I don’t think Riker actually knows what a date really is.

And I might almost be offended, if I wasn’t having so much fun.

Riker wouldn’t tell me what he had planned for our time out. Not for the rest of the weekend at Milah’s, and not for the entirely weird, surreal drive back home in an actual armored truck convoy with every member of Enguard armed to the teeth, geared up in flak jackets, and on constant alert.

That night, when Riker told me he’d found the perfect place where he was absolutely certain he could keep me safe, I didn’t know what he meant. And that man keeps secrets like a vault – just a long, knowing look and an enigmatic smile and not a word.

Even on the drive here today, when I was poking his arm and pinching his sleeve, he was dressed for a date.

A crisp, expensive pinstriped linen button-down and these slacks that do things to his angular hips that make me bite my lip. He just grinned like the cat that got the cream, telling me to be patient and stop being a brat, I’d know soon enough.

If any other man called me a brat, I’d be hurt or angry.

But Riker...Riker says it with a sweetness that says he knows damn well I’m poking him for attention, and he’s okay with it. Because he knows it’s just us being playful and warm, and there’s nothing bratty about wanting to tease the man you like.

Like?

Is that all this is, just like?

I’m still wondering that when Riker pulls up outside a long, flat concrete building, nondescript gray with a fenced-in field beyond, divided into lanes and with...targets on the far end?

I blink, tilting my head, peering at the sign over the glass double doors before sucking in a breath.

“A firing range?” I ask, staring at him wide-eyed.

“A firing range,” he says. “I teach here on weekends sometimes, and do firearms certifications. Since you’re so interested in learning to take care of yourself, I thought you should learn how to handle a gun.”

I bounce in my seat, clapping my hands together. “You mean I get a gun of my own? I like the one James has. It’s really sleek and stylish.”

“Uh.” Riker actually recoils, staring at me, his eyes wide. “Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“Because you like the sound of it too much!” he splutters, half-laughing, yet his eyes are almost horrified. “Look at you, woman. Your eyes are practically glowing. Had no idea you were such a violent little beast, Liv.”

“I’m not violent! I just don’t like being defenseless!” And if I'm being honest, being able to do something so serious for myself like learn to shoot excites me to no end. I cross my arms over my chest and stick my tongue out at him. “Look, if someone shoots at me, I want to be able to shoot back.”

I’m practically vibrating, but he stills me with a single touch, his fingers clasping my chin gently and holding me in place. He looks down with that combined sternness and warmth that makes me want to melt for him and go completely belly-up submissive, weak to his every touch.

“The first goal when someone's shooting at you,” he says, “isn’t to shoot back. It’s to get the fuck out of the line of fire and to safety as quick as possible.” His thumb traces my lower lip, tingling my skin. “You deserve a chance to defend yourself if you need to. Let's be clear. I’m not training you to be a vigilante assassin.”

I lean into him, smiling slyly, and flick my tongue out against his thumb, tasting the masculine salt of his skin. “I’d make a really cute vigilante assassin, though.”

Heat kindles in his eyes, and his gaze dips down.

Right over the filmy, breezy, little babydoll dress I’d picked out when I’d thought we were going to dinner or a park or some other typical date night thing.

I can feel his eyes touching me, everywhere the dress clings, where my breasts rise against the lace edging the somewhat modest bodice, and where the hem rides up my bare thighs.

He’s raspy and heavy when he murmurs, “Don’t know where you’d hide a gun in there. But I'd find it, sweets.”

Holy hell. When he looks at me like that, my body burns, and I want to climb right in his lap.

I unbuckle my seatbelt, just so I can reach to brush my lips across his. “I could give you a few hints.”

But Riker doesn’t need me to give him any ideas.

Not the moment our lips touch and he takes my mouth with a growl, kissing me deep and rough, the hard, plunging rhythm echoing throughout my entire sore, throbbing body with the memory of what he does to me at night.

I’ve never known I could feel this way. This glowing, sated fullness. Like every part of me has come alive and I burn with this wonderful pulse centered between my thighs as his kiss leaves my mouth hot and swollen and wet.

He draws back only when we’re both panting, his fingers tangling a rough handful of my hair, his beard tickling my mouth as we rest brow to brow.

“Fuck, the things you do to me,” he rumbles.

