“How’d you know I live here?” I reach for Cade’s arm and try to yank him closer and out of the hall.

I maintain my grip and look up at him. He’s a lot taller than me. Six-foot-two, probably.

It takes me a second to remember what the hell I’m doing, because I can’t seem to remove my hand from what feels like steel beneath my palm.

“You do want me to come in, right?” A slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his brows rise. “Maybe we should shut the door?”

“Yeah.” I stumble back and retract my arm. Once we’re both in, I lock up and secure the chain in place. It’s my only protection, flimsy as it is, from Rory and his men.

I turn around to find Cade moving farther into my apartment.

He’s in light-colored, fitted jeans. His ass looks . . . well, it’s distracting.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and try to rein in my sudden hormones that are equivalent to the one time I bumped into Derek Jeter when I was eighteen.

My dad’s a diehard Yankees fan, and it’s one of the only things we’ve ever really found common ground on.

What is wrong with me? I need to focus. Rory’s out of town, but that doesn’t mean his guys aren’t watching me.

“Why are you here?” I move to stand in front of him, my heart pounding.

“Nice place.”

“Not as nice as yours,” I can’t help but say as my arms cross.

“So, you know where I live too, huh?”

“Looks like we’ve been Googling each other,” I joke, surprised by my ability to tease, given the situation.

Another smile stretches across his face, and it does something funny to my chest: a weird sensation grips that organ of mine known as the heart. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt emotions there, besides pain and sadness.

When I notice his gaze dropping to my sketchpad on the couch, I try to get to it before him, bumping into the side table as I do so, but he’s too fast. “Give it to me.” I hold my hand out like an impatient five-year-old.

He starts to flip through the pages as he holds it above his head, too high for me to reach.

Who’s the child now?

“Are you a fashion designer? These sketches of women are great. They look sad, but . . .”

I push up on the balls of my bare feet and try once again to snatch it from him, but his eyes cut to mine, narrowing. My breath gets stuck in my throat.

It’s already the second wave of desire that’s hit me since he showed up tonight. I stand flat again and my thighs squeeze.

He finally hands it back to me, and I stare down at the veins on the top of his hand.

“I have friends in the industry. I could show them your work.”

I pull myself out of my daze and shake my head.

I tuck the notepad beneath the cushion on the couch as if that will deter him. I don’t let anyone see my drawings. My art classes are different—they’re for a purpose—but these sketches are part of me, of my past.

I head over to the wet bar on the other side of the room to pour myself whiskey. I don’t normally drink something so strong, but I need to shut down the little vibrations that are rocking through my veins and making my heart pump so much faster.

When I turn around, I nearly spill the amber liquid all over his shirt, not expecting him to be so close.

“When did you move to the States?”

“Ten years ago,” I say softly.

“And you’ve been under Rory’s control since you came?” His eyes narrow as if he’s processing it all.

“Something like that.”

I hand him the drink, realizing it’d be rude not to offer him something.

He nods his thanks, and I face the bar again.

At the touch of his hand on my hip, I brace the black marble counter with both palms.

My eyes close at the feel of his hand there, but it doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels safe.

I know that’s weird. There’s a guy I barely know in my place, and he has his hand on me, and yet, I want to press my back to his chest and let him put his hands wherever the hell he wants to.

“Your English is damn near perfect,” he says into my ear, his breath like a hot whisper across my skin, making me flushed and warm.

“Why only near perfect?” When I face him, his hand drops, my body cooling from the loss of his touch.

“I like your accent, you know that,” he answers, avoiding my question. He takes a sip, and I focus on his lips. Full lips that have me wondering how they’d feel against my own.

I forget my drink and go over to the window to close the blinds. “I was raised trilingual. My mother spoke Portuguese, Spanish, and English, and so she made sure I did, too.”

“Smart woman. And where’s your mother now?”

I lower my forehead to my palm when the last memory I have of her floods my mind. My body trembles and my skin pebbles.

“Gia, are you okay?”

I have no idea how long I’ve been quiet, but when I look up, he’s standing before me, observing me with concern in his eyes. And it looks genuine.

“Can we just get back to why you’re here?” I swallow the pain. I stuff it down inside to where I bottle everything up—everything that matters—so Rory and his people can never touch it, never get to the real me.

