I can’t believe Milah Holly actually owns a private jet.

Even harder to believe I actually agreed to this trip, when I haven’t even had a chance to go over security at the Vancouver house yet.

How the hell am I supposed to protect Liv when I can’t even control the environment?

And why does this all feel so damned fishy?

I almost wouldn’t believe Landon approved this, if James wasn’t settled calmly in one of the lush bucket seats. He's ice cold as ever, this human razor made of all elegance, sharp edges, and frosty blond slickness that makes him look more like a candidate to play 007 than an enforcer at a small-time security company.

James is the type you don’t ask about his past. All I think I know is he was a government spook, FBI or CIA or something, and while he’s friendly enough and I’d trust him with my life...

I don’t ask questions.

Not when James looks at me with slitted eyes like a snake’s, like he’s calculating exactly how much pressure it would take on my jugular to kill me. Just in case.

Right now, though, he’s all cool, cultured charm as he leans over a table with Em and duels her through one chess game after another. They've both won two rounds each.

Meanwhile, Liv watches and cheers Em on, trying to distract James from his utmost focus with wiggling fingers and random noises to give her a home team advantage. It doesn’t work.

It'd take a hammer to the head to pull this man away from anything. She keeps at it anyway, grinning when James doesn’t even crack a smile, his lips thin and pursed.

It’s hard not to just watch them together and feel a sense of warmth, but I can’t forget it’s temporary.

And I can’t miss how Liv goes tense every time she looks at her sister, while Milah smiles innocently and avoids making eye contact.

There’s something going on here.

Something I haven’t been told about, and I don’t like being kept in the dark.

I try to distract myself by going over the plans for Milah’s house and nearby grounds. It took half an hour of arguing to even get her to put me in touch with her security team so they could forward the details to my email. Now I’m distracted, brooding over it even as I stare at my screen and mentally note points of entry and exit, possible emergency escape routes, blind spots, vulnerabilities.

Milah doesn’t seem to be taking this situation seriously. Shocking, I know.

The Pilgrims are after her life. Plus the lives of her father and little sister, all because of her drug habits coming home to roost. The Pilgrims blame her for some mysterious third party involved in their members’ deaths.

That alone would have any other pop starlet taking up refuge in another country at some foreign vacation spot with the best security money could buy, but Milah’s continuing to tour around the West Coast and flit around her vacation homes and show up at my house without even a damn security escort.

Does she know something more? Or is she just this young and reckless and irresponsible?

I shift my gaze to Liv.

Liv is two years Milah’s junior, yet she so often seems like the older sister. If youth makes Milah so irresponsible, Liv must’ve missed the memo.

It’s strange. Even if she is a spoiled little rich girl, she takes full accountability for that and dives in with both hands to learn the things she never knew before. She tries like hell not to be a burden on anyone.

Yeah, I'm biased. I’ve never been fond of assholes born with silver spoons.

Maybe it comes with the territory, from growing up the only child of struggling parents, a latchkey kid living on dollar store snack packs and always peeking through the chain lock before letting Mom in at midnight after a sixteen-hour double shift, sometimes not seeing my father for days when he’d steal a few hours of sleep on the job between killing long hours. The kind of upbringing Milah and Liv had, I can’t imagine.

I’m not sure I’d even want it for Em, if I had that kind of money. I want her to have a good life, a comfortable life, a safe life...

But anyone with the kind of money Alec and Milah Holly have tends to make me wary, because it generally disconnects them from the reality normal people live through, suffer, and fear.

Is that why Milah doesn’t understand fear? Why she lacks common sense?

The life she’s had has insulated her so much that she just assumes if she keeps throwing money at this problem, it’ll go away?

Fuck.

And is that why Liv is so different, when she’s never had money of her own? When she’s looked that fear straight in the eye, stared down the barrel of a gun?

I don’t realize I’ve been watching Liv intently until she glances up, catches my eye, and offers a sweet smile that turns her eyes into warm, glimmering crescents.

Her bare shoulders shrug up around her jaw in a cute little quirk of hers as she cocks her head questioningly. I jerk awake and flick my fingers, beckoning her over.

She lifts both brows, then touches Em’s shoulder with a smile as she stands to edge around her, moving carefully and barely bumping the chess table with her hip.

But as she crosses the aisle to me, I can feel Milah’s eyes on us, watching us closely.