“Good things?” I whisper, curling my hand against his chest. His heat bakes through the shirt, and I can’t help fingering the top button, the hint of thick, dark ink peeking past.

“Very bad things.” His fingers slip down, tracing my shoulder, coaxing sweet shivers in his wake. “Absolutely filthy things. Things I can’t do to you in the parking lot of a gun range without us getting arrested.”

“Then...” I lean into him a bit more, molding my body to his just because I love the way his eyes darken when I tease him, and they’re nearly black as I brush my mouth across his. “Maybe you should hurry up and teach me how to handle your gun so we can get home.”

Before he can take hold of me again, I unlatch the car door and slide out, dancing out of his reach and tossing a grin over my shoulder as he growls after me in warning, in amusement, in desire.

He plays at being so gruff, but really he’s so complex and subtle and nuanced. What seems like nothing on the surface can convey so many things with this man.

I love that he’s starting to let me see more layers, starting to let me understand him.

And I love that he cares enough about me striking out to find my independence to help me with that.

I want to stand on my own two feet. But there’s nothing wrong with some training wheels while I figure out how not to fall on my face, and Riker’s more than just training wheels.

He’s everything, in ways I don’t know how to define.

Plus?

This is going to be so great for my book.

He takes the lead as he steps inside the main building, and he spends a little time chatting with the man behind the counter, a guy named Brandon who Riker obviously has history with. It’s good to see him with people he’s friendly with in an environment he’s comfortable in.

Him and Brandon clasp hands, speaking with familiarity, chuckling as they talk over next month’s class schedule and certification tests. Then Riker gestures to me, beckoning me forward and directing Brandon’s attention toward me.

“Brandon, this is Liv,” he says, and only hesitates a half-second before finishing, “my fiancée.”

Brandon’s eyes bug out.

He’s older than Riker by about a decade, yet he’s fresh-faced and friendly with bright, warm blue eyes. Those eyes grow even brighter as he blinks at me, then grins.

“It’s sure nice to meet you,” he says, taking my outstretched hand and shaking firmly. He’s got a bit of a southern drawl, kind of like Enguard's resident giant, Gabe. “You getting on with Em?”

I’m surprised by the bluntness of the question. For a moment, I blink, faltering, before catching myself.

“Uh, I think you’d probably better ask her that,” I say, offering a rueful smile. “I love her to death, but she’s the only one who can tell you if she likes me. I just think she’s amazing.”

Brandon arches a brow, glancing at Riker with a knowing smile. “Damn, man. You really know how to find the smart chicks. But I didn’t even know you were dating anyone! Where you been hiding her?”

A chill runs up my spine. A question more literal than Brandon even knows.

Riker’s looking at me strangely, though. Not bothered by it. More like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I can’t quite read that look before he’s all easy warmth again as he lightly socks Brandon’s shoulder. “We kept things secret for a while. That's all. Until we were sure we were serious enough to tell Em. Didn’t want to disrupt things for her too much.”

“Makes sense, makes sense,” Brandon says. “So when’s the wedding?”

We both freeze. I nearly choke.

Riker and I exchange stiff, wide-eyed looks that basically say oh crap without saying a word. We’re so stupid. So oblivious.

How could we have planned out this whole cover story and not covered details like that?

Well...let’s be real.

We never expected this to be anything but me holed up in a room in Riker’s house. Never thought we’d have to explain anything to anyone besides a few nosy neighbors.

Riker’s as quick in his thinking as he is on his feet, though, and he recovers with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Haven’t decided on a date yet. I’m still trying to find her the perfect engagement ring, and then we’ll talk about planning the perfect wedding.”

“Don’t sleep on that too long, man.” Brandon claps Riker’s shoulder companionably, accepting the explanation easily, and I let out the breath currently making my lungs tight as a vise. “You don’t hold onto a girl like that with everything in you, she’ll slip away. C’mon, Liv. I’ll get you set up with the right safety gear, and then old Riker can give you your walkthrough.”

Slip away, huh?

It makes me wonder.

Even if we both said this could be more...how real is it, when we still have to lie like this to people every day?

But I keep my thoughts to myself as Brandon leads us into the back where there’s an indoor range with walled off booths and paper targets with human silhouettes printed on them.

It’s exciting when I’m fitted with a little pair of clear glasses and a pair of noise-canceling headphones. There’s a smell in the air, sharp and burning and dry, that I think I recognize as gunpowder.

