This was a huge fucking mistake.

Marc clenched and unclenched his hands on the steering wheel as he followed Royce to his house. He’d taken one look at the man, and he’d been thrown back to those dark days shortly after his parents’ deaths where he’d sought all the wrong kind of men. Men who’d shoved him, beaten him, and demeaned him at every turn, exchanging one pain for another just so he wouldn’t feel so hollow and useless. So much like a failure.

But he’d walked away from that life and those men. Turned his life around and made it into something his mother would be proud of.

Royce…fuck…Royce was a goddamn wet dream. Strong shoulders and arms and a compact body that screamed power. The kind of wiry power that could pin him down and…

Marc shoved the thought away and sucked in a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before slowly releasing it. His heart rate was slowing down from a panic, but it wasn’t doing anything for the hard-on in his pants. Being with Royce had to be penance for his past sins. One last temptation to make sure that he had truly walked away from that life.

He liked nice, sweet, considerate men who appreciated art and wine and fast cars now. He liked men who enjoyed travel and new adventures. He hadn’t had anything that resembled a working relationship in a few years and hadn’t felt anything that he’d call love, but he was sure that he could find a nice, sweet man to love.

Not someone who looked like Royce. A man who growled what he wanted and kept a cold distance from other people. Royce was hotter than hell, but Marc was willing to bet his London gallery on the fact that this man didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. And Marc wasn’t falling into that nightmare again.

The traffic was light for a Wednesday afternoon as they drove from Geoffrey’s house in Indian Hill to Royce’s place across the Ohio River in Fort Thomas, Kentucky. The winding streets finally ended in a new development of townhouses with neatly manicured yards and nicely painted trim. It was all kinds of bland and cookie-cutter. The entire neighborhood was surprisingly middle-class and boring.

Halfway down the block, Royce’s monster Jeep pulled into a short driveway while the garage door opened to reveal a stunningly clean and organized garage. Marc parked his black BMW sedan behind him and turned off the engine. He could do this. It was too late to walk away and pretend it wasn’t happening. Canceling his contract with Ward just because Royce stirred up too many uncomfortable memories was ridiculous and potentially deadly.

Geoffrey had gone on and on about how good the employees of Ward Security were, prior to Royce’s arrival. He knew several acquaintances and clients who used Ward for their home or office security. He’d gone to the best. And with any luck, Royce and Ward Security would have this threat sorted out in a week or two at most. Then he could go back to his normal life and forget about Royce.

Who even now was staring at him as he stood beside his truck with a questioning look. Marc told himself to quit being a fucking coward.

Pasting a smile on his lips, he stepped out of the car. Royce immediately led the way into the townhouse through a door in the garage without another word, just assuming that Marc would have brains enough to follow.

Marc walked beside Royce’s vehicle and through the open door which put him in the kitchen. An incredibly clean kitchen with pale honey-colored wood cabinets and a light gray countertop. There wasn’t a plate, cup, or spoon out of place. Hell, everything looked brand new—as if Royce had never used it. Following the sound of footsteps, he walked from the kitchen through a small dining room that didn’t contain a table and chairs to the living room.

Just like the kitchen, the living room looked completely untouched. He’d seen model homes that looked more lived-in. A white sofa and a black chair faced a nondescript wooden table. A TV offered the only break in the white walls. There were no pictures of family or friends. No art whatsoever. There was…nothing.

An uneasy twist tightened his stomach. It didn’t look as if anyone lived in this house. There was nothing personal. No little hint into the man who was supposed to be keeping him safe, as if he’d erased all signs of his soul. Marc had watched those horrible true-crime shows that revealed images of a psychotic killer’s home to find it meticulously cleaned and organized. Royce’s home reminded him a little too much of that.

“Have you lived here long?” Marc called after Royce as he continued to follow Royce’s heavy footsteps. He paused at the foot of the stairs by the front entrance, then shrugged. Royce never told him to stay in the living room. Didn’t speak to him at all. So, he went up.

At the top of the stairs, he found three open doors. One to a bathroom and another to a spare bedroom with only a queen-sized mattress and box spring on the hardwood floor. The other room was the master bedroom, and this one had a little shred of color and personality.