Liv starts to aim for the chair opposite me, but I shake my head, shifting over into the window seat to leave the aisle seat next to me free, gesturing her toward it. She looks confused, before her cheeks flush a doll-like shade of pink and she slips into the deep, plush chair.

That flush deepens as I lean in toward her, bending to speak in her ear.

Harder than it sounds. I’m momentarily distracted by her scent.

It’s something soft and breezy and cool with a faint, sweet undertone, like clean skin and quiet coastal nights. There’s a rock-hard tension in the pit of my stomach, my solar plexus turning into an iron core, as if as long as I keep myself tight, I'll keep the heat in my gut from traveling any lower and turning into something I didn’t ask for.

Business. Right. Focus on the damn business.

I exhale like I can eject her scent from me, but I can’t miss her shiver as my breath stirs her hair in soft, golden waves against her neck. “Liv, we need to talk,” I whisper.

She watches me from the corner of her eye. She’s toying at her rosy little lower lip with just one tooth, making it swell and plump and dent, reminding me how her mouth melted against mine in that one forbidden kiss. Fuck.

Then she leans in with a playful little mock-whisper and a teasing smile.

“You're too worried. Everybody here knows we’re not engaged,” she says, while I’m struggling with the sudden prickle of fire and heat as her warmth brushes me. “You don’t have to put on this act and pretend. Not here.”

“I don’t want everyone to hear what I’m saying, and there’s not exactly anywhere private to speak on an airplane.” I keep my lips close to her ear, voice low, and even if this is for secrecy, I can’t escape the intimacy. It's just us and the vanishing distance between us, close enough so I’m a lone breath away from kissing the soft shell of her ear, the slope of her bare, slender throat.

That's what I want to do, yeah, but that's not what it's about. She doesn't get it.

I force a wary gaze on a watchful Milah Holly over Liv’s shoulder, reminding myself why I’m here. Why I’m doing this. And that we’re not alone, and I’m not sure we can trust our host. “Tell me something, Liv. How much does your sis really know about those two murdered men?”

Liv frowns, puzzled lines furrowing her brow, before she turns her head.

Her cheek brushes mine, all peach-fine softness and silk. That fire in my blood turns my veins into smelters, turns me into a simmering pool of something dark and heavy that I most definitely should not be feeling. Not with this danger, this mystery, this damn enigma.

“Liv?” I prod her, but she's not answering, rubbing her cheek.

Too much? I wonder, holding my breath as she leans in, trying not to inhale her scent, but when her throaty, lilting voice caresses my ear, it’s like the curl of her breath strokes every inch of my body and licks right down to my cock.

Fuck me.

I never should've asked her about Milah.

Never should've told her anything about myself.

Never should've let her in. Because now it’s getting harder and harder to shut her out.

She’s talking again. Damn.

I was so focused on those soft sounds stroking against me that I missed what they were actually saying, and have to rewind to replay and parse what she actually said.

“I don’t know,” Liv whispers. “She says they were after her for some money she owed after a wild night on a Vancouver stop. That's all Milah's ever said.”

“So the other men who killed them just saw it as an opportunity to take down a rival syndicate while they were out in the open? Hit and run?”

She makes a soft, confused noise. “I dunno, maybe? Is that strange?”

“Very. Especially that they’d gun them down in the middle of a busy street in a nice part of Seattle. That’s either deliberate for a reason, or the mark of amateurs.”

Liv shakes her head subtly, and her cheek moves against my jaw in a velvety way I feel pouring all the way down to my balls. “And you think Milah has something to do with that?”

“I think Milah’s acting strange as hell for someone who’s the prime target. I know her reputation, I know she can be reckless and thinks she's invincible, but...”

But, fuck, she’s still watching us. Right now.

Even as I drug myself on Liv’s intoxicating, dick-teasing scent, I can’t miss the pinched, nervous look around Milah’s eyes. It’s not hard to tell she’s wondering what we’re whispering about, why we’re sitting so close, and her interest is suspicious in and of itself. “Listen, I'm not casting doubts on your sis. I believe she loves you enough not to endanger you. Showing up on my doorstep when we’re supposed to be hiding out and someone could be tailing you? That's dangerous. And a waste of the money your old man's spending to keep you safe. So why the sudden field trip to Canada?”

Liv says nothing. She's got no answers, and I can't blame her.

Suddenly, the silence between us is different, her head ducking, though she doesn’t pull away from me. All I can see is the long slope of her neck right now, teased by tendrils of honey-gold hair slipping free from a messy twisted-up clip, each soft strand licking at her skin the way I want to right now.

