It took no effort at all to convince Annie to turn around and leave the scene of destruction.

Whoever had invaded her place didn’t do so to steal but leave a message. One that said I can get to you anytime I want.

The level of destruction—pillows slashed, legs broken off chairs, dishes smashed—spoke of revenge and instilling fear.

Reaper should know. He was good at doing that.

Only as he pulled into his parking garage did Annie rouse enough to finally ask, “Where are you taking me?”

“My place.”

At that, she got agitated. “No. I have to go to a hotel.”

“Hotels have shit security.”

“Then take me to an airport or a train station.”

“You’re not running away.”

“I have to. I can’t stay here anymore.”

“Tell me who’s threatening you.”

“I don’t want you getting involved.”

“Too bad.”

“This isn’t a joke.” She turned on him with flashing eyes. “I don’t want your help.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t, but I’m still going to give it to you.”

She shook her head, her sloppy bun slipping farther. “You don’t understand what you’re offering. You have no idea what I’m dealing with.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.” She shook her head, and her lower lip trembled. “There are things in my life that are dangerous. I can’t allow you to get involved. You might get hurt.”

He leaned close to her and whispered, “Again, still don’t care, and you might be surprised at what I can handle.”

He heard her mutter, “Cocky real estate bastard,” as he swung out of his car.

She still trembled as he helped her from the car, the shock holding her in its grip.

What kind of asshole terrorized a woman?

The kind he liked to kill.

As if he needed an excuse.

Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm meant he only had his left free if something should happen.

But—and this was the reason he’d chosen his place instead of a hotel—no one but his closest allies knew where he lived, and he could count those folks on one hand.

The other reason, the security here was topnotch and, again, watched over by his friends at Bad Boy Inc.

Finally, his condo had all the bells and whistles and toys—so very many deadly toys—a killer could want.

Let the asshole come and find them there. He’d gladly show him what he thought of guys who terrorized women.

My woman.

Reaper would start with the kneecaps first because those really fucking hurt when smashed and prevented a person from running away. Then maybe he’d break some fingers. They snapped like twigs when twisted right. Then…

“Why are you doing this? Helping me?” Her soft query trembled.

“Because I don’t approve of dickwads terrorizing women.”

“A knight in a suit.” She uttered a borderline hysterical giggle. “Where’s your sword?”

He kept his sword in his pants. “I don’t need a sword. I’m handy with my fists.” The elevator shot smoothly upward. Penthouse level. Of course.

“I saw you fighting. You’re good.”

“I know.” Modesty wasn’t a character trait he cultivated.

“But being good with your fists won’t help you. Or me.” Her chin dropped, and he had to clench said fists lest he punch something.

How dare someone frighten her?

Reaper wanted to fix this. Wanted her chin tilted proudly again, her eyes flashing as she didn’t back down from him.

The elevator slid open onto a vestibule with cameras. He gave a signal to indicate all clear with his guest because someone was always watching, especially since the incident with Calvin in the summer.

Attacked in his own home. The nerve of the riffraff. Since Reaper was still recovering from the shooting, Harry hadn’t allowed Reaper to join the fun, but he’d heard about it.

Fuck with one employee of Bad Boy Inc. and the academy, and be hunted by them all.

The door to his place clicked at his approach, and it then opened.

“Ghosts or a butler?” she asked, taking note.

“Neither. It senses the key fob on my body.” He gestured for her to enter first. He didn’t worry about the security in his building. Anyone who actually managed to get into his place wouldn’t get out alive.

The moment they entered, lights came on, soft, recessed ceiling sconces that showcased the open floor plan and the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Extremely resistant glass, he might add, that wouldn’t easily shatter, even if someone took a sniping shot. But a missile, on the other hand… If someone got that reckless, he had bigger problems.

Directly ahead of them was the living room, the Brazilian tigerwood floors giving way to plush area rugs done in shades of gray. The walls were an off-white and held abstract art, nothing with too much color.

When he came home after a day of blood and screaming—always with the screaming unless you gagged them—he enjoyed the serene quiet of this muted space.

Unzipping her boots, Annie said not a word as she removed them and entered his place in her stocking-clad feet. She went right to the window and peered out.

Framed against the glass and the backdrop of the city with its sparkling lights, she looked small. Fragile. A feeling came over him, one that urged him to protect.

She must have seen him approach, his reflection in the glass clear, yet she didn’t move as he positioned himself behind her. A looming shield to her frailty.