The king-sized bed dominated the room with its black comforter and wooden headboard with the open slats. Perfect for gripping or tying someone to. Marc blinked and jerked his gaze away from the bed to the pair of framed pictures on the nightstand. Without thinking, he stepped farther into the room, squinting at the pictures. One looked a couple of decades old at least and was of two young boys. The other was of a handsome young man with a colorful scarf tied around his neck. It looked like a nice spring day with cherry blossoms in the background. Even from a distance, the man’s smile was incredibly sweet.

Royce stepped out of the walk-in closet with a black roller bag in hand. He glared at Marc, looking as if he were surprised to find him there. “Wait downstairs,” he barked. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Marc stiffened at his tone, feeling like a scolded child. Sure, this was Royce’s private domain, and the man couldn’t like having his privacy invaded, but Royce was about to touch every inch of Marc’s private life. “Of course,” Marc bit out as he turned on his heel and started to leave the room.

A low muttered curse rumbled from Royce a second later. “Wait,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Is there anything in particular I should pack?”

“Most days I’ll be at the gallery downtown. You can wear whatever you want there.” Marc partially turned to look at Royce, still expecting to be ejected from the room at any second.

“Jeans and T-shirts?”

“You can wear onesie unicorn pajamas and a tiara every day to the gallery. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen.” Some of the tension eased from Marc’s shoulders when he saw the corner of Royce’s mouth jerk like he was fighting back a smile.

Clearing his throat, Royce tossed the roller bag on the bed and opened it. “I’ll skip the onesie this time. I’ll be carrying, and it could get in the way.”

His heart missed a beat at the mention of the fact that Royce would by carrying a gun and that danger was still haunting his steps. It was easy to forget at times when he was focused on the strange man grabbing clothes out of the top dresser drawer on the opposite side of the room.

“A suit or two would be wise,” Marc added. “I have a new show opening in about a week. Those typically run semi-formal. But, you can show up in jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve had other artists adhere to that dress code.”

Dark eyes lifted and pinned Marc to the spot as Royce’s hand stopped moving clothing around. “But I’d stand out.”

“Yes.”

Royce grunted and returned to the closet where Marc could hear hangers sliding back and forth on a metal pole.

“After the show, it will be expected that we make some appearances around the city. Maybe a movie or at least dinner.”

“How big is your social circle?” Royce asked as he returned carrying what looked to be two suits and a garment bag. The dark fabric would look good against his coloring, and Marc found himself looking forward to dinner, even if it was only so he could see Royce in a suit.

“In Cincinnati, not very big. Maybe just a dozen friends and somewhat close acquaintances.” Marc quickly looked away when Royce once again stopped to watch him. It was unnerving the way Royce stared at him like he was weighing everything Marc said on a secret scale.

“You’re not from Cincinnati?”

“My family is, yes.”

“Then where are the majority of your friends located?” Royce resumed packing, zipping his suits up in the garment bag. Without his eyes on Marc, the words seemed to come a little easier now.

“London. I have galleries in London, Hong Kong, and New York City. I was spending most of my time in London until about six months ago.”

“What changed?”

“My sister’s marriage.”

Royce looked up at him, wordlessly prompting him to continue. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak. It had been drilled into his head since birth that you didn’t talk about family issues with anyone outside of the family. You didn’t gossip. Didn’t spread salacious talk. Never argued in public. You could only show a united front to the world no matter how angry or hurt you were.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m only asking so I can do my job.”

Marc gave a jerky nod. He knew this. “My sister’s husband cheated on her the entirety of their seven-year marriage. He only admitted to it when his mistress got pregnant. He needs the divorce, so he can marry her.”

Royce swore and shook his head. “That sucks,” he murmured as he walked into the en suite bathroom.

“That’s an understatement. They met in college, and my sister supported him through law school. When she told me of the divorce, I moved my base of operations back to Cincinnati, so I could be close to her. She’s living in the guest house on my property.”

“How long has she been living there?”

“About five months.”

Royce returned to the bedroom and dropped a leather Dopp kit into the roller bag. “And now there’s a chance that she could be trying to kill you?”

