"You don't want to do this." Dylan kept his voice cool, soothing, but his gun didn't waver. Behind him, Senator Justice had taken up her position behind him like he'd told her too.

Four teams had been tracking a credible threat to the senator. She'd single-handedly pushed through legislation for stronger control on gun purchases. The rally was supposed to be a meet-and-greet for her constituents. A week before someone had tried to get through one of the rallies with a sub-machine gun. No telling how many people would have been hurt that day. He'd been assigned to the senator's detail after the perpetrator had identified a larger group behind the attempted attack.

He'd been prepared for everything. Everything but this. The woman with a gun on him and the senator was no older than a teenager. "Listen to me," he said. "Shooting the senator is not the answer. You know that as well as I do. We can talk about this. Neither one of us wants to do this."

The girl's eyes flared wide. "There is nothing to talk about. She has to die. To protect our freedom. Don't you understand?"

He swallowed hard as his brain tried to find a way out of this. Either he needed to get the senator behind the relative safety of her desk or bring the girl with the gun further into the room so the snipers could take her out.

The former was preferable. "I know you don't believe that. You have your whole life ahead of you. Someone fed you that. If you hurt Senator Justice your life will be taken from you. You don't want that."

Her small hand shook and the gun looked unsteady. "Shut up. Shut up! You don't know. Her kind of people are going to be the destruction of our country. It's my job to protect us. That's what we stand for."

Just what he needed. A true believer. She was so young, though. Like his own sisters. "Listen, you can put down the gun and we'll ta—"

But she didn't listen. Dylan watched her split-second decision-making in horror. She glared at him and the senator and her brows drew down before her gaze slid to the gun. It wasn't her anger that clued him in. It was the final look of serenity that flashed over her pretty face. He knew, in those milliseconds, that she had made her own peace with dying.

As she squeezed off a shot, he fired three shots center mast without a second thought. Complete autopilot. He'd killed that young girl with efficiency and precision. Zero hesitation. When she fell, her face morphed from that of the young girl to one all too familiar to him. His mother’s.

Dylan sat up with a start, his heart thundering and sweat slicking his skin. The familiar nightmare lingering on the edge of his subconscious refusing to let go even in wakefulness. Fuck. Their frequency had diminished somewhat, but the potency was still there. With every dream, he was certain he was going to have a heart attack. The pain and tightness in his chest didn't subside for what felt like minutes. But every doctor he'd seen said it was just anxiety. Fuck that. He sure as shit wasn't taking the anxiety meds he’d been prescribed after the shooting. That final twist at the end was a by-product of the stupid letter from his blast from the past. Thanks, Mom.

He'd let that woman get to him enough. Last night when he'd been unable to sleep, he'd made the stupid decision to have an old friend look into his mother. Sawyer Brooks was a freelancer he often used for cases in DC.

This guy was part skip tracer, part hacker, and all kinds of badass. Officially, he wasn't sanctioned, but Dylan had worked with him on an antiterrorism case a couple of years ago and he trusted him almost as much as he trusted the FBI's internal team. And since he wouldn't use FBI resources, he was perfect.

Dylan convinced himself that maybe if he could get rid of the gnawing idea in his head, he'd be able to sleep. He was wrong.

First thing when he woke up he checked his mail. It was a long-ingrained habit. And considering he was on the West Coast now it was likely that he had mail waiting for him. He wasn't wrong. There were several emails regarding his current case. But there was also an email from Sawyer.

Hey Dylan, I got your email. And I pulled some preliminary information regarding Miriam Donovan. The information I have so far is a bit spotty. I do know that she remarried seventeen years ago to a guy named Richard Mint. They have one child, named Michelle, and divorced seven years ago. Michelle is now eighteen and attends the University of Denver in the nursing program. The father is close by in Boulder. Miriam was last seen and heard from two months ago in Denver at her apartment. One day, she just didn't show up for work. The daughter filed a missing persons on her, but so far nothing. Should I keep digging?

Dylan held his breath and read the email over and over again. Fuck. He had a sister? His heart squeezed and as his head swam, he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. When he'd gone looking for his mother, he knew he might be opening a can of worms. It had never occurred to him that he would uncover another child. After all, she clearly couldn't handle the two she already had.

His reply to Sawyer was quick.

Yes, keep digging. In particular, I want information on the year following her departure. I want to know where she went, what she did. Also, can you get me the missing persons records and contact information for the daughter?

- D

This was a rabbit hole he didn't need to get involved with, but now that he already picked that scab and the wound was seeping, he needed to get the whole thing off. If there is going to be a scar, so be it, but now he needed to know the whole picture.

A sister… What was he supposed to do with that information? The unfamiliar tightness in his chest concerned him. Last time he felt something like this was when youngest sister, Maxine, was involved in a car accident.

What if you have to meet her? Could he do that? A shadow of betrayal accompanied the question. He had a family. One he loved and had worked hard to care for. He didn't even know this girl. But she's your sister.

He shoved the thought aside and tried to use his rational brain. Just because they had the same mother didn't make them family. It was going to be fine. He was just going to find his mother, get some answers, and then from there determine what to do with the information. Now was not the time to be engraving invitations to the next family get-together.

* * *

One glance around the room and the tension in his shoulders increased. He had to do something about this place before he could think again, before he could relax.

The bedroom wasn't so bad. Just dusty. But just thinking about the living room made him twitchy.