My lips throb in time with the movement of her pulse against her throat. I already know she’d taste like sweet things and silk. Know she'd moan like a dove under me, enough to drive me bat-fuck mad.

But I also know she’s hiding something, too. She knows more than she lets on.

Because Liv Holly is as transparent as a window in her emotions, and her silence says there’s something she doesn’t want to tell me, but she doesn’t know how to get around it.

Finally, she whispers, “I’ll ask her about it later. Promise.”

“Later?”

“When I can talk to her alone.”

I nod, suddenly hopeful that we've got a prayer of figuring this out.

I can’t think of anything else to say. I should pull away, put distance between us, remind myself of the boundaries I laid down like law.

Instead I let my gaze linger, following the curving slope where her neck blends into her shoulder, tracing over the fine articulated ridges of her collarbone, slipping down to follow her pale skin over the soft, warm swell of her chest peeking up over the neck of her dress. It's just enough to flirt, to entice, to make me want to delve deeper, to discover creamy, virgin flesh.

Up this close, her skin has a subtle mottled texture. Like how a pearl looks smooth and white from far away, but when you look more closely, it’s swirls and subtle grains and beautifully random.

“Hey!”

Milah’s voice snaps over me like a whip, sharp-edged and biting and too damn loud as her shadow falls over us. My eyes snap up, trying to hide my irritation.

She slaps her hands on the back of Liv’s seat and the opposite facing seat hard enough to make them bounce and grins down at us. I jerk back from Liv, one last brush of her cheek against mine before we’re separated.

I tell myself I’m imagining it, that she’s flushed. I tell myself it’s not because of me that she touches the place on her jaw where our bodies connected.

Milah grins down at us just a little too widely, her eyes almost manic. “What are you two lovebirds up to over here?”

Liv tosses me an uncertain glance and a fleeting, shallow smile before glancing at Milah and standing. “Nothing,” she says, her voice low. “We were just planning a surprise for Em. Can we keep it down?”

Strange. She lies to Milah so smoothly, but telegraphs everything with me.

And there’s something significant in the way she looks back at me, even as Milah hooks her arm in hers and drags her back across the aisle, chattering all the way.

I don’t want to take my eyes off Liv, but I have to. Have to remember the lines I drew, and Liv’s not the only one who needs to stay on her side of them. But as I return my gaze to the laptop screen and the blueprints, I can’t help but wonder:

What the hell am I doing?

From the moment we step off the plane, I can sense that something’s wrong.

Milah’s personal Dassault jet touches down on a private airstrip just north of Vancouver, set in a broad field and ringed by trees. It’s nearly midnight, the sky mostly clear with a few low-hanging clouds making muted gray silhouettes against the stars. The evening air has a hint of pine instead of the ocean breeze I’m used to.

There’s a subtle tension, too.

I'm expecting an escort waiting for us, a car, but there’s no one in sight beyond the fenced exit at the end of the airfield’s service road – and from what I could hear from the cabin, the tower had gone strangely silent on our final approach.

I’m the first off the plane, overnight bag banging on my hip, James bringing up the rear, the two of us forming a protective shield. I glance over my shoulder, catching his eye.

He nods subtly. He senses it, too.

I can see danger forming the lines of his body with the same lethal, menacing smoothness as a sword sliding from its sheath. Milah starts to strut out ahead of me, her ponytail swinging, but I snap my arm out to block her path and shake my head.

“No. Stay behind me,” I murmur. “All of you, stay back.”

“Emily,” James says softly, a steely note of command in his refined voice. “Please hand me your bag.”

Em frowns curiously and slings her backpack down to pass it over. “Why?”

“I don't want you hindered if we need to run.”

Em sucks in a soft breath but says nothing. I’ve taught my girl well. In these situations, you save the questions for later. It's more important to listen and be ready for anything.

We’re too exposed, out in the open like this. I want us in a sheltered place before we try to figure out what’s happening.

I don’t like the wide-open space with no cover, and I like the tree line obscuring sight beyond the edges of the field even less. Right now, the plane's our only cover, and it makes me uncomfortable to move away from it.

Still, we can’t huddle here all night, and the door is already swinging shut and sealing, the pilot heeding my advice to lock down.

I do a slow, careful scan of the perimeter. Nothing.