Shots go off in the lanes to either side of us, rhythmic and confident.

Brandon tells me I need the gear because gunshots don’t sound the way they do on TV. Up close they can deafen you, and even do serious damage to your hearing over time – and if you’re really trying to aim, you’re going to be holding the gun up close instead of flailing it around at the end of your arm like actors who’ve never handled a real gun in their lives.

“Watch out for the recoil,” he says with an almost sly grin as he turns to leave. I look after him in puzzlement.

“Recoil?”

“You’ll see,” Riker says. “I’ll make sure you won’t fall, but you’ll likely be sore once we’re done.”

I arch a brow at him. “You do remember we’re in a public place when you say things like that, right?”

Riker just grins – quick and unexpected. So feral and wolfish it sends chills right through me, then the most delicious feeling in the pit of my stomach. I keep discovering new sides to him, peeling away all these layers of protection to find the man underneath, and if I’m not careful...it'll happen.

I’m going to fall in love.

He distracts me with a warm hand on the small of my back, guiding me to look over several guns laid out on the shelf in front of us with a view beyond, out over the gallery.

I have no idea what I’m looking at, only that all the guns look a little different.

He points to each one in turn. “Glock 19. Ruger SR9. Sig P226. Beretta 92FS. What these all have in common is, they’re all nine millimeters. You know what that means?”

“Um...no idea, really.”

“That’s the size of the bullet. There're different standards for measuring bullet caliber, but we’ll stick with nine millimeters because they’re the most common and popular right now. Most military and police handguns use nine millimeter bullets, and most self-defense and street weapons do, too.”

I tilt my head back, looking up at him. He’s wearing safety glasses, too, and we both have our noise-canceling headphones around our necks. “So everyone who makes guns makes them for the same bullet size?”

“Yes. You’re not going to win any customers by locking them into your proprietary ammo. They need versatility, choice, and easy access. Now, which one do you want to try first?”

“That one!” I say, pointing at a sleeker, smaller one in silver and black. The others are all these long, intimidating black things that are all barrel, but this one’s more hilt and just looks more compact and tidy.

Riker gives me a penetrating look. “Why that one?”

“Well…I recognize it. It looks just like James’. And I think...” I twine my fingers together, biting my lip. I don’t want to give a stupid answer but I’m trying to be practical. “It’s smaller than the others, isn't it? I have smaller hands. I want to be able to keep a good grip on it when it fires, right? Or I could endanger myself or someone else. It’ll be easier to hold a smaller gun.”

Riker’s slow smile warms with approval. “Good answer.”

He picks up the gun I chose and turns it over, showing it to me. “This is the Ruger. It’s very lightweight, with a semiautomatic firing function. Means it's a good civilian gun because you have two safeties to deal with before you can fire, instead of just one. Harder to have a mishap that way.”

Then he does something to the hilt, and I gasp as the entire inside of it slides out.

“Oh!”

“Here's the clip,” he says, and turns it so I can see the bullet resting in the very top. “It’s also called a magazine. Rugers use a double-stacked type, so you can fit seventeen bullets in a single clip. If you run out of bullets, you just release the clip, slide it out, and lock a full one in.” He shows me by pushing the clip back in until there’s a click. “Clips can be reloaded with fresh bullets, but if you’re in a situation where you need to fire seventeen bullets, you don’t have time to refill a magazine. Better to have a spare.”

A chill tightens my skin. “I don’t want to be in a situation where I even have to fire one bullet. I just want to know what to do in case I have to.”

“That’s my girl.” I don’t expect him to ruffle my hair and kiss the top of my head the way he does, but it chases that chill away, leaving his soft, slow spreading warmth. “In an ideal world, guns would be nothing but deterrents. But since people will never be angels...let’s teach you how to shoot. Here.”

Then his arms are around me and I suck in a startled breath.

He’s just full of surprises today. Because I also wasn’t expecting to be wrapped up so suddenly in his strength and heat, pressing against my back, fully enveloping me.

I lean into him while he strokes his hands down my arms, leaving feather-fine trails of sensations, then clasps my hands and slowly fits the gun into them both.

