Em calls my talent for sensing danger from afar my “Spidey senses.”

Well, right now, my Spidey senses are tingling on high alert, even before I take the last turn to my house and see the black car parked at the end of the block.

I know every car on my street, and this one doesn’t belong to any of my neighbors.

Sure, it could be a visitor, but something about the ominous, imposing presence it makes crouched there like some hulking black beetle tells me that car is trouble.

I don't care if it isn't in front of my house. It has something to do with me.

And something to do with Liv.

“Daddy?” Em says from the passenger seat, looking up from her book. “What’s wrong?”

“Not sure, baby,” I murmur. “But I’m going to need you to stay with Mrs. Baum for a little bit. Just until I check the house, okay?”

Mrs. Baum is in her garden, her house bumped up to ours.

As I pull up outside her fence, she looks up with a smile and a wave, her blue-washed curls matted with sweat. “Riker,” she calls cheerfully as we slip out of the car. “Hello! How are you? I’ve hardly seen you since that girlfriend of yours moved in.” Her eyes twinkle. “I miss being in love like that.”

Any other time, I might've spluttered and protested, but right now, there's just my inner darkness.

It slips over me like an oily second skin, into mission mode. I guide Em forward with a hand against her back, offering Mrs. Baum a forced smile.

“You’ll have to come by for dinner to meet her some time,” I say. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Em for a few minutes? I forgot something important at the office.”

Mrs. Baum blinks, then smiles indulgently.

“Of course, dearies!” She beckons to Em. “This way, darling. You’re in luck. I’ve just finished a batch of those cookies you love so much.”

Em perks. “Cinnamon swirl?”

But as they head up the walk, Em glances back, giving me a heavy look that says she’s still worried about me.

Fuck.

She’s worried, she loves me, she trusts me, and she needs me to be careful.

I will, sweetheart, I telegraph silently.

I wait until they disappear into the house before I text our preset code for this – 11324 – to Landon.

He knows that means there’s trouble at my place, and it involves Liv. We use numeric codes on different cases when there’s no time to explain and we need to mobilize a specific response.

There’s no time for a briefing or a breakdown. Not when I need to check on Liv.

I put my phone away and slip off, rounding the other side of my house to the back fence. Mrs. Baum will be too busy feeding Em enough sugar to keep her up all night to notice my car’s still parked outside when I was supposed to be going back to the office.

Carefully, I ease my back gate open without the slightest creak, then creep up to the back door and look through the glass insets.

I can only see the kitchen and a glimpse of the living room.

No sign of Liv.

Yet, when I hear a muffled squeal and a thump from upstairs...

My blood runs cold, freezing into sharp and cutting spears, the color of my vision as black as murder.

I slide the key into the lock and turn it soundlessly, then slip it open just enough to let me in before I close and latch it silently. My hand is already inside my suit coat, on my Beretta, as I move upstairs as quickly as I can, missing every loose step and every old board.

I know my house. Just like I know how to move through it quickly, soundlessly, dangerously.

There's another thump as I crest the top of the stairs. My jaw tightens.

If I were capable of still feeling shit after everything in me shuts down in favor of focusing on finding and eliminating a target...

I'd be terrified.

Because that sound is too much like a slack body hitting the floor.

Liv, fuck. Hold on.

Flattening myself against the wall outside my room, I risk a quick glance around the doorframe.

What I see turns my heart to iron.

A man in a ski mask, all in black, dragging a motionless and unresisting Liv across the floor, her heels thumping, her head lolling, a damp cloth clasped against her mouth. Even from here I can smell chloroform.

I’m going to kill this bastard. I want to kill this bastard.

Finger on the trigger, I rip the pistol from its holster.

But not before I make him talk.

He’s so busy struggling to heft Liv that he doesn’t even see my shadow fall over him. There’s a darkly satisfying thunck as I whip the Beretta against the back of his head.

Asshole goes limp as a puppet with its strings cut, grunting as he tumbles to the side, his grasp on my woman loosening.

I catch her just in time, before she hits the floor, shielding her with my body and letting her tumble against me. She’s too light – like some essential part of her has vacated, and I have to check her pulse to be able to breathe easily.

She’s alive. Thank God.