Then, glancing at James, I gesture toward my eyes with two fingers, then flick them toward the air traffic control tower, which is less a tower and more a small concrete outbuilding attached to a hangar barely big enough for a small prop plane.

We’ll regroup with the air traffic control personnel – safety in numbers, a defensible position, and access to outbound communications with the authorities – and then take it from there.

Another nod from James, and he spreads his arms, ushering our charges forward. “Everyone as quickly as possible, please. Keep your heads low, precisely half an arm’s length between you.”

Milah scoffs softly. “How am I supposed to know –”

“Just come on,” I bite off, then bolt across the tarmac at a tight clip, staying just far enough ahead to lead them, but close enough to defend.

I’m grateful for James. He understands tactics, can plot coolly in a tense situation, and knows how to keep the civilians just informed enough to save their lives without confusing them or weighing them down. Why half an arm’s length between everyone?

So we’re not a large enough cluster to make an easy target, but not so far apart that they can pick out individual bodies for a clear shot, either. I’ve always planned for the eventuality that I would have to protect my daughter from being shot.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill the person or people who put her in this situation.

I can’t let myself be distracted by Em right now, or by Liv. The best thing I can do, the best way I can care for them, is to keep myself focused and tight.

I’m not Em’s father right now, or Liv’s fake lover. I’m a hunter seeking prey, scanning for any hint of movement, waiting for that one rustle in the grass or tell-tale sound that marks a fatal mistake and shows me where to close in for the kill. They thought they had cornered, defenseless victims.

They’re about to find out how wrong they are.

We’re a few yards out from the air traffic control tower when that sense of something wrong redoubles. Through the windows, the low outbuilding is dark, as if it’s unoccupied – but I know I heard voices communicating with the pilot on descent. Even if there’s only one person manning their lonely station, someone should be inside with the lights on, consoles up.

The hairs all over my body prickle, rising up as if sensing for another presence. I move in a quick, silent sidestep to flatten myself against the wall next to a window, and gesture quickly for everyone to follow. James herds them in and lines them up along the wall, ushering them down below the windows and out of line of sight from inside. I slip my hand inside my leather jacket, curling my hand around the grip of the Beretta slotted into my shoulder holster, and lean carefully to the side to catch a glimpse inside the building.

Only for three men to step out from inside the hangar behind us, the first gunshot zinging loud, whizzing over my head like a furious hornet.

Instinct takes over.

I don’t even feel my body move. I’m just flattened against the wall one second, and the next I'm between them, my people, my family, and these punked-out assholes in their ripped jeans and torn jackets, holding their guns like they learned how to shoot from a decades-old mafia flick.

I trust James has them covered – he’s already herding them forward at a crouching run, around the corner of the building, Milah’s scream echoing over the night, Liv and Em almost worrisomely silent – but it’s my job to keep them safe.

I'm their shield, even if it means using my own body.

And as I step out into the open, all emotion leaves that body. There’s only the slow-time tracking of my arm as I pull my Beretta from its holster and aim. Only the knowledge that it doesn’t matter if I’m hurt, if I bleed, if I die, so long as I fulfill my mission to protect them.

This is who I am, under the skin.

This is why Crystal drifted away long before death ever took her.

Because she couldn’t look into the eyes of a man who didn’t fear death, and not fear him instead.

A pound of pressure on the trigger. The slightest squeeze of my finger. The recoil in my hand, sharp slow motion, the burst of smoke and spark of fire and the bullet flying out.

Time crawls, stops...then races forward as the bullet strikes one of the three men in the shoulder and he drops with a scream, his shot going wide and far afield. Even as the other two swing guns on me, I’m aiming again. Victory in a firefight requires calm. Detachment.

The pure and focused intent to make sure every hit is a kill shot.

You don't win shootouts acting like some crazed asshole spraying bullets everywhere and hoping.

A bullet zips past my shoulder, close enough where I feel the force of it through my jacket. I sidestep, ever a moving target, and once more sight down the barrel, taking aim.

Calculating. Processing. Focused.

One cold, methodical decision after another in a chain of events that ends in my finger tightening on the trigger once, twice, recoil and bodies dropping and blood that looks black as it sprays against the darkness of the night.

I wait just long enough to make sure they’re not getting back up – I don’t care if they’re dead or alive, just that they can’t hurt my people anymore – before turning to follow James and the others around the building's side.