I expect something heavy and metallic, but instead the handle feels like plastic or some other kind of resin, and it’s surprisingly light. Gentle fingers guide me, showing me how to hold it in both hands, folding one hand over the other, then nudging my index forefinger on my right hand to rest outside the loop thing in front of the trigger.

Loop thing? The trigger guard? Even if I was sure, it’s hard to remember words right now when his hot breaths wash through my hair, trickling down my skin to find the throbbing mark hidden under my hair. The same place where, last night, he’d held me down on my hands and knees and taken me like some kind of wild animal with his teeth buried against the nape of my neck.

“Keep it pointed away from us,” he tells me, angling our joined grips away and down, toward the floor.

His voice is deep in my ear, and I’m all shivers everywhere, sweet hot points all over my body pricking and pulsing. “Get used to how it feels. The safety’s on, so you can’t fire. But you should make it a habit to keep your finger outside the trigger guard. Only touch the trigger when you’re sure you’re ready to fire.”

I take a shaky breath and just tighten my grip, running my thumb over the back end of the gun, then the side. “There are a lot of little buttons and switches.”

“You’ll get used to where they are and what they do. The switches right above where your grip is seated on both sides are the manual safeties. They’re on both sides in case you’re a leftie, but you only have to release one. They keep it locked so you can’t pull the trigger. You have to push up.” He chuckles gently. “Don’t push it up now, sweetheart. Your hands are shaking. Please don’t accidentally shoot me in the foot.”

“I won’t!”

I might.

“I almost believe you.” His fingers stroke over the backs of mine in electric caresses. “The button closer to the trigger is the mag release, so you can eject a clip and snap a new one in. The rubber knob on the very back tells you whether or not the gun’s cocked with a round in the chamber. The extra lever in front of the trigger is the other safety, so it’s harder to squeeze the trigger by accident. Next up, breathing. Short, simple breaths. Inhale before you aim, lungs nice and full. Find your target. Then exhale, natural and calm. You want your lungs near empty before you pull the trigger.” He turns his head, beard dragging down my throat, and my knees nearly buckle. “Got it?”

“N-not really, but I’m willing to give it a try.” I turn my head.

Like this, our lips are almost touching. It’s like our breaths are kissing.

Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about this when I have a weapon capable of killing both of us clutched in a death grip in both hands. “Show me?”

“Yeah. You won’t be able to hear me. Just follow my touch.”

I don’t quite get what he means until he pulls one hand away from mine and gently tugs my noise-canceling earmuffs up over my ears. Then all the sounds around me go muted behind a distant blanket of quiet.

He tugs his up, too. Even though I can’t tell what he’s saying, he’s still talking, his voice a low, soothing rumble that tells me it'll be okay. I can do this.

He clasps my hands in his again and guides my arms up to take aim at the target. His fingers tease at mine, showing them how to move. How to push the safety up. How to fit my forefinger against the trigger. And then a slow, careful squeeze.

Crack!

It goes off deafeningly loud even through the earmuffs.

The gun flings me backward, force reverberating up my arm until it’s shaking like a plucked guitar string.

I’d probably have fallen over, but instead I just rocket against Riker. His solid bulk catches me before I can shift more than an inch. Safe in his arms, my own still quivering, my hands feeling hot and tingly and weirdly numb, I stare at the hole punched in the black paper silhouette, my entire body crackling like a live wire.

“Holy crap,” I gasp. “Holy shit! That was so cool. So cool! I was like Uhura with a phaser.”

Riker gently takes the gun from my hand and sets it down, then tugs his earmuffs down around his neck before tugging mine down, too, looking down at me with an amused smile. “No clue what you just said, sweetheart, but I take it you enjoyed yourself.”

“Yes!” I bounce on the balls of my feet. “I wasn’t expecting it to throw me around like that.”

“That’s the recoil I was telling you about.” He gently brushes my messy hair back. “A bullet can travel at over one thousand, seven hundred miles per hour. That’s over two thousand, five hundred feet per second. The force it takes to push that shot forward that fast is going to push the other way, back at you, too.”

“Newton’s third law? For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.” When he lifts both brows, I grin. “Oh, c’mon. I’m sheltered, but I’m smart. I took physics.”

“You are.” He chuckles and tugs a strand of my hair. “You want to try on your own or are your hands too numb? The shock can take a little getting used to.”

I probably sound way too eager when I gasp, “I want to try!”