Just unconscious but breathing steadily. I lift her onto the bed and lay her out gently, then rise to my feet, moving to stand over the prick who tried to take her.

He’s conscious. Still groaning, blood leaking from the back of his head, while he fingers the trickle and rolls on the floor.

I take a deep breath, baring my teeth. This raw, real fury rises up inside me, catches my throat, and I hear something like a shrieking, vengeful eagle inside my head.

This is it.

It’s up to me whether or not he gets to live.

And right now, the part of me that knows where to cut, where to strike, where to puncture, where to bend, where to fucking hurt, that part is in control.

It knows every part of his body that can suffer to the point of breaking without killing him, until I’m good and ready for him to go.

His eyes creak open then, and he groans. “What the hell, man –”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish.

I press my polished leather shoe down on his throat.

Slowly, deliberately, exerting more and more barely controlled pressure with each passing second.

Gagging, choking, grappling at my ankle, he arches his body, but he can’t budge my foot.

Thirty seconds later, the skin around his eyes turns purple and he’s wheezing, his look wide and panicked behind the mask. I know those eyes.

I saw them once, brown and muddled, above a mask. The same man who tried to break into my car.

His struggling grows feebler until I finally let up.

He sucks in a hoarse, wheezing gasp. I watch him coldly, then say, “Now you understand the position you’re in. As long as you give me the answers I want, you get to breathe. You decide to get smart, you don’t tell me what I want to know, you even get a little rude, and breathing suddenly gets optional. Are we clear?”

To make my point, I press down again. Not enough to fully cut off his air, but enough for him to feel the grind of my sole against his skin. Enough to make his next sucking, choking breath very uncomfortable. He rakes his nails against my shoe, my slacks, then nods frantically.

“Good.” I ease up again, but keep my foot perfectly positioned. “Take your mask off.”

Practically sniveling, he grapples with his ski mask and pulls it off, getting himself tangled in it and stretching it out and blubbering before he manages to rip it away.

There's a flushed, haggard face with pockmarked skin and sunken hollows under dark-brown eyes. He’s a sort of pasty-fish pale that says he’s got a substance abuse problem.

Not the kind of substance abuse that makes him the kind of shit who’d go after an innocent girl just because their pestilent coward of a leader, Lion, told them to. His lank, greasy, blond hair spreads around his head as he looks up at me, his rubbery lips trembling, his eyes hot with a mixture of defiance and fear.

“Show me your tattoo,” I order.

He shakes his head. “Tattoo? I don’t know –”

Snarling, I cut him off, shoving my heel against his trachea hard.

Almost hard enough to crush his esophagus. He chokes out a gargling, pained sound, his body jerking and twitching, his eyes bulging as he scrabbles and claws. I hold for a good fifteen-count while he wheezes, then let go.

“I thought,” I murmur coolly, “I'd made my point? Lie to me, and your air quota drops to nil. Now, fuckhead, tell me very nicely. Where's your Pilgrim tattoo?”

He’s slow to respond. Probably from lack of oxygen to the brain.

I give him a second to recover, knowing he’s no good to me if he can’t talk.

Finally, though, he scrapes back the cuff of his leather jacket, over his left wrist, and thrusts his arm out so I can see the three dots tattooed on the underside of his wrist.

“Thank you.” I cock the slide on my Beretta, flick the safety off, and point it right at his forehead.

Right between the eyes.

One shot, and he’s a splatter of red. No more Pilgrim.

I meet his eyes over the barrel of the gun, a silent promise between us. “Okay. You’re going to tell me why you’re in my house, and why you hurt my girl, or you’ll never tell anyone anything ever again.”

“I wasn’t gonna hurt her,” he straggles out, voice raspy and broken. I’ve probably damaged his vocal cords. Fuck if I care. “Lion...he just told me to get her. Honest. I wasn’t gonna do nothing else, I –”

“I don’t believe you, asshole, considering she’s unconscious.” A touch more pressure on his throat, and my finger slips past the guard to rest on the trigger.

I don’t need to say anything else to threaten him. All it takes is one little movement, a wordless statement of intent, to make a man feel like a guillotine is hanging over him on an increasingly fraying thread.

“What does Lion want with her? She’s innocent in this. You’re after Milah for drug money.”