James has gathered everyone to one side of the door, and flattened himself against the door’s very edge. I sweep a quick glance to make sure no one’s injured. Em’s face is white as a sheet, but she looks calm, composed, even withdrawn. Like father, like daughter.

Milah's cheeks are apple red, likely from screaming against her sister’s palm, her blue eyes wide and streaked with tears. Liv trembles, but holds steady, muffling Milah’s nonstop screams against her hand, her eyes dark and liquid and lost.

For just a moment our gazes meet, and something strikes that emotionless emptiness inside me, some dark and terrible pang.

I can’t read her. I can’t see myself reflected in her eyes. I can't fucking do it now.

I can’t even tell if she still sees a man, or a demon darkness wearing human skin.

A sound from inside tells me I don’t have time to wonder. I take up a flanking position on the other side of the door. James has his Ruger drawn, cocked and ready. On my nod, he kicks the door open and comes in hot on my heels as I shoulder into the room gun first.

It's pitch black, save for tiny power lights on the edges of a few consoles, but someone’s here.

I feel them. Breathing. Waiting.

It’s like I can hear the trickle of sweat pouring down their spines, the nervous fear chilling until it’s like a cold kiss on the back of their necks. I can taste the sourness on the air.

“James,” I whisper, and the lights flood on in a sudden burst as he flicks the switch.

I’m ready. The man standing over the shaking air traffic controllers with a pump-action shotgun isn’t.

He winces, swinging the shotgun toward me with a cry, squinting against the light and swearing. One of the air traffic controllers, huddled in her chair and bent over her console with her hands on the back of her neck, lets out a trembling whimper.

I shoot Mr. Shotgun in the thigh without a second’s hesitation, the recoil vibrating and stinging against my palm.

The other air traffic controller screams, his eyes rolling back in his head as his body slumps from the chair to the floor in a dead faint.

I drop down and check his pulse, then check Mr. Shotgun’s. He’s still breathing, but unconscious. Losing a lot of blood from his femoral artery, spreading in a red sea across the floor.

I want to question him, but he won’t be waking up for a while.

We can’t risk taking him with us when that could bring an entire army down on our heads. But there’s a tattoo on his neck. I know it, a gang sign, subtle enough to pass off as nothing unless you recognize it.

Three neat dots arranged in an equilateral triangle. The three corners of a Pilgrim’s tricorne.

I guess Lion’s a history buff.

We kidnap a Pilgrim, we’ll be dead by morning.

If it were just myself, I’d risk it for the intel alone, the answers – but it’s not just me.

I have three non-combatants on my hands, and that’s what makes my decision.

Standing, I catch James' eye again. We have an unspoken rhythm that comes from familiarity, each of us knowing what we’re best at, and right now, it’s James’ cool composure in the face of even the worst danger, the way he has of exuding a sort of icy killer charm, that’s needed to manage the task at hand.

James inclines his head, then steps over to the shaking woman behind the console. His Ruger disappears into his suit coat, and he offers a brief, formal smile. “You’ll have to pardon me for intruding, Miss. Are you hurt?”

The air traffic controller shakes her head. “N-no...”

“Excellent. Then I’ll need you to do me the courtesy of calling the local authorities, please. We won't be staying, but here’s my card so the police can get in touch with us for a statement.”

He retrieves a business card from his breast pocket and holds it out to the woman with two fingers. She stares at him as if he’s grown a second head, while he lets out a dry, patient sigh.

“You’ll want to hurry, Miss. Without paramedics, the man we just shot may die. Two others outside are likely in similar condition. I’d really rather not have to testify in a self-defense case.”

The woman reaches out, taking the card in wavering fingers, her mouth quivering like she’s about to cry. “Wh-who are you?”

James’ thin smile returns. “Enguard Security.” He sweeps a brief, mocking bow. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I roll my eyes and slip my Beretta back into the holster. I don’t think we’ll see any more Pilgrims, or the gunshots would have brought them running, but I can’t shake the sense of alertness that says we’re not out of danger yet.

I turn back to Liv, Em, and Milah. Milah has flattened herself against the wall inside the door and sunk down it, hugging her knees to her chest. Liv is crushed against the wall as well, but she’s got her arms around Em – and Em clings to her like a baby monkey, burying her face in Liv’s side, while Liv gently strokes her back and whispers wordless things and watches me with that same unreadable, wide-eyed gaze.

Fuck.

I can’t do this right now.

There’s no room for the ripping feeling inside me.