“You can see the river in the daytime,” he said to break the ice.

“At my apartment, day or night, I can see the guy in 4B doing naked yoga on his balcony.”

He stiffened.

She laughed. “I should mention he’s probably eighty, if not older. It’s not a great view. But I guess I won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“You’re right, because I’ll find you a better place.” His closet had room. His bathroom, two vanities.

Shoot me now. Why am I even thinking like that?

Because there was something so right about Annie being here with him.

She sighed. “You won’t have to do a thing because I’m leaving.”

“Don’t you mean running away?”

A shrug rolled her shoulders as she turned to face him, their bodies so close she had to tilt her head to stare him in the eye. “Sometimes, running is the only choice you have.”

“What about standing to fight?”

“I tried that once.” A shadow fell over her expression. “It obviously failed.”

“Who’s doing this?” Because he didn’t doubt that she knew. The fear radiating off her, the subtle hints in her words, they all screamed it.

“A ghost.” A wan smile pulled at her lips. “You can’t fight something that doesn’t exist.”

“The Ghostbusters did.”

“Fantasy isn’t reality. Listen, while I know you mean well, you have no idea what I’m dealing with. Just being here, with you, puts you in danger.”

“No one is getting to you here.”

“Locks won’t stop a ghost.”

Bullets would, though. He kept that to himself. “You’re tired. You should get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

“No, they won’t.” She sounded so morose, and it boiled his blood. Who had the ability to turn her into this defeated shadow?

I’ll kill him.

First, though, he had to figure out who he was. And since she wouldn’t tell him, he needed her out of the way so he could find out. The cameras Declan had set up should offer some answers.

She didn’t say much as he offered her a T-shirt to sleep in and the use of his bathroom to change. She only balked when she realized he’d put her in his bedroom.

“I can’t sleep here. With you.” Her wide eyes held a note of panic, at odds with the nipples protruding through the fabric of his shirt.

Damn the suddenly surfacing gentleman gene that wouldn’t allow him to seduce her and tease that bud with his lips.

“The other bedroom is set up as an office and has no bed. I’ll take the couch; your virtue is safe.” Not by choice. Yet even he recognized her fragile state wasn’t something he should take advantage of.

But I want to.

She stood in the middle of his room, his T-shirt hanging down almost to her knees, her body swathed in it, and for a moment, he almost said fuck it. Almost grabbed her in his arms to tell her she didn’t have to worry.

Except it wouldn’t fix anything. Only taking care of the root of her fear would. And he was good at taking care of shit.

Permanently.

He shut the door and entered his office. The various layers of security took a few minutes to get through, but finally, he was in. And cursing.

The cameras Declan had installed? All working perfectly until about half an hour before they arrived. All of them, every single one, went black.

He had no footage of the perp who’d trashed her place.

Slamming the desk with a fist, he cursed. Here he was with access to everything he could want and no further ahead.

Annique Darlington barely existed. Deeper searches didn’t show her registered at any schools, at least not any that he could access. Her supposed birth record was electronic only, the original building housing the paperwork conveniently flooded over a decade ago, making it impossible to verify.

What were the chances she’d changed names? Pretty good, but that made his search even more complicated. He couldn’t find a random woman out of millions. Not without a name.

But he did have a date of birth. Probably fake too. Her DNA? Still being run.

Damned lab was backed up, and since this was personal, he couldn’t ask for a rush on it.

Setting his machine to run some automated searches and cross checks, he decided to try for a few winks.

Might as well.

Except sleep proved almost impossible. The couch was made for sitting, not sleeping.

I should be resting in my bed.

Who was he kidding? If he were in bed with Annie right now, they wouldn’t be asleep. They’d be screwing.

Maybe even snuggling afterwards, which would be a novelty considering he usually didn’t let women into his home, and he certainly never spent the night with any.

He’d learned his lesson young that the person who went to bed with you the night before wasn’t always the person you woke up with. Alcohol, and a liberal application of makeup, tended to do that.

He shifted to his side and tried to count rounds fired at turkeys.

One turkey. Dinner.

Two turkeys. Sandwiches.

Three turkeys. Soup.

He’d made it to forty turkeys, and the mother of all feasts with cranberries, when he heard it.

“No.”

The faint word had him rising from the couch and moving even before the whimper that followed it.

He made it to just outside the bedroom when Annie screamed.

Forget being cautious, he dove at the door and threw himself inside.