Jo glanced around him to the front of her apartment building. “Do you want to come in?”

Was it going to be yes, with a head shake? Or another no/nod combo? she wondered.

“Or should I take you home?” Wherever that was. “I can take you home.”

“I don’t want to go back there right now.”

Was he talking about where he was in his head? Or where he stayed?

Whatever the reply to that question might be, Jo didn’t want him to go. She wanted some answers. About what he thought he knew about her. About who he was and where he came from. About why the connection between them seemed so undeniable.

She eyed the thick thighs straining those leathers.

Okay, fine. She had a clue about that last one—

“Yes,” he said as he opened the door.

Wait, had she asked him anything? He must be talking about the invite into her place.

Jo got out as well and met him on the other side of her car. As they walked up the cement path together, she wondered how her digs compared to where he was living. Probably not well, given that he was bunking with his boss—or whatever a bodyguard called his employer. Meanwhile, the modest little apartment she’d moved into was housed in a building that was just four stories high and split in two, with units stacked on either side. The outside was cheap brick veneer, the inside common areas utilitarian, but clean. Her neighbors were grad students, medical residents, and a couple who were pregnant and moving out soon.

“I’m over here,” she said as they went through the second set of entry doors.

Her one-bedroom was right there on the left, and when he walked into it, he stopped dead as if he’d run out of gas on the highway. She turned on some lights.

“I don’t have much furniture.” She thought of her parents’ fancy mansion. “I don’t have much period, but everything in here is mine.”

She closed the door. And took her coat off because she had to do something.

“Can I offer you a drink?” she asked. “I have… well, four bottles of Sam Adams, and a bottle of cheap red wine that my coworker made me take home with me after I…”

“I don’t drink,” he mumbled.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Well, she certainly was going to after the last couple of days. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll just help myself to a beer.”

Syn turned to her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m glad you are. No offense, but you don’t look well.”

Glancing down at himself, he lifted his arms as if he expected something unsavory to be dripping off of them. “I really do want to take a shower.”

Jo’s heartbeat quickened as she pointed to an open doorway. “It’s right in there. Fresh towels are hanging on the rods because I did laundry when I couldn’t sleep early this morning.”

“You should have called me if you couldn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You didn’t write down my number, did you.”

Leaving that one alone, Jo motioned at the bathroom. “Hot water is through there. Then we can talk.”

There was a pause. And then Syn nodded and went where she told him to go. As he passed by, his sheer size was unbelievable. Out in more wide open spaces—like the back alleys of Caldwell’s downtown or the parking lot at the CCJ—his height and weight didn’t seem as big a deal. But in here? In her little seven-hundred-square-foot crash pad? It was like someone had driven an eighteen-wheeler indoors.

As he closed the bathroom door behind himself, she wondered if he showered with his weapons on—and then promptly got a mental picture of a whole naked accessorized by Smith & Wesson.

And jeez, that really shouldn’t be as hot as she imagined it to be.

When the water started to run, she rubbed her aching head and thought about the empty pit of her stomach to avoid any more hypotheticals involving Syn’s birthday suit: She was still hungry. Then again, she’d eaten less than half of her meal at the bar, and she knew she had to do something to make up those ten pounds—fourteen, actually—she’d recently lost.

Pizza was always good, right?

Determined to be a proper hostess—thank you, Mrs. Early—Jo went over and knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey. I know it might be overkill, but I’m going to order some Italian food. Would you like any?”

The last thing she expected was for him to open things up.

And yeah, wow, Syn had apparently turned the water temperature up to Scorched Earth, and given that the hot water heater was right next to the shower stall in the closet, it took no time for things to get toasty. Accordingly, a great swirl of humid air wafted around behind him, setting him off like he was a mystery centuries old—but that wasn’t the half of it. He’d taken off his jacket—and also whatever arsenal he wore under it—and then removed the skintight Under Armor shirt he seemed always to wear.

So his pecs were on full display. His abs, too.

As well as the pair of wing-shaped hip bones that flew above the waistband of his leathers.

“Whatever you want is fine with me.”

Or at least, that’s what she thought he said. It kind of sounded like “Lwibekew ksb icbe ls owbd bakd ow.” Because, hello, her hearing had gone on the fritz.

Oh, and if those were the words he’d spoken? Well, then she had a few things she’d like to order, none of which were going to be helpful in this situation, and all of which had him taking his leathers and whatever underwear he had on down to the floor.

Commando? she wondered. Dear. God.

“I was thinking pizza.” Liar, liar, drop those pants on the fire—that was not even close to what she was thinking about. “What do you like on it?”

And P.S., she now had a pretty damn good idea of how men felt when a woman wore a low-cut blouse. It was taking nearly an act of Congress to keep her stare at his collarbones.

“Whatever you like,” he said—and re-shut the door.

Jo blinked as she faced off at a whole lot of fake wood paneling. “Sounds good.”

* * *

On the other side of the bathroom door, Syn turned around and leaned back against the fragile barrier between him and his female. After a moment, he sensed her moving away, and then, over the falling water of the shower, his keen ears picked out her dialing her phone and ordering something that had pepperoni on it. Closing his eyes, he told himself he needed to leave her in peace, but it was an internal argument he’d already lost the second he had gotten into her car.

For the first time in his life, he did not want to be alone.

Actually, it was worse than that.

He specifically wanted to be with Jo.

He wanted to tell her that he’d just jumped the Omega in a back alley, even though she didn’t know who that was or why that kind of reckless shit was a bad idea. And he wanted to tell her that the people he lived with were going to think he was a hero for saving Butch’s life, even though she had no frame of reference for the Black Dagger Brotherhood or the Dhestroyer prophecy, and even though that altruistic crap had not been his motive for his attack. And he really wanted to confess that he killed people to regulate his emotions, not because he had a monster in him, but because he was a monster himself.