I sink down to one knee in front of Milah. She’s not quite looking at me, she’s more looking through me, her eyes vacant with shock.

I take both her hands, trying to get her to focus, trying to ground her, speaking slow and steady.

“Milah.” When I say her name, she jerks sharply, her pupils constricting and locking on me, but she says nothing. “Where are your people?”

She starts to make shaky sounds, but then stops, her lips tight. She shakes her head, eyes welling, fingers clutching at mine, and I squeeze them back gently. I don’t have words of reassurance in me when I’m like this, but I can at least promise with touch I’m here, I’m protecting you, you’re safe. I have you, and I’m not letting go.

“Milah,” I repeat. Keep her focused with her name. “I need you to be calm right now. I need you to concentrate. You arranged for a car to meet us here, didn’t you?”

It takes long moments before she answers. She nods slowly, rigidly, then stammers out, “Y-yes.”

“Can you call them again? Find out where they are?”

Again a delay. She’s in shock, and she’s going to need time to recover from this.

I have a feeling, despite my suspicions about her motivations, that this is the first time the blood and danger truly became real to her. After her run-in with death last year, she must've thought the worst of it was over and she was invincible.

I never thought I’d find myself feeling sorry for a diva like Milah Holly, but even divas are allowed to be scared.

But she must have some inner reserve of strength, because something snaps in her eyes and she nods a bit more firmly. “O-okay. I'll call.”

Then she pulls her hands free from mine and fumbles inside her jacket until she pulls out a Motorola in a hot pink case. With clumsy fingers, she stabs at the screen, then lifts it to her ear. Distantly, I hear the ringtone repeating.

But I also hear something else, faint and far away – a hint of melody, and I lift my head, turning it toward the window.

Milah pulls the phone away from her ear, the call dead-ends, and that thin hint of sound stops. She shakes her head. “Nobody’s answering.”

“Try again,” I murmur, this time straining to listen even harder.

There: a repetitive jingle, some snatch of a pop song, stopping and starting over and over again, outside. Not close by, but not too distant, either. Maybe on the deserted road running alongside the airstrip. I glance over my shoulder at James.

“You hear that?”

He’s already striding toward the door, meticulously adjusting his cufflinks. “On it.”

As James slips out into the night, I transfer my attention back to the three girls in front of me. Em’s finally peeking out from where she’s buried herself in Liv, watching me with dark, questioning eyes asking more than I can answer right now.

This is the second time, though, that Liv immediately moved to protect Em over herself, even though my daughter’s not even a target. This time, too, she extended her quiet strength to Milah, one hand even now rubbing her sister’s back while her inquisitive gaze seems to ask me what the next step is like a soldier awaiting orders.

There’s a hidden iron core inside this girl. Untested, maybe buried so deep she’s not even aware of it herself, but it’s something born not of hardship or experience but a certain strength of character.

Liv isn’t nearly as helpless as she thinks – and I’m grateful to her for being there for Em when I’m too deep in mission mode to take that on.

“We’re going to get out of here,” I say, keeping my voice in that same even tone. Keep calm, and the others will too. “The men who attacked us are Pilgrims. Either they’re more reckless than we thought, or they’ve got connections. This isn't a place we want to be, in case more of them show up before the police do. The cops can always come to us. I’ve looked over security at Milah’s place, and it should be enough to keep us safe until we can go back home.”

Em pipes up, “Why can’t we just get on the plane and go home?”

“Because I don’t know or trust that pilot, love, and we don’t have air clearance. We’ll go home once people I do trust are here to escort us.”

“Mr. Strauss?” she asks softly, and even when I’m empty inside I can’t help but smile.

“Mr. Strauss,” I confirm. “But until then, we’ll lock down Milah’s place and stay low.”

The air traffic controller speaks tentatively at my back. “The police and an ambulance are on their way.”

“That’s good,” I respond. “I want you to tell them what happened here. My friend and I are with a private security company and licensed for concealed carry both in Washington state and British Columbia. We acted today to defend our clients from criminals in a violent attack. Please tell the police to use the number on that card to get in touch with us.”

The air traffic controller still looks like she’ll pass out any second, but she nods a little too quickly and clutches the card to her chest. “Okay,” she whispers, then adds tentatively, “And...thank you.”

I don’t understand what she’s thanking me for, until my gaze catches on the man bleeding out on the floor, the scent of his blood a cold, sticky metallic hint in the air conditioned room.