“I-I don’t know,” Marc stammered, jerking his gaze away from Royce. The thought of Lilah trying to hurt him threatened to take out his knees. She was going through a rough patch right then, but she wouldn’t hurt him. Try to kill him. She might have a temper at times, but there was no reason for her to hate him. “I just can’t see her doing something to hurt me. Or even my brothers. Maybe I’m overreacting. Looking for attackers where they are none.” As he spoke, he took a couple of steps backward until his shoulders hit the wall.

At the same time, Royce crossed the room. His hand shot out and snagged Marc’s left wrist before he could jerk it away. His touch seemed to burn straight through the material of his button-down shirt and bandage, scorching his flesh. Royce tightened his grip, unknowingly squeezing the healing lacerations there, but the shot of pain helped to clear Marc’s head.

“This doesn’t look like an overreaction to me,” Royce practically growled. “How?”

“Car accident.”

“Accident?”

“Brakes gave out.”

“And that car was how old?” There was no missing the sarcasm and skepticism lacing every word.

Marc closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the wall with a loud thud. “Two months. I’d had her two fucking months. Before she was delivered, mechanics crawled over every inch of her. She was perfect. And someone fucked with her. Tampered with her brakes.”

“What was she?”

“2018 Porsche 911. Beautiful ghostly gray paint with black leather interior and trim.”

“Fuck.”

Marc opened his eyes at the sound of the pain in that single word from Royce. The other man was just shaking his head at Marc.

“I might not give a shit about you,” Royce admitted, pausing as he narrowed dark eyes on Marc, “but someone has to pay for hurting that car.”

Tipping his head back, Marc laughed loudly. God, it felt like it had been months since he’d last laughed like that, and he’d never expected Royce to be the cause. But he needed it. When he stopped, it was to find Royce staring at him, but it was different. There was heat in that gaze, enough to make his mouth go suddenly dry. He wanted Royce to grab him, to pull him down for a kiss that would burn them both up, but Marc forced himself to look away first, clearing his throat.

“But that’s not the first attempt,” Royce prompted. “Andrei mentioned something about poisoning.”

When Marc looked up, he found Royce back beside the bed. He hadn’t even heard him move, but then the dominant sound in his ears was the frantic pounding of his heart.

“I’m allergic to nuts. Someone put finely chopped nuts in a chicken salad in my fridge.”

“Fatal?”

Marc nodded. “Could be. I have replaced all my epinephrine pens around the house. I’ll show you their locations when we get there.”

“Get a spare. I want to carry it on me at all times, just in case. What else?”

“I…I think someone messed with my heart medication.”

“What?” Royce snapped so loudly that Marc jerked in surprise.

“The medication I take to regulate my heart rate. Someone replaced it with something else. I don’t know what. I threw it out.”

Royce stalked back across the room, his eyes wide and his face paler. “What’s wrong with your heart?” His voice was low and rough. Marc fought the urge to reach out to Royce, to comfort him when he looked so shaken, but Marc didn’t think his touch would be welcome.

“Just an irregular heartbeat. It’s serious, but easily regulated with one pill a day.”

“When did you last go to your cardiologist?”

“Nine months ago, but—”

“Isn’t that too long? Shouldn’t you be checking in more frequently?”

Marc stared at him in surprise for a moment. He actually sounded as if he was on the verge of panic.

“No, it’s fine. I go once a year. He listens to my heart. Runs a quick test. If everything is still fine, he writes me a new script.”

“Fine,” Royce bit out. He returned to the bed and zipped his roller bag closed. “Take your pills and no nuts. Anything else?”

Marc bit his tongue against a joke that he wasn’t banned from all nuts, but Royce didn’t look like he’d welcome that particular quip, so he just walked over to the bed and picked up the garment bag with his right hand.

“No, sorry. No more weaknesses for the art nerd.”

Royce rolled his eyes as he put his bag on the floor. “Why fucking art?” he muttered under his breath, leading the way out of his bedroom.

“What do you have against art?” Marc asked as he trailed after him.

“You mean other than the fact that you can never tell what any of that weird shit means?”

Marc bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. “It’s not all like that,” he said. He had to agree that there was some really strange, obscure art that he didn’t understand, but he tended to avoid those pieces. “A lot of it is emotionally evocative. How could you not like a piece of art that makes you think about something differently or feel an emotion without ever saying a word?”