“Fuck the money!” he flares – only to squeak as I grind my heel. He gulps, his Adam’s apple moving against the sole of my shoe, and I ease off to let him speak again. He’s meeker this time, quieter, as he says, “We don’t care about the money. This is about blood.”

“Liv didn’t kill your men. Neither did Milah.”

He stares at me – like I’m the one missing something here.

Like I’m the powerless one, and he’s got an advantage over me.

Then he actually grins, although I could shoot him with one reckless, careless twitch of a finger. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“No,” I admit. “But that's why you're here. Gloat and die, or tell me and live. I turn you over to the police, you have a chance to walk. Break out. Whatever you’re going to do. Keep testing my patience, and...”

“You won’t kill me,” he sneers. “Because if I die, you still won’t know shit. So I don’t have to say anything, because as long as I’m alive there’s a chance I’ll tell y—”

His loss.

I calmly reverse the Beretta, flick the safety on, grip it by its barrel, and smash it across his jaw, putting all of my strength into it.

His mouth explodes in a fountain of teeth and blood.

Two of his teeth knock loose and arc across the floor, clattering when they land. From the amount of blood spurting out of his mouth, he’s likely bitten his tongue.

He’s shrieking, clutching at his face with both hands, a mess of pain it's impossible to feel any sympathy for.

Calmly, I straighten, gaining a proper grip on the Beretta again, and take a moment to meticulously wipe the blood from the barrel onto his shirt. Then I flick the safety off once more, regarding him flatly.

“You’re right,” I say. “I can’t kill you if I want to know what you’re hiding. But there are quite a few interesting things I can do to you while you're alive. Did you know a man can survive a Y-incision?” He’s staring up at me with blank terror in his eyes, confused.

I cock my head. “I see you don’t know what a Y-incision is, do you? It’s simple. Basically what a coroner does when they perform an autopsy, my friend. They cut a V from either shoulder to the center of your chest, right over your sternum...and then they cut you open from sternum to navel right...down...here.” I trace my free hand down my own chest to mark a path. “Afterward, they generally grip your ribs to either side and pull. They come loose from your spine. That, I’m not so certain you’d survive, but we'd try it. Oh, fuck, we'd try.”

I hadn’t thought he could get any paler.

I was wrong.

He makes a blubbering sound, his split and swollen lips wobbling, and his tongue lolling and fumbling around words I can’t understand.

More like pained noises that meld into each other. I arch a brow, letting him go for a few moments, then stop him by nudging the toe of my shoe against his cheek.

“Slower, now. I understand you’re willing to talk, but we’ll have to work around these new developments, won’t we? Start again from the beginning. Slowly. Tell me what I don’t know. If I can’t understand you, I’ll make you start over. I imagine talking hurts quite a bit now, doesn’t it?”

He nods – a small, frightened motion.

Good. He believes me, now, that I'll make him suffer.

He’ll tell me anything I want to know.

“A-Alec Holly,” he slurs out, contorting his ruined mouth to try to make the muffled syllables come out clear. “It...it’s not about M-Milah anymore. F-Fuck her drug money. Alec H-Holly took out a hit on our guys. He’s the reason...” He breaks off, choking a little, then turns his head to the side and spits out another tooth before continuing, glaring up at me with a mixture of terror and defiance. “He’s the asshole we want. It’s a b-blood vendetta now. Easy. He killed our family. We kill his.”

I close my eyes, taking a deep, centering breath.

Because if I don’t keep my calm, I’m going to put him down like a suffering animal.

Snap his neck right here and now.

“Who did Alec Holly hire?” I ask as I tighten my finger on the trigger. “Only gonna ask you once.”

He shakes his head, waving his hands frantically.

“All right! I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!” he blubbers. “It was the damn Runners!”

The Runners. Not a name I recognize instantly, though vague memory tells me they’re another underground crime syndicate.

Not as big as the Pilgrims. Not someone we’ve really needed to have on our radar at Enguard, but they’ve come up a couple of times on small-time protection jobs for a few other music industry people who had an occasional white powder problem and might need to be on guard for their old dealers. They’ve never come up as the kind who hired out for assassination work.

That's probably why the job went so wrong and was so fucking clumsy.