She’s thanking me for saving her life.

I'm still clueless after all these years.

Don’t know what to do when someone thanks me for hurting someone else, even if it’s for the only reasons that could ever be the right ones.

I’m saved from figuring out how to respond by James, who ducks back inside with a look of weary exasperation, straightening his tie. “There’s an SUV parked outside, roughly fifty yards from the exit gate,” he says dryly, though there’s a touch of a sardonic edge to it. I’m not sure why until he continues, “Two men outside of it, unconscious from blunt force trauma, keys in the ignition.” His gaze cuts to Milah. “I presume, since the jumble of letters on the vanity plate approximately translates to ‘BAD BITCHMOBILE' –” he pronounces it as precisely and articulately as if giving a valedictorian speech, “ – that this would be your vehicle?”

Milah flushes scarlet up to her hairline and shrinks down with a sheepish nod, staring at him.

James’ lips curl coolly at the corners. “Excellent. It seems the interlopers subdued your men to prevent intervention, but their injuries don’t look particularly severe. We can gather them and be on our merry way.”

That’s our cue to move. Between James and I, we round everyone up, keeping them tight between us and heading out at a quick, militaristic trot.

We head through the chain-link fence, out to the road, where the SUV sits with its doors open, headlights bright, flooding the night. Two burly men in suits slump against the front and back driver’s side tires.

I check their pulses just in case. They're strong.

The bloody spots on the backs of their heads are small, barely breaking the skin, and they’re already starting to groan toward consciousness as James and I heft them into the rear storage space and settle them with their jackets folded under their heads.

James takes the wheel, stealing Milah’s phone to get her address and borrow her GPS, while I settle in the back seat with everyone else. It’s a tight fit with two grown women, one girl, and me, but if anything goes wrong as the car speeds smoothly through the night, I’d rather be close by and able to shield them.

The moment she has her seatbelt on, Em latches onto my side like a burr, curling her fingers in my jacket. “Daddy.”

I shouldn’t crack. I can’t fucking crack, not until we’re behind secure walls at Milah’s villa, but this is my daughter, dammit. And she’s just come far too close to being shot.

Everything I've repressed blows through that wall of ice in a burst of raw emotion: love, fear, relief, gratitude.

I cup Em’s sweet little face in my palms, searching her over, looking for even so much as a scratch, but I’m just as afraid of the kind of damage that can’t be seen on the surface when her eyes well and she chokes back a sob.

“Em,” I murmur. “Em, honey, tell me you’re all right.”

She hiccups, eyes spilling over, but forces a smile, brave and bright and wonderful and I’m so, so fucking proud of her. So glad I haven’t lost her today.

“I’m f-fine,” she says, then sniffles and rubs at her nose. “I promise I’m okay.” Her smile strengthens. “You should’ve let me help. I could’ve taken one of them.”

I can’t help a broken, harsh bark of laughter, and I gather her closer, wrapping her up like I can hide her from the awfulness of my world. “That’s my girl,” I whisper.

Over Em’s head, I catch Liv watching me – and for a moment she reaches over, her fingertips resting on my arm, the lightest butterfly’s touch. Blue eyes search me over as if seeking something deeper, something more.

I’m sorry, she mouths, and now I finally understand that look in her eyes.

It’s guilt.

I didn’t think I could ache anymore, but I was wrong. And even though I know I shouldn’t care, shouldn’t push these lines, I can’t help seizing her hand in mine, pressing it against Em’s back.

Later, I mouth back, and keep her cool, shaking fingers twined in mine. We'll talk when we're able.

The urge to murder something, someone, hasn't fully faded.

I’m fucking furious at the people who put my daughter in danger. Furious that this sick vendetta has gone this far.

But I can’t be furious with Liv.

And I can’t let her blame herself for this. Lion's the only one who deserves my fury, my scorn.

My vengeance.

Sooner or later, he'll pay for threatening my daughter, and for threatening Liv.

Milah’s Vancouver estate is more of a fortress than I expected, even after reviewing the plans on the plane. Electrified fences, double access codes requiring either internal lock activation or Milah’s bioprint, security cameras mounted everywhere.

As Milah leans around me and half climbs over James to stick her arm out the driver’s side window and press her palm to the bioprint plate, I give her a skeptical look, raising a brow.

She plunks back down in her seat almost sulkily. “What?” she mumbles, shooting me a defiant look. “I don’t like paparazzi.”