Royce paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at Marc, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe I’m more concerned about Quinn’s crazy plan for me to impersonate a sculptor when I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

A broad grin spread across Marc’s lips and he continued down the stairs. “Well, I can keep you out of trouble there. No worries.”

A low snort escaped Royce as he turned around and walked back toward the living room. Marc slung the bag over his right shoulder and followed. He was having trouble getting a read on Royce. It was like he was waffling between wanting to tell Marc to fuck off and wanting to shoot him with brief flashes of off-the-charts heat and glimmers of what might be called a sense of humor.

“I guess we should learn some stuff about each other. What’s your favorite food?”

Royce rolled his eyes and groaned. “Really? What are we? In grade school?”

“What? That’s the kind of shit people learn about each other when they’re dating.” Marc huffed a laugh. “But let me guess, you don’t date. You just pin ’em against the wall and fuck ’em hard.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Kind of difficult to hear complaints when you’re out the door before your pants are even closed again,” Marc snapped. Royce had stopped walking when they reached the kitchen and Marc now stood only inches away from him.

Marc closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth in the deadly silent room. Royce stared at him with his too-perceptive eyes, his face utterly unreadable.

“Fuck it,” he whispered. Stepping around Royce, he started for the garage door. “It’s just my life. I’ll make it up as I go.” He’d barely gotten his fingers wrapped around the door handle when Royce’s voice broke the silence.

“Cheddar-cauliflower soup.” Marc’s entire body tensed as he waited for Royce to continue. He couldn’t figure out if the man was telling him his preference for dinner or…“I love cheddar-cauliflower soup. I found the recipe about a year ago, and I eat it about once a week. I eat healthy. I try to limit fried foods to once every other week. Very little red meat, sugar, or caffeine. Lots of chicken and fish.”

Closing his eyes, Marc dropped his head forward so that his forehead was pressed to the door. Royce was willing to pretend he hadn’t said anything, and he was grateful. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Pistachios,” he replied without thinking.

“I thought you were allergic.”

“I am,” he said forcing a laugh because it was too damn late to take back his answer and give his usual one of steak or chocolate. Fucking Royce—he’d scrambled his brain. “Had one only once. For about two seconds, that little green nut was heaven.” He bit down on the inside of his mouth to keep from telling Royce that his older brother Gabriel had given him the nut as a joke. Gabriel had been horrified when Marc had ended up in the hospital for three days. It had just been a careless accident. “But my next favorite is grilled watermelon. Goes great with fish tacos.”

A firm hand landed on Marc’s shoulder, and he found himself spun around before he could release the doorknob. His shoulder slammed back, and Royce was standing so close their noses nearly touched when Marc tilted his head down.

“Do I need to worry about your love of pistachios?”

“N-no.”

“Well, keep in mind if you’re entertaining any more death wishes that it’s my life on the line as well. Your would-be assassin has to get through me to get to you, and I have no desire to die on this job. You understand me?”

“Yes. Yes of course.” Marc’s heart was pounding in his ears as he stared down at Royce. Fuck, was it really possible for this man to look sexier? Despite being pinned between Royce’s hard body and the door, he wasn’t in any way afraid. No, he was turned-on, and if Royce didn’t take a step back, he was going to figure it out really damn fast.

“And just a quick reminder while I’m playing the adoring boyfriend, I’m still the one calling the shots. If I say leave, we leave. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide. Got it?”

“Yes,” Marc said on a sigh. Oh God, it was like some part of his brain was shutting down at the sound of Royce’s voice. The strength and power, all of it bearing down on him and he wanted to let go.

He heard Royce harshly suck in air as if he was drowning. The hand on his shoulder tightened for a moment, his thumb running along his collarbone in something that Marc desperately wanted to call a caress before Royce released him completely and took a step back. Cool air rushed in to take his place, and it was almost painful not to have him there. God, he needed to get laid.

“Let’s get out of here,” Royce said. His voice seemed deeper, rougher than before, but Marc didn’t let himself think about it. He opened the door and led the way back to his car. It was better to get this nightmare started.