mind while detoxing. Rogan clenched his fists. He would love to kill Iker all over again for holding her against her will and forcing her to take Fizz.

The latest drug on the market looked like candy and fizzed on your tongue. Both the Vipers and the Seven Sinners pushed it for the Fuerte Cartel.

“She’s fine. A lot better. They say she can leave soon.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s good, right?” Colm asked.

“Hmm.” He opened his eyes as they pulled into the driveway, waiting for the electronic gates to open. The large house wasn’t the one he’d grown up in. That house had been too full of memories to keep. Most of them he didn’t care to remember. As he walked inside, his phone rang. Persistent. With a sigh, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

“Hey, Dylan.”

“Rogan. How are you?”

Exhausted. Indifferent. Horny.

He moved into the study and sat behind his large, oak desk. “Fine. How is Tilly?”

“She’s great. We’re in Waco at the moment.”

Rogan settled back and half listened. His rather apathetic attitude should have alarmed him, but he couldn’t work up interest in anything.

Except Miller.

Around her, he fired up, he felt alive.

“So you’ve been to see Miller? Rogan?” There was a long pause. “Are you still there?”

Rogan started. Christ, he had to be better than this. “Yeah, I’ve just been at the rehab center. Her doctor and therapist are happy with her progress. They’re releasing her next week, provided she has someone to stay with.”

I could look after her.

No way. Having Miller in his life presented a huge complication he didn’t need. Not to mention the danger she’d be in being around him.

“Great. We’ll be headed back to Austin next week. We’ll pick her up.”

None of your business. Don’t get involved.

“She wants to stay here. In San Antonio.” Damn it. So much for keeping some distance.

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“She doesn’t want to stay with us?” Dylan asked in a quiet voice.

Christ, why get involved? He had his own shit to deal with. Closing his eyes, he saw a pair of warm-brown eyes staring up at him, shimmering with tears.

“She thinks she would cramp your style. You’ve started a new job, you’re planning a wedding, and Miller doesn’t see where she would fit in.”

He could relate. Kinky sex life aside, Dylan and Tilly shared a normal life. They’d get married, have kids, and live in the suburbs. Go to PTA meetings and dance recitals.

Live happily ever after.

Not a life he’d ever lead and, right now, not something Miller could relate to either. Dylan was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed.

“Damn, Tilly’s going to be upset.”

And Dylan made it his life’s work to make Tilly happy.

“What is she planning on doing, then?” Dylan asked with concern.

Fuck it.

“She’s going to live with me.”

 

***

             

Were there cameras in the room, watching her? Probably. Did she care?

Damn it. Yes, she did. Her body might be on fire, but she would not give whoever watched the camera feed an X-rated experience by bringing herself to orgasm. The lack of privacy in the rehab center was getting to her. She felt like a bug under a microscope. A prisoner.

A nice prison. In fact, the nicest place she’d ever stayed. Her grandmother’s house had been sparse. Her grandmother hadn’t believed in life’s little comforts. Like air conditioning or heating. Her view had been that suffering would save your soul.

Her soul had entered dangerous territory a long time ago. She’d placed her best friend in danger. An unforgiveable act. Even if she hadn’t meant to.

“I had the best intentions,” she muttered. What had she been thinking?

She’d been thinking that she could discover who had murdered her mother.

When Miller was seven, her mother had abandoned her. Less than two years later she’d been dead. Miller’s grandmother had hidden the truth about her death. It wasn’t until her grandmother died and Miller was clearing out her stuff that she’d discovered a newspaper article about her mother’s death.

Her murder.

Burning with unanswered questions, Miller had waited impatiently for her father to turn up on her doorstep. She knew he’d turn up eventually. Like a boomerang, she could throw him out, but eventually he always found her. Her father had never worked an honest job in his life. Whatever money he made was on the wrong side of the law and he burned through it. When he found himself broke, he came to her begging.

This time, though, she’d been happy to see him. She’d poured him a few whiskies then interrogated him about where her mother had gone after abandoning her.

According to her father, her mother had moved in with the leader of the Vipers. Iker Florez. A few months later, she’d been murdered. Her killer never found.

The unanswered questions ate away at her.

So she’d made the stupidest mistake of her life.

She’d decided she had to know who killed her mother and set out to talk to the people she’d last been close to.

Specifically, Iker Florez.

Evil. Dangerous man.

She’d thought herself street-smart— thought she could protect herself.

How wrong she’d been.

Worse, she’d managed to drag other people into her mess. Tilly. Her one friend.

Miller’s father had even provided her with a little nugget of information she’d thought to use to gain Florez’s trust.

Her father had been working with Javier Cabeza, Tilly’s ex. They’d been middlemen between a cartel and the Vipers, supplying drugs. Cabeza had been skimming money off the top.

When she’d told Iker that Javier had been stealing from him, she’d expected him to be grateful. But she hadn’t thought things through to what he would do with that bit of information. He’d gone after Javier, who had been in jail at the time, killing Javier when he confessed what he’d done with their money.

Javier had swapped out a fake stone on one of Tilly’s rings with a real one. Using the gang’s money.

Inadvertently, Miller had put Tilly right in the line of fire.

And she hadn’t done a thing to earn the gang’s trust. Instead, they’d held her against her will, pumped her fill of Fizz, and used her as bait to lure Rogan to his death.

Tilly and Rogan had survived unscathed.

But she would never forgive herself.

“I’m a naïve, stupid idiot.” She’d talked this all out with her therapist. There wasn’t a thought in her head her therapist didn’t push her to examine, to overthink, and work through.

She was so tired of thinking.

She wanted a moment where she didn’t have to think.

She craved oblivion.

Just one pill wouldn’t hurt surely. It would give her a few moments of peace.

Was that too much to ask?

Miller took a deep breath. No. She didn’t need oblivion. Think about something else. Go to your happy place.

Rogan.

Uh-uh. He couldn’t be her happy place. She could not rely on him.

But, damn, she wanted him.

Every time he visited, he left her in this state. Hot. Needy. Imagining things she could never have.

Rogan kissing her. Touching her, tasting her, licking her all over. Her hard nipples begged to be kissed, her clit throbbed as she imagined his tongue lapping at it.…crap, this was not helping her get to sleep.

Not like she slept much nowadays, anyway. When she slept, the nightmares visited.

With a groan, she rolled onto her side. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She punched her pillow as she clenched her thighs together to try and ease the throbbing in her pussy.

“He’s probably crap in bed anyway,” she whispered. Another crazy talking to herself.

When he entered a room, he took command of it. Something about him drew her attention. And not just because he was sexy as sin or had a dark, dangerous vibe. But something about him screamed strength, loyalty.

See? She was crazy. Delusional. Why was she attracted to someone bad for her? Why couldn’t she be attracted to someone easy? Someone normal. Someone boring.

No, not boring. Safe.

Safe is boring.

Okay, these voices in her head had to shut up. Now.

Before she did go insane.