“I’m here to help you. And don’t worry, no one saw me come up.” He squints as if the sun is in his eyes, even though it’s dark out and the blinds are shut, closing the silver moon from our view.

He sets the drink down by the couch, and his fingers rest on his jacket zipper. He looks at me as if waiting for permission to remove it.

I nod and go past him before rooting myself into the oversized suede couch. I hate this couch. Rory bought it. Well, Rory bought everything here. Everything except me. When his father was officially sentenced, Rory convinced my dad I needed to move closer to the club for safety reasons. He never explained more than that to me, and I wasn’t given much of a chance to protest the move.

Cade sets his jacket on the leather chair near the window, and my gaze skirts up his exposed forearms. He’s in a black tee, even though it’s too cold out to be wearing short sleeves. “I didn’t expect a man like you to have ink.” There’s a tattoo of a lion on its hind legs with fire encircling it. The ink expands from his wrist up to the inside of his elbow.

Without realizing it, I brush my fingers over my own tattoo.

The muscles in his jaw clench as he glances down at his arm. He releases a breath and sits down next to me. “So, I’m not allowed to have tattoos?” His hands settle on his thighs, and the veins on his forearms have me tucking my bottom lip between my teeth. Maybe I should have let him take on Rory. Rory usually has his men do the heavy hitting, and I don’t doubt for a moment that Cade could knock Rory down.

Of course, that would have put an even larger target on Cade’s head.

“No,” I finally say, “not when you’re a millionaire businessman.”

“Mm. Maybe I have layers, like you.”

I’m sure he does. And if we weren’t living in two different worlds, maybe I’d like to get to know what’s beneath the surface. “You really shouldn’t be here.” I pull my attention up to his face, and my heart palpitates.

One look from him, one touch—it does something to me. It’s not just that I’m not allowed to be around him . . . it’s something else that’s throwing me off, that’s shattering my normal composure. I’ve learned over the years to deal with a lot of men. Powerful, brash, arrogant, strong, successful . . . all kinds. But I’ve never had a reaction to someone like this before.

“I know I shouldn’t, which is exactly why I am.”

“Your cryptic talk isn’t helping.”

He smiles. And for some stupid reason, I smile again, too.

But then the moment is gone, and my hand curls into a fist in my lap as I try to grind out the words I need to say without allowing too many emotions to rush to the surface too fast. He needs to understand what he’s doing—how dangerous this really is for him.

“The first time I ran away from this life, I was only sixteen.” My eyes flutter shut as my skin tightens on my forehead, giving me a headache. “I barely knew how to drive, but I stole a car that belonged to a friend of my father, and I headed for Poughkeepsie. I was on the Taconic Parkway when I hit black ice. The car spun in a circle, and I bounced off the guard rails. I thought I was going to die.”

The feel of Cade’s warm hand over my closed one has me stilling for a moment.

“Somehow, I only came out with a broken arm and a few scratches.” I finally look up, and he’s staring back at me. “But the next time I ran away my broken arm wasn’t from an accident.”

His thumb slowly moves over the top of my hand, and the gentle stroke does something to soothe me. “My father sent someone to find me, and the guy was more brutal than that car accident.”

“Jesus, Gia. Your father was okay with that?” His voice is deep, almost silky, and it glides over my skin, cascading like a rush of water pouring over me, and then right through to my very core.

“No. Dad killed him when he saw what he did to me.” I’ll never forget the moment when I was dragged through my dad’s door. The guy was an idiot for having the balls to hurt the daughter of one of the most notorious and feared hitmen on the East Coast.

But when I entered my dad’s home—I wasn’t in tears because of the pain. No, I was crying because I was back. Back to the darkness. The dark, inky oil of my life.

One bullet to the forehead, and he was gone in the blink of an eye. “He shouldn’t have died because of me. Shamus wasn’t a good man, but still, his blood is on my hands. If I hadn’t run away . . .”

“Don’t say that.” Cade scoots closer and pulls me against him as if I’m someone special, as if I’m someone important to him. And for some reason, I let him. I let him wrap an arm around me, and I press my cheek to his chest, hearing his heartbeat.

I haven’t had anyone care about me since I lived in Brazil. My father is good at keeping me safe—more like imprisoned—but he’s never shown real emotions. I’m not even sure if a killer like him is capable.