“Let me show you how to aim.” He picks up one of the other guns – the Glock, I think he called it – and shifts to take up a stance in front of the target, feet spread and braced confidently, arms raised level with his shoulder.

“You sight down your dominant arm. We’re both right-handed, so sight down your right and angle your body accordingly. Using the trigger sight on the tip helps, but it’s your arm that'll guide you true. The left arm helps brace and hold your aim steady.” He lets go of the gun with one hand to pull the earmuffs up again, and nods toward me. “Ears up.”

I tug mine up quickly, muffling the world again, but I still hear the sharp sound of the safety flicking off.

Then there's nine rounds firing, booming so fast I can barely hear a pause between one shot and the next.

Riker's green eyes flash like a tiger's, stone-steady and ice-cold as he fires with perfect precision. Every bullet rips through the paper right over the target’s heart, making a cluster of holes that nearly shred it to pieces like someone punched a fist right through it.

Part of me can’t help how it makes me burn, to see Riker looking so formidable, so self-assured, this lethal beast-man protector who’s so strong and capable with such a dangerous weapon.

But the other part of me feels the sound of every gunshot shocking the pit of my stomach, and suddenly there’s a man I don’t know in front of me, his body exploding in red, his eyes blank and accusing as he collapses to the sidewalk at my feet and men with murder in their eyes aim their guns at me.

Cruel memory.

Gasping, I turn away from Riker and cover my ears. My heart beats wild, but cold and heavy, and I just want that awful sight to go away, to stop ruining my time with Riker.

But I still smell gunpowder and that makes me smell blood and I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

“—iv? Liv.”

I don’t realize Riker’s muffled voice calls my name until he’s pulled my earmuffs off and he’s wrapped around me again, pulling me against his chest and reminding me where I am, what’s real. He was right – I couldn’t be any safer than here.

Only here isn’t the gun range.

It’s in his arms.

I bury my face in his chest, huddling against him, trying to just even out my breaths. He holds me fiercely close, burying his face in my hair.

“What’s wrong?” he asks raggedly. “Talk to me. You okay?”

“I will be.” I curl up tight handfuls of his shirt, clinging, breathing in his scent and letting it chase away the smell of blood. “It's just, for a second, the gunshots...the smell...I was back there. Back in Seattle. When that man got killed.”

“Oh, sweetheart. Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think –”

“It’s okay!” I assure him quickly. “It is. I want this. I want to learn, and it’s a really good idea. I just wasn’t expecting I’d freakout, I’d –”

“Be human?” he finishes gently. “Trauma responses are normal, Liv. Especially when you aren’t trained for something like this. Sometimes things will trigger you, and it’s okay to need the people you care about to help you feel safe.”

Is that your way of saying you really care about me? I wonder. I’m not brave enough to ask.

Instead, I rest my cheek over his beating heart and whisper, “How'd you get to be so good with guns?”

“Lifetime of use,” he answers. “Sniper training, for one. Went through U.S. Army Sniper School and everything.”

“You’re military like Mr. Strauss and Mr. Barin?”

“Ex-military...and a generation before them.” There’s warmth in his voice, but also old pain, old bitterness, and as much as I hate that remembering hurts him, I’m grateful he’s willing to show those things to me instead of locking them down.

“They’re Afghanistan babies. I was deployed to Iraq the first time around.” He stops then, and I think he won’t say anything else until he continues, more quiet and strained, “Cover ops. Sniper missions, dark runs in Kuwait, you name it. Me and my team went in fast, went in dirty, got out.” His voice breaks.

Subtle, but it's there. “We did our jobs. But we always left a mess behind for someone else to clean up. Broken worlds. Shattered lives. All fucked up.”

I tilt my head back to look up at him. He’s looking somewhere over my head.

His gaze is trained toward the target but I think he’s seeing somewhere much farther away, maybe even somewhere that’s gone now except in his mind. I reach up to brush my fingertips to his cheek, softly asking him to come back to now, to the real world, to me.

“You don’t like remembering it, do you?” I ask.

“No.” His eyes clear and focus, turning down to me, and he catches my hand and presses a raspy kiss of stroking beard and softer lips to the center of my palm. “Don’t like remembering what it made me.”

“A kind man? A loving father? A dedicated, honorable protector?”

His eyes widen slightly. “Is that what you see?”

“You know I do, Riker. Who do you think you are?”