I narrow my eyes at the man beneath me and lean down, enough to press my weight on his throat, enough to tap the cold tip of the Beretta’s barrel against his nose.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “Alec Holly paid a rival gang to kill your men? And instead of going after Alec and the gang, you decide to target his innocent daughters?”

Maybe I’ve knocked a few of his brain cells loose. Maybe he’s just stupid and suicidal. But he actually grins at me, baring the bloodied remnants of his teeth, separated by black gaps.

“Milah Holly’s no innocent,” he spits. “I bet her sister’s a rich, whacked-out whore just like her.”

I don’t need to hear more.

I know what I need to know, and he’s not getting another word about Liv past his filthy fucking mouth.

Without a word, I whip the pistol across the side of his head. He makes a guttural noise, and his head slumps to the side.

He’s out cold.

I flip him over and dig his wallet from his back pocket to check his name.

Scott Richards. Ridiculously fucking ordinary surfer boy name for this pathetic waste of space who’d actually tried to kidnap a defenseless girl.

I pull my handcuffs from my belt and shove his wrists into them, being none too gentle as I snap them in place and leave him trussed up on the floor. I’m just standing when I hear a strangled, upset noise from the bed, and jerk my head up, staring into wide blue eyes.

Liv’s awake.

Liv’s awake, and she’s shaking, staring at me with horror, tears streaming down her face.

I don’t have a chance to reach for her.

To comfort her, to explain, to nothing.

While we’d stared at each other, frozen, Landon’s voice shouted from downstairs, calling my name, as the front door of my house burst open. I’m suddenly regretting giving my coworkers at Enguard the emergency key, but I know I’d be grateful if I’d ended up in a situation I couldn’t handle.

I start toward Liv, but she flinches, and I recoil.

That one subtle motion of hers stabs right through my heart. It’s only then I realize how many of my defenses I’ve let down, that she can even reach my heart to pierce it so easily.

But then I’m pulled away into low, muttered conversations with Landon, James, and Gabe, while Skylar’s got Liv, furiously checking her over.

Liv is compliant, polite, letting Sky fuss over her with the first aid kit, but she keeps her eyes lowered. She won’t look at me.

Snarling, I force myself to tear my gaze away, giving Landon a full rundown of everything the fuck on the floor told me. It's hard to form words in this whirlwind.

Cop cars scream in the closing distance, sirens coming. They’ll be here soon to take him into custody. Too late to stop the man who showed Liv I'm a violent monster.

Landon falls silent after I finish recapping, stroking at the five o'clock shadow covering his chin and frowning, his mouth set in a thin, displeased line, before he shakes his head.

“Damn it. I thought we might have two organizations in this, but I don’t like this one bit. Not knowing it for sure. Two makes things twice as messy. Now we’ve got two different unpredictable agents to deal with.”

“Can we keep Liv and Em safe?” I ask. “Do we need new measures? This fucker was in my home.”

“We’ll make sure of it, one way or the other.” Landon looks past me.

I follow his line of sight. Liv watches me now, her eyes wide and liquid with tears, and fuck if she’s not melting the walls I’ve been struggling to keep around myself all over again.

Landon sighs. “Go talk to her. Try to reassure her.”

“I don’t think she –”

“She knows you,” Landon says. “She’s been living with you. The rest of us might as well be strangers.”

He's right. Too bad it only makes it worse.

The real question is, does she want me anywhere near her?

I pull away from Landon and approach the bed, where Liv is curled up in a ball against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest and staring miserably down at her toes. I sink down to the edge gently, far enough away to keep from making her feel cornered or threatened but offer my hand with a hope I hadn’t known I could feel, fragile and trembling.

“Liv,” I say softly.

She doesn’t take my hand.

She throws herself against me.

Buries her face against my chest and wraps her arms around me with a surprising, desperate strength.

“Riker,” she gasps, almost a sob.

I hold my arms out from my sides almost helplessly.

James is watching me slyly. Landon gives me an unreadable look. Meanwhile, Gabe is so preoccupied with Sky, whispering something in his thick Louisiana accent, I don’t think he even realizes we’re in the same room, nor does she.

But even if the others are watching, fuck it.

I can’t resist the need to bring her home.