So, the affection from Cade, a stranger, is confusing. But I hang onto the moment for as long as possible, because moments of safety are so rare. “The third time I ran away, Rory came for me.” I’m not sure if I can keep talking, if I can expose my past, my secrets, my life.

“What’d he do?” There’s a hint of anger that vibrates through his words and chills me.

“Well, he, uh, brought me back to the city and put me in some room at their underground casino. I thought I was going to die, but it was even worse.” I secure a deep breath and let it out. “My best friend, Chinara, was chained to a chair in the room and blindfolded. She was my only real friend. And Rory nearly killed her, while forcing me to watch. His guys held me back while I struggled, trying to get to her. I was powerless to stop it.”

“Fuck.” Cade slowly pulls away and finds my eyes.

I didn’t realize I was crying.

If I froze every tear that’s fallen over the years, I could make my own icy pond. Maybe even a lake.

“I never talked to Chinara again after that. I can’t care about people; if I do, they’ll get hurt.” I gaze deep into his eyes, to make sure he truly understands what I’m saying.

“And when I run again, I have to make sure I’m not leaving any bodies behind, including yours, which is why you shouldn’t even be here right now.”

He looks up at the ceiling for a moment in thought before his eyes cut back to mine. “I want to help you.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of his words as I stand. “Did you not hear anything I said?” I heave out a deep breath. He’s not making this easy. “Do your family and friends know you have a superhero complex?”

My knees are weak as I head to the kitchen. I take a sip of water then spin around.

He’s casually leaning inside the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, watching me.

“Do you fasten on a cape at night and go crusading around, saving young women?”

His long legs swallow the distance between us, and he stops shy of me by a foot or so. “I wouldn’t look good in tights.”

I don’t know about that.

His head angles, his eyes hold mine, and I’m done. I’m lost in that sea of blue.

“You, um . . .” Shit, my heart is beating so damn fast I can’t even talk. Not in English, at least. “You should really go.” I manage to string the words together, even though my pulse is climbing and I feel a squeeze of pressure, a tingling between my legs.

“Tell me something,” he says and steps even closer. Too close. All I can smell is him now.

“What?” I ask, almost breathless, as my nipples harden.

“If I could give you a way out, where no one gets hurt, would you take it?”

I raise a brow, wondering why we’re talking hypotheticals—because that’s all this is. There is no “no one gets hurt” way out. I have a plan, but even then, I have no idea how it will play out when it’s time. If the time ever comes.

But maybe with Cade’s help . . .

“Humor me.”

“Of course I’d want out.”

He edges back a step, giving me space to breathe. Thank God.

“Then I’ll be in touch soon.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I can tell my words won’t go far with this man. He’s stubborn and determined, and I have no idea why he wants to interject himself into my fight.

I can’t seem to get myself to tell him no, anyway. The wheels of my mind are turning as I formulate potential outcomes of what might happen if he does, in fact, get involved.

It’s selfish of me to consider accepting his help, though.

He nods as if satisfied by my lack of response and turns away. He grabs his jacket from the living room, and I trail behind him on our way to the foyer.

Once standing in front of me, the back of his hand skates down my cheek. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, but I need you to tell me one thing.”

“What?”

His hand falls from my face. “How’s your dad connected to the McCullens?”

“He’s, um, one of their hitmen. The very best.”

There’s no physical response. No increased look of worry. It doesn’t make sense.

“Would he ever hurt you?” His eyes narrow. “Has your father ever hurt you?”

“No, he loves me.” In his own messed-up kind of way—in the way only a killer could . . .

He looks like he wants to reach for me again, to touch my face or my arm, but he holds back. His eyes say it all, though. I’ve seen the look before.

Guilt. But from what? Why?

I should be the one feeling guilty right now, for accepting his help.

“Here’s my number, if you need me before I get to you.”

I take the business card he’s holding and simply nod goodbye.

Everything is surreal right now.

I lock up once he leaves and slowly sink to my knees. My fingers smooth over the bold script on the card: CADE KING.

Can I really let him put everything on the line for me?

Can I trust a stranger?

I pull my knees to my chest and hug them as if I’m fifteen again, hiding beneath the trap door in my house—listening to the sounds of heavy shoes above my head.

Listening to my mother scream.