“Someone who used to be very dangerous,” he says bitterly. “Who might still be very dangerous. Who might kill a man like it's nothing, if there's a damn good reason.”

“Do you think Em sees you that way? Dangerous?”

He sets his jaw and looks away from me. “No. I've always shielded her.”

“Then how could you be?”

He looks almost confused as his gaze jerks back, searching me as if looking for the answer to that question inside me, instead of inside himself. “I don’t understand how you can have such faith in me.”

I smile and stretch up on my toes to steal a chaste, sweet kiss, murmuring against his lips. “I don’t understand how you can’t.”

“Liv.” For all the harshness of his self-recriminating words, his mouth is gentle on mine. When he pulls back, he asks, “Are you feeling better?”

I nod and give him my best smile. “Yeah. I think I’m ready to try on my own.” And it’s true. I had my moment, but that just means more than ever I want to learn how to defend myself so no one can ever make me feel that powerless again. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore, Riker.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says as he picks up the Ruger and presses it once more into my hand. “Not while you're mine.”

I think I just might have an author in me after all.

I just needed a little inspiration – and Riker seems perfectly happy to give me plenty every night, so that every morning for the past couple of weeks, I wake up sore as hell.

Walking on air.

Ready to whip up breakfast before waving him and Em off to work and school so I can settle on the couch with my notebook and write. At this rate, I’ll have this book completely drafted within a week, if I can just make up my mind on the ending.

I feel like I’m leaning toward that last-minute Hail Mary play for a bit of tension and then a happy ending, but I can’t deny it’s my own mood making me feel that way. I guess when I was miserable and sad I was more into the idea of tragic heroines, but with the tension gone between us, and me slipping into his bedroom every night after Em’s asleep...the giddy, lovesick fool in me wants that 'love against all odds' ending, even if it might turn out a bit cheesy.

I mean, there are lots of people who like cheesy endings. Romance too perfect for this world. All that matters is if it makes them feel good, right?

I won’t lie: I’m hoping for a happy ending that makes me feel good.

After all these weeks of playing house, pretend engaged, to the point where I’m even helping Riker pick out a long-promised Russian blue kitten for Em after a lot of hinting and outright pouting...

I want to play house for real.

More, I want to settle down into a life like this. No, not a life like this.

Just this.

This is the life I want.

It’s perfect. So perfect, it feels like every day just squeezes my heart tighter, and I don’t know how to let it go. Yet it might end up breaking. Scattering apart any day now.

Because the longer this stretches on, the more chance there is of Mr. Strauss at Enguard finding out we’re doing more than practicing self-defense behind Riker’s closed doors.

And I don’t know what I'll do if I’m the reason Riker loses his job for unprofessional conduct.

He’s too proud a man to ever let me help him in that case, or help financially.

Besides, Daddy’s money feels too dirty.

But I already owe Riker so much. My little notepad is filled with pages of scribbled numbers, from grocery estimates to every last ice cream trip to the nice dinner he took me to last night at a secluded little oceanside seafood shack, intimate and soft-lit and far enough out of the way that there was little chance of anyone dangerous recognizing me.

Crap. I’ve stopped writing.

I’ve been sitting here staring at my page for hours, halted mid-sentence while I chew on my pen and wander off into thoughts of what life could be like with Riker a year, two years, ten years down the road. I take the pen out of my mouth and press the tip to the page.

Right. Back to work. Back to –

A knock rattles the door. I freeze. Even after weeks of relative safety, I can’t help how my pulse skips and lurches.

I’m here alone.

Yeah, thanks to Em’s classes, I can now flip an attacker twice my size over my head, and I know where the gun safe is, the combination, and where the bullets are, and while I can’t hit with any accuracy, I could at least scare someone off. I hope.

But it still makes me nervous, wondering who could be on the other side of that door.

“Probably nothing. Just a package or a friend of Em's or...” I swallow all the mundane possibilities, willing them to be real.

I uncurl myself from the couch and creep closer to the door, bare feet silent. I probably look like a cartoon burglar, all hunched over and tiptoeing, then stretching up to squint one eye at the peephole.

Only to slump against the door in relief.

God. I recognize the woman on the other side, even if only barely. She’s another Enguard employee.

Skylar, I remember. That's her name. Skylar Barin, Gabe's wife.