Slowly settling my arms around her, I wrap her up against me. It soothes some animal fear inside me, to feel her soft, slim body pressed so close.

“Still wondering if you hate me, sweetheart?” I growl softly in her ear.

Liv peeks up at me through her tangled, mussed hair. “Huh?”

“That look, back there...thought you didn’t want me touching you.”

She shakes her head quickly, messing up her hair even more as it whips around, then buries her face against my side with a muffled, “No! I need you, Riker. I need you so much right now.”

“I’m here. I’m here, Liv.” I stroke her back slowly, trying to calm her trembling body.

I hardly notice when the others tactfully take their leave, murmuring to each other as they file out of my bedroom. If they're noticing this is more than professional, I don't give a damn. I'll deal with the fallout later.

What's really important here is her, relaxing in my arms.

She's alive. She's safe. She's still mine.

“You'll have to talk to the police soon. Can you handle that?”

Sniffling, she pulls back enough to wipe at her tear-streaked face, and offers me the bravest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, all the more heart-wrenching when she’s devastated. “As long as you stay with me, yes.”

“I’m here. Promise you I’m here.” I brush my knuckles to her cheek, easing away a few more damp trails on her skin. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Her eyes well, and her lips tremble with the clear struggle not to burst out sobbing. “This doesn't make any sense. Daddy, Jesus, why would he...”

She can't get it out, and I don't blame her.

“Don't know, Liv. He obviously didn’t think this through or realize it'd put you both in danger.” A harsh truth that makes my fist hungry for Alec Holly's face.

“Or he didn’t care,” she says bitterly.

“I hope he cares. You’re his daughter.”

I gather her closer. I'm still trying to fathom how even someone as self-absorbed as Alec Holly wouldn't care how his actions affect his children.

It’s much easier to believe he’s too arrogant. So far up in his ivory tower that he doesn’t really comprehend the real-world repercussions of certain things. Maybe he thought he was powerful enough. That he could mess with a gang like the Pilgrims and come away clean because he’s just that untouchable.

Instead, he set ripples into motion that are growing wider as they spread, aftershocks threatening to shake Liv’s entire world apart.

I could never do that. Not to Em. I’m a different kind of father from Alec Holly.

Liv shifts against me, resting her head to my shoulder and hugging close against my side. “Riker? Why would you think I wouldn’t want you to touch me?”

Fuck.

I tense. My gut sinks. “Just thought you woke up and saw what I did. To that man, the bastard on the floor, who tried to hurt you.”

“I did.” Her hand creeps up to curl against the back of my neck, stroking through the tight trim of hair at my nape, a gesture that I suspect soothes her as much as it demolishes me. “I told you before – you don’t scare me, Riker. I’m grateful for you.” She rubs her cheek to my shoulder in such a sweetly trusting gesture. “I get it. You did what you had to do to protect me. And now we know what’s going on, all thanks to you.”

“Do we?” I ask. “This entire thing still doesn't add up. Why would your father hire hit men? Especially such clumsy ones?”

“I don’t know.” She bites her lip, her eyes glazing over, distant and contemplative. “I guess he was trying to take care of Milah, but this isn’t really something he’s ever dealt with. Organized crime, I mean. Not that I know of. It's a horrible accident. A mistake.” She looks at me again, something haunted in her gaze, a tired weariness that so often makes her seem so much wiser and more jaded than her years and sheltered innocence. “That’s kind of what Daddy’s done our whole lives. If there’s a problem, he throws money at it until it goes away. He even paid someone to transfer their daughter to another school when I was eleven because the girl was bullying me.”

Her smile looks cynical, with a touch of self-loathing I can’t stand to see. “I should’ve stood up to him, when I couldn’t stand up to her. And he’s still doing it. I mean, Milah did need rehab, still needs rehab, but the way Daddy handled it was disgusting. It was just paying someone to fix his ‘broken’ daughter. And I guess he thought paying someone would fix this too, but he just made a bigger mess.”

“We'll clean it up,” I promise, kissing the top of her head and just holding her, reminding myself she’s safe and I got here in time.

I don’t know how I’ll fix this, honestly.

It's the most fucked up, dangerous situation I've ever seen at Enguard, or when I was overseas for Uncle Sam.