Negotiating his way down to the kitchen Dylan grabbed the paper towels and then found cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. He shook his head when he saw most of the bottles were unopened. It wasn't so much that her place was dirty, more that it was cluttered.

It took him thirty minutes to clean the guest room, then another hour to deal with the situation that was the living room.

He didn't stop until most things were put away in their logical positions. And the things he had no idea what to do with were in neat, organized piles. When the compulsion to fix and order things slightly abated, he dragged out the treadmill he'd seen in the closet and set it up in the surprisingly spacious living room. With all the stuff gone, he could see the cherry hardwood floors and the contemporary furnishings. It was simple but elegant. He'd expected more fashion magazines. There were some, but what he'd found the most of was lip gloss containers. Lip balm, lip gloss, it was everywhere. He'd pulled at least fifteen from all the nooks and crannies in the living room and kitchen.

All he needed was a workout and he'd feel better. But first, he took care of business. Back in his room, he pulled out his tracking kit. When he returned to the living room, he picked up her purse. Sera was unhappy about his being there and she might try and get him recalled, but until he heard from her mother himself, he wasn't taking chances. She seemed like the careless type.

Taking out a knife, he slit the stitching on her purse and inserted the tiny GPS tracker into the lining. Using black thread, he quickly stitched it back up. Given how much junk she had in there, she'd never notice it. Next he attached a flat transmitter to one of her bulkier key chains on her set of keys.

With that done, he switched the treadmill on and put his phone in front of him. With each step, and each mile, the tension started to roll away. Protecting little miss princess. His supposed sister. Telling the rest of his family about his mother. And of course the mother of all fucked-up head trips, his mother. One mile, two miles.

His body was used to the punishing pace. Hell, he was barely even breathing hard. As much as he felt better now that the house was clean and he'd run a little, his mind kept drifting back to Sera Justice and her dark eyes…and the way she'd fit into his arms. Dammit.

All the rational arguments in the world didn't matter. They didn't help the burning tightness in his chest. Pushing the stop button, he slowed the treadmill, eventually hopping off. Six miles later and he was still tense. Stop thinking about how she tastes. Sometimes being rational sucked. He dragged his t-shirt over his head and used it to wipe himself down.

On his way to grab a shower, Sera yanked open her bedroom door and surprised him. "Holy shit," she squealed and jumped back a step.

"No. I'm not a figment of your imagination."

She was dressed in black workout pants and a bright pink top that should be outlawed in at least thirteen states. The thing hoisted those damn near perfect tits right up under her chin. "I had hoped I was having the mother of all nightmares."

A smile tugged at his lips. "Nope, I'm still here." Why did he like irritating her so much?

"I'm going to work out."

"Not without me. I'll go get fresh workout gear."

Her gaze dipped to his bare chest—and stayed there. He wasn't going to lie. His cock certainly couldn't. He liked that she liked what she saw. The raw naked appreciation in her eyes made his skin itchy and tight, and his helpful imagination helpfully offered up several scenarios that might help alleviate the itch.

She cleared her throat, but didn't bring her eyes back up to meet his. Instead she kept staring at him. "Never mind. I'll use the treadmill."

"Suit yourself."

While he headed straight into the bathroom, she brushed past him down the hall into the living room.

It wasn't until he heard her scream that he smiled to himself. He was grateful that he'd put the GPS tracker in her purse and on her keys already. There was no trusting that girl, he knew that much.

* * *

For several seconds, Sera stood staring at the spotless living room. He'd fucking cleaned her house. The arrogant obsessive-compulsive ass wipe. It wasn't that messy. Okay, fine, so it had been a little messy, but what right did he have. This was her house and he was a damn guest. Until she booted his ass.

She tried to move, but it was like all the synapses stuttered as her brain tried to make sense of the fact that he'd been through all her magazines. He'd even labeled stacks with “this month”, “older than six months”, “older than a year”.

The shame washed over her first, hot and sticky. Then the fury. Raging through her, trying to propel her stuck body into action. The determination came last. Her mother might have sent him, but this was a total fucking violation. He'd been through all her things. All of them. Was that the lip gloss from Bella cosmetics? She'd been looking for that thing for months.

No. She would not be grateful for his cleaning. Sure, he'd done the dishes, so there was that, but he could have asked her if it was okay first. Though she was frozen in place all her senses still worked and she could hear him in the shower. No doubt using all her honeysuckle and cucumber body wash. Well, she wasn't sticking around for him to start ordering her around.

Normally she couldn't move without coffee first thing, but screw that. Grabbing her workout bag, she tossed in some jeans and a cute top and flat strappy sandals. Her toiletries were already in there from her last trip to the gym. She'd head to work, then work out and grab a shower. With a quick snatch of her purse and her keys she was out the door while the water for the shower was still running.

Dylan Donovan wasn't her mother's run-of-the-mill attempt at controlling her. He was a meddling, judgy ass. And she couldn't just irritate him into leaving. She'd have to pull out the big guns. And for that she'd need Taj.

She'd just have to ignore his ridiculous body. How hard could that be? Dylan Donovan…shirtless. That was a movie she could play in her mind over and over and over again. The warmth pooling between her thighs wasn't altogether unwelcome, but it was damned inconvenient.

Eventually she would have to do something about that. Maybe invest in a heavy-duty vibrator if he was sticking around. The Magic Bullet just wasn't going to cut it if he could make her feel like this just by being shirtless…in her living room. But that was another task for another day. Right now she had a job to do. And a Fed to get rid of.