Yet, I can’t help a nagging worry in the back of my mind, that she’s showing up in the middle of the day.

What if something happened to Riker?

I pull the door open before she can knock again and flash what has to be the most manic smile in the world. “Mrs. Barin! Hi.”

She’s small and stone-faced with a sort of cynical, knowing smile and a perpetually quirked eyebrow that’s pointed at me right now as she looks me over. “Morning, Miss Holly. You can just call me Sky.”

“Oh, then, um, you should just call me Liv.” I’m still smiling like a doll in a wax museum, fixed and frozen and completely uncomfortable with anyone who isn’t Riker or Em. Being a shut-in with the same person for weeks will do that to you. “Something I can do for you? Is Riker okay?”

“Riker’s fine, besides wanting to kill some of our more unreasonable clients and a new hire or two.” She smirks. “Can I come in?”

I flush hot. Where are my manners? I mean, it’s not like this is my house so I’m not exactly stepping into the role as the lady of the house, so I really don’t have any right to –

Okay. Okay, rabbit brain. Stop, calm down, act normal.

I flash another smile, easier this time, and step back. “Sorry, of course. You just startled me, dropping by.”

She steps inside. I recognize the look she slides over the interior. It’s the same as Riker’s look any time we walk into a public space, checking for threats and avenues of escape. But she seems to find the living room safe enough. Sky relaxes subtly, her sun-browned shoulders loosening in her tank top. Her smile is warmer as she plunks herself into the easy chair and tucks her sandy brown, pixie-cut hair behind her ear.

“Sorry for catching you off guard like this. I was just in the neighborhood, running some errands, and wanted to check in with you about your sister.”

I reclaim my spot on the couch, relocating my notebook and pen to the coffee table so I can sit cross-legged with my ankles tucked under me. “My sister? What, Milah?”

“I just wanted to know if there was anything we could do to help.” Sky shrugs. “I know she’s got her own hand-picked security team now, and I think everyone at Enguard would rather drown themselves than be a part of it, but we were still there when that mess went down with her and Crown. We worry about her, and if her team’s taking the right care of her. Sometimes, she seems to forget she’s a target, too.”

“Yeah...she does that.” But even if it’s resigned, I can’t help smiling when I say it because I know my sister drives these people completely crazy, but they still care enough to want her to be okay.

I sigh, tilting my head back against the couch. “Milah and I are only halfway on speaking terms right now, but I think she’s okay. She’s doing some studio recording in L.A. right now and it’s easier for her team to keep an eye on her when she’s either in that recording booth or sound asleep.”

“Good.” Skylar watches me shrewdly. She’s a little scary, hard as nails, a small package of dynamite I don’t want exploding all over me. “Forgive me if I don’t know how to be delicate about this but...how's her health?”

I wince. I know exactly what she's hinting at. Landon must've gotten a full report from James about what went down in Vancouver.

“I don’t think she’s using right now. Even when it was bad, she'd get herself clean for recording sessions because it was hard work and she had to stay focused. Now...now, she’s promised me she’ll reach out if she’s tempted.” I smile faintly. “I’m kind of her accountability buddy. Her good luck charm.”

“Fair. And what about you, Liv? Who’s your good luck charm?”

The question hits me harder than it should, if only because I’ve been brooding so much on how I’m just a token in my father’s life, there for a purpose. And even if she doesn’t mean it that way, even if I know she loves me, Milah uses me the same way.

It’s only when I’m with Riker and Em that I feel real, and know they actually see me as that person until they know her almost better than I do.

And before I can even really think about it, I answer, “Riker.”

Just saying his name sends a flush of warmth through me. “It’s Riker, honestly. I’ve never felt safer since I met him. He’s my luck.”

“Oh,” Skylar says matter-of-factly. “You slept together.”

She could’ve hit me, and it would’ve shocked me less. The breath punches out of me, and I make a weird, wheezing sound, staring at her. “Wh-what? No!”

She snorts, mouth twitching, clearly hiding a laugh. “Don’t ever play poker, dear.”

I bury my face in my palms with a despairing moan. “Oh, God. Riker’s going to be in so much trouble. How did you know?”

“It’s not really your fault.” She chuckles. “James just isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is when he starts needling at Riker just to make him sulk. Or maybe I’ve just known them long enough to be able to read them.”