But I know I have to try, for Liv.

For this sweet, fragile, impossible woman, there’s no other option.

It’s an unsettling feeling, worrying about having Em and Liv in my own home. Thinking about how close I came to losing everything here, but I can’t leave Em at Mrs. Baum’s forever.

Also don’t think the Pilgrims will try anything here again once they realize their man is in custody. What’s nagging at me, though, as I sit at the kitchen table finishing out the details on a police report, is how they knew Liv was at my house in the first place.

That was the whole point of this endeavor – that she disappear somewhere safe, somewhere we could keep an eye on her but where they’d be unlikely to track her down.

Either someone told them where to find her, or they’ve gotten more diligent in their search and made the connection between Enguard and Liv.

The possibility makes my guts churn.

I make a mental note to tell the others to keep a tight perimeter around their own homes, all while half-listening to Liv, Em, and Sky talking over Chinese takeout in the living room.

I’m grateful Skylar stayed after everybody left. She’s a strong, calming presence, a bit of extra security helping to nail things down and keep them feeling safe while I’m distracted with the report. I’m careful about what I say, about the use of necessary force.

Was it truly necessary?

Or did the sadist in me just want to hurt the man who hurt Liv for the sheer pleasure of it?

I’m tapping my pen against my lower lip, lost in thought, when Sky comes drifting into the kitchen. She leans her little shoulder against the doorframe and folds her arms over her chest, just looking at me with her mouth slightly pursed and one eyebrow arched. I cock my head at her.

“That look usually means I’m about to get my ass handed to me. What now?”

“You’re damn right you are.” She glances over her shoulder, then steps closer, dropping her voice to a hiss. “You’re screwing a client, Riker. What the hell are you thinking?”

Goddammit. I rake my hand over my face, exhaling the fire in my lungs slowly.

She must’ve gotten it out of Liv, that girl can’t lie to save her life.

“How long have you known?” Then I pause, eyeing her through my spread fingers. “And how screwed am I?”

“Not at all. Yet. Landon doesn’t know, but that doesn’t mean he won’t figure it out if I did.” She rests her hands on her hips, mock-glaring at me. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend.”

“You’re also a bit of a hypocrite.”

“Nah. That’s the other reason I’m keeping your secrets, pal.” Her grin looks annoyed but affectionate. “Not like I didn’t do the exact same damn thing with Gabe.”

“It was different with Gabe, though. You’re both in the protection business. Liv, she's...”

“Out of your league?”

“Vulnerable,” I correct with a glower. “Dammit, Sky. The last thing I'd ever want is to take advantage of her. This is more than just a fuck.”

“I know. So don’t.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, that sarcastic façade dropping for an unexpectedly sincere look. “If she’s vulnerable, then protect her. Don’t take advantage of her.”

“What if I can’t protect her? What if we're in over our fucking heads on this one?”

“It's not a choice. It’s your job, Riker, and it’s also what you do for people you love.”

“Love?” I whisper the word like it's in some new language.

“Yeah. Your own words, almost, 'more than just a fuck.' Remember?”

I do. But love? Fuck.

The unspoken question hangs heavy between us, making a strange throbbing start somewhere below my ribs.

Do I love Olivia Holly?

Sky saves me from falling into that bottomless pit by straightening, slapping her thin hand on the table. “Right now, though, you need to get packing. Your cover’s blown, your place is compromised, and you can’t stay here.”

Another shock rolls through me, turning my blood scalding red. It's worse because she's right.

“I don’t think they’d try anything here again. Not a repeat job,” I snarl.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know how reckless or how vindictive Lion is. We have reports of entire families being slaughtered in their homes over a Pilgrim vendetta,” she says grimly, and the very thought chills my bones. “So, big guy, get your shit together. Literally and metaphorically. Get your girls ready to go, and figure out what you’re doing with Liv before you fuck everything up. It’d be better to break up with her than keep stringing her along. She’s too brand new, Riker. You don’t want to be the first man to break her heart.”

“I don’t think I am,” I mutter, though the things her father did broke her heart in an entirely different way. And I have a lot to think about, but not right now.

Sighing, I sink down in the kitchen chair. “Fine. I’ll take care of it. Think I know just the place to take her, where no one will even think to look.”