That almost gets a smile out of me.

But I don’t feel easy until the SUV is parked in the eight-car garage and we’re inside the sprawling, multi-story imitation-Victorian house. Here, the lines are just off enough from classical to lean into showy gaudiness, with just enough extra to be so very perfectly Milah.

I’m worried about the size of it, but as long as I can keep everyone within shouting distance, we should be fine.

Milah’s on-site staff are either still up this late at night, or very good at rolling out of bed in an instant, as they’re waiting to usher us to our rooms.

They adapt quickly when I make it very clear I don’t want us scattered, and all of our rooms need to be adjacent, within easy reach of each other. A shuffling of room reassignments later, and I’m promising I’ll be there to tuck Em in and see her safely to sleep as soon as I’ve dropped my bag off in my room and shrugged out of a jacket stained in blood spatters.

But as I open the door to my room, I pause as Liv breaks away from our group to head toward hers. It's to the right of mine, Em’s to the left. Liv looks so tired, so small, so forlorn and pulled into herself, as if she’s locked herself up in this tiny, fragile bundle of guilt and is holding down hard to keep anything from escaping to hurt anyone else.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling away from my door and stepping closer, reaching out to rest my hand lightly on her wrist. She stills, lifting her head as if waking from a daze, looking up at me.

“Riker...” she says, as if just realizing I’m here.

The urge to take her in my arms is so powerful I almost can’t resist.

I want to shelter her, to stand between her and anything that might make her feel as lost as she looks right now.

But I can’t forget the one night I reached for Crystal, after subduing a home invader...

She flinched from me, looking back as if I was the one who might hurt her.

It’s that memory that makes me pull back from Liv, shoving my hands into the pockets of my slacks for lack of anything else to do.

For lack of anything else to say, too, when I don’t know the words and I’m tangled up inside my own head. It’s a raw sharp blow to the gut to realize I don’t want this woman to be afraid of me.

To realize I don’t want her gone from my life, either.

But it seems like a good place to start, to force out, “I’m sorry you had to see that shit back there. Sorry if I frightened you.”

“Frightened me?” Her brow wrinkles, and her head cocks. “Riker, no.” She shakes her head. “You saved us. All of us.” She trails off, faltering, staring up at me with those wide, pretty eyes, then looking down, her hand curling against her chest. “I feel so safe in your hands.”

Such simple words shouldn’t rock my world. “You're serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I just shot several men. Shot them like nothing. I walked into gunfire without caring if I got shot myself. I may have killed them.” I don’t think it’s even apparent to me how heavy this is until I look away sharply, staring down the hall. “Being willing, being capable of doing that...it can frighten people, you know.”

“It doesn’t frighten me.”

I blink back my surprise. And then she’s so close – leaning into me, resting her hand on my chest, soft and yet so warm, that touch asking me to look at her. Asking me to believe her as much as the quiet earnestness in her voice asks, offers, gives so much with warmth and understanding. “How hard is it to do that for a living? To be that way? But you did it anyway, to keep me and Em and even my sister safe.” Her fingers curl, tangling in my shirt, fingering one of the buttons. “That doesn’t scare me, Riker. It's comforting.”

She’s not looking at me now, but I can’t look away from her.

The way she glances down and off to the side, so shy, so clearly afraid of rejection, and yet putting herself out there to comfort me anyway, to accept me.

Fuck. Sometimes it’s not force that can break you, but the gentlest touch.

This woman's gentleness will annihilate me, if I let it.

I cover her hand with mine, catching it against my chest. “Liv.”

I just say her name, slow, waiting for those eyes.

Her breath catches. Her cheeks warm with pretty washes of pink, and she lifts her head, looking up at me. But before she can speak, James leans into the hall from the living room.

“Riker?”

He pauses as Liv and I break apart abruptly, his keen silver-blue eyes flicking over us both, but his expression remains neutral.

“The police wish to speak with you,” is all he says, before ducking back out.

Right. I sigh and glance at Liv, offering her a tired smile as I turn away. But she steps forward abruptly, pressing against my back, this slight figure weighing me to earth, every bit of her imprinting against me.

“Hey, Riker...” Her breath is warm through my shirt, her lips moving against my spine. “Come back soon.”

I reach back and catch her hand, squeezing tight in the only reassurance I can offer, before I pull myself away—hating every step between us, and the duty that I have to face.