James. Oh, damn it.

I’d almost forgotten...James has this weird thing he does where he kind of vanishes in the background so you almost forget he’s there, observing everything, thinking, noticing things you might not want him to notice.

He’s almost a little creepy, but in that reassuring way that makes you glad someone like him is on your side.

Right now, though, I’m not particularly happy that he was apparently observant enough over that weekend to suss us out.

As if we weren’t being completely obvious anyway.

I rub my hands over my face, then peek at Skylar over my fingers. “Be real – how much trouble are we in?”

“None.” Those sharp eyes skewer me, but her voice isn’t unkind. “Landon’s so wrapped up in Kenna that he hasn’t even noticed. I doubt he’ll figure it out if we don’t tell him. I don’t have any intention of telling him.” She arches a brow. “Do you?”

“No. Certainly not.” I shake my head, blinking confusion. “But...if you aren’t going to tell on us, then why did you ask?”

“I just wanted to see how you’d react.” Skylar’s grin is practically wicked. “Riker’s kind of like a big brother to me. I just wanted to have a real conversation with you, since he’s so upside down over you. Plus, it's good if someone in Enguard knows this is going on. Someone you both can trust.”

My heart does that delicious clenching thing that happens every time Riker so much as looks at me. “Upside down? Him? Over me?”

“Are you kidding? Who else? He’s spacing out at work constantly, dropping things, and he looks like he’s ready to murder someone if your name comes up just when we’re discussing the case.”

“Oh.” I shouldn’t be so euphoric, but God, I can't lie.

I’m so thoroughly, madly, stupidly in love.

I curl my hand against my chest, trying – and failing – to suppress my smile. “Sorry if I’m causing problems at work.”

“We’ll manage.” She stands, leaning over to gently grip and squeeze my shoulder. “I’m sure the two of you will manage, too. But I’ve got to get back to the office.” With a jaunty little backward wave, Skylar turns and saunters toward the door. “Later, Liv. Thanks for your honesty. Hope to be seeing more of you around.”

She lets herself out, leaving me there on the couch, hugging my arms to myself and feeling oddly warm.

I feel like I passed some kind of test. Some weird initiation rite.

It’s nice to know the people who care about Riker don’t hate me and don’t think I’m bad for him.

It's nicer knowing this thing between us isn't going to cost him his career.

It’s in that sort of dreamlike cloud where – I won’t lie, I’m thinking a little too much about happily ever afters – that I lock up the house, then slip upstairs to curl up in Riker’s bed.

Even when he’s not there, it’s comforting. The bed smells like him. It smells like us.

Even though I just washed the sheets this morning, there’s still a lingering warmth that reminds me of the way we smell together when we’re lying there, damp and overheated and catching our breath, and it’s quiet and wonderful and the only sounds between us are two beating hearts.

I drift off thinking about that, slipping into a deep and quiet sleep.

Only to snap awake, my gut tightening, the sound of a footstep creaking on a loose board in the hall.

Riker never steps on that board.

He knows where it is and navigates around it without ever thinking. So does Em. I’m the only one who ever trips it.

Someone else is in the house. A stranger.

I push myself up carefully, just as the bedroom door opens.

For half a second, I'm staring at a pair of cold, glittering dark eyes in a ski mask. I can’t see his face, but I’ll never forget those eyes.

I’ll never forget the look of cold malice and triumph in them, or the dark and murderous intent.

My mind flashes through a million things in half a second: bone-chilling fear, the box of 9mm bullets in the bedroom closet, the gun safe under the bed, the passcode, whether I can get to it before he does anything, whether I'd survive a fall out the second-floor window to escape.

Then he lunges.

And all thought disappears as I give in to an animal instinct and bolt.

He comes at me from one side of the bed, and I tumble off the other, darting for the door.

I'm almost free, so close to free – but a hand snares my hair.

Scalp on fire, neck whiplashed, he jerks me back into him.

I start to scream, calling for help.

His hand clamps over my mouth with something soft clutched between us, almost forcing it into my open mouth, silencing me. It smells noxious and chemical, and suddenly my brain is floating.

My body ignites in fear, nerves prickling everywhere, knees wobbly and weak, fingers twitching, but my mind lifts away, leaving me there, alone.

So alone, terrified, and sinking.

Lost in a darkness I don’t expect to wake from.