Her mouth dropped open—she probably didn’t realize he could see her so clearly, or she wouldn’t have stared so openly, or bitten her lip, or let the truth of his words show through.

  sweet smile gone sultry, lips kiss-swollen, hands closing around him with greedy familiarity

  Alex made a strangled noise, exasperation and clenching need.

  Deb broke free from the blade’s invasion with a gasp. “What is that?” she asked, startled into blunt demand. “Don’t you dare say it’s complicated!”

  Alex groaned again, biting off those very words and struggling for new ones. “It’s what is,” he said. “It’s what will be. It’s what should.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, not knowing he could see that, too. “Does that line work for you?”

  As if he could help himself. Or stop himself from lowering his voice to the rasp that waited to say, “You tell me.”

  She closed her eyes, turning her face away—and she swallowed hard, her hands tightening ever so slightly on his. She was well aware when he slipped a hand from hers—she tipped her head ever so slightly to meet his fingers as he touched her lower lip, caressed it—slid his hand across her cheek to cup the side of her head.

  She knew it when he moved in to kiss her—with such care, such restraint—hunting the slightest sign that she wasn’t sure, that she didn’t want.

  Maybe she sensed that care. “Yes,” she whispered, not opening her eyes.

  Yes.

  And there, in the darkness of the bakery basement stairs, he kissed her, and he kissed her well. He kissed her hard and gentle and sweet and long, and he damned near kissed himself senseless. Her hands curled into his shirt, around his sides—a plucking demand for more.

  Which, in the darkness of the bakery basement stairs, neither of them would get. He pulled away, lingering for one more barest touch of a kiss, and he leaned his forehead on hers. “You tell me.”

  This time, she didn’t hesitate. This time, there was a faint, confusing touch of misery in her voice. “Yes,” she said. “Since the first time I saw you. It’s why I had to hide so hard.”

  “From me?” He frowned. “You’ve always been safe from me. You always will be.”

  She laughed shortly. “From me.” She stroked his face, fingers brushing stubble. “From mistakes I can’t afford to make again.”

  His hand closed over hers, no longer quite as gentle—the meaning clear, the implications acknowledged. That he, too, would be a mistake. He slowly pulled his hand away. “Deb,” he said. “Deb... ”

  “Marchand.”

  “Deb Marchand. What do you want from me, Deb? If you need me, I said. I meant it.”

  “I don’t—” She stopped in confusion, and pulled his jacket more tightly around herself.

  “Do you want me to get you out of here? Do you want me to take you somewhere? Do you want me to walk away? Whatever it is... just ask.”

  When she still hesitated, he said, “I can make sure he doesn’t bother you again.”

  She stiffened at that. “You wouldn’t—”

  “Not like that.” He wouldn’t—but the blade might take advantage of the situation. Hard to explain in a dark stairwell.

  She let it go, accepting the reassurance. “For starters? I want to get warm, and I want some rest. I want to feel safe while I figure out how to leave town.” Her voice took on a defiant note, as if she was prepared for him to say she couldn’t do any of these things.

  What he did was stand, and hold out his hand, and pull her to her feet. “Then you will.”

  And she came with him.

  ~o0o~

  Too good to be real.

  Alex’s warm hands... his warm jacket. His response to her phone call; his response to her kiss.

  A man with so much heart, and yet so much violence.

  In her experience, the two didn’t go together. And the violence ended up directed her way.

  “Okay?” he asked, and his voice still held the rugged note it had taken after that kiss.

  Okay. After bolting from the store as she saw her former boyfriend’s car slide into the parking lot—a predator, just like Gary Hines himself: gleaming, sporty, a growl in the engine and street car attitude in the details. The same car, nearly a year later. No doubt with the same handgun in the glove box.

  She’d so hoped he’d moved on—that he’d dismissed her from his life and found someone new to woo, so charming, before he slowly tightened around her with control and temper. But in that first flush of fear upon seeing him, she realized how futile a hope it had been.

  There was no way he’d simply let go of her defiance. If nothing else, he’d need to teach her one last lesson, leaving her bloodied and broken—putting himself back in control.

  Maybe even leaving her dead. In her heart, she believed it of him.

  Especially since he’d brought a friend.

  So she’d run. It was a small town, and she’d planned for this; she’d known where to duck aside, and which sharp turns gave her the most cover on the way through the complex little warren of alleys. He’d followed her for a while—giving her just a glimpse or two of his black gimme cap and linebacker’s shoulders. Right up until she’d hurried through the little grocery store on the corner, ditching out through the employee-only exit and doubling around to the bakery.

  There, she’d lost him. But her panic still hit a high note, her plan to return to her car completely thwarted.

  The bakery had put in a privacy fence since she’d mapped out this route.

  A hurried scramble over a stack of pallets had given her the view... and the bad news. She’d have no better luck risking a dash to the Madame Psychic store lot to her right, or the tiny leather goods shop to the left. They’d all added fences, separating themselves from the residential yards backed up against their lots.

  And so she’d waited to be discovered. Not daring to call for help as dusk turned to full dark, and not daring to leave on her own. Not daring to believe that Gary wouldn’t, having come this close to her, somehow already be at her little rented trailer, waiting for her.

  It had taken her hours before she realized she had Alex’s business card tucked her back jeans pocket; it had taken another hour to get up the nerve to use it, reading it by the light of the cell phone display. She’d called twice with no answer, and finally, finally, left a message.

  Okay, he asked? She was nowhere close to being okay.

  But she said, “The sooner, the better.”

  “My bike is nearby,” he told her as he headed out into the pitch darkness, sure-footed at that.

  She immediately balked, unable to see anything more than the indistinct shape of his face—and then, after he turned away, not even that.

  He came back to her with more patience than she’d expected. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I can see fine.” He pulled her hand around his back to rest on his opposite hip, gently draping an arm over her shoulder. “Trust me.”

  She didn’t voice that bitter little laugh—trust—and she didn’t voice the relief of sliding up against him, feeling from his confident movement that he did, indeed, know just where he was going; feeling the warmth and strength of him.

  Feeling his shirt wet beneath her hand. “What—?” she said, and started to pull away.

  He held her close. “I cut myself shaving. It’s nothing.”

  “I can’t trust you,” she said, finding that she had grown stronger in this past year after all, “if you lie to me.”

  He laughed under his breath, guiding her confidently into the alley and nudging a bottle out of her path with his foot along the way. “Damn, I like you. How about this—it’ll wait until we get somewhere else. By which time it’s likely to be nothing.”

  She scowled into the darkness. “It is just not right that I think you mean it. Not when you make no more sense than that.”

  “I know.” His voice held both humor and apology. “Here, there’s a pothole. We’re almost—”

  Halogen headlights snapped on from the facing alley across the street, blue-white and blinding. Alex cursed.

  And then the engine gunned, and she realized what he’d understood immediately—that the headlights were no coincidence. Nor was the familiar engine with its growl of power and anger.

  When the tires squealed, she froze—understanding the threat. Gary. He must have known she was back in one of these alleys—he must have seen the fences. And rather than risk losing her as he searched the wrong back lot, he’d simply waited for her to emerge.

  The patience of a predator.

  I should have known.

  It was her last coherent thought, as the car surged forward, headlights bouncing. Alex grabbed her hand from his hip, yanking her behind and to his right—a quick and startling surge of strength against which she had no resistance even as his other hand, limned a stark shadow against the light, dipped into his pocket and out again. She had the impression of movement, a whipping blow with a baton... then he shoved her hard against the side of the leather shop and threw himself on top of her, grinding her into brick. The air left her lungs; her ribs creaked. Glass shattered, scattering around their feet—air blew past in a rush of hot engine and burning rubber as the car slammed into the privacy fence.

  Alex’s weight disappeared from her back; he flipped her around to face him, and even in the darkness she could perceive the intensity of his expression. “Deb,” he said. “Are you—”

  “Okay,” she said, even if it was on a gasp of breath.

  He transferred that gaze to the end of the alley, where the glow from the car taillights revealed everything she feared she’d see in him.

  The violence. The willingness.

  Even now, he turned to go for the car, and somehow—somehow—

  No. That was not a sword in his hand.

  It was not.

  She found her tongue. She didn’t try to talk him out of it—didn’t try to tell him what to do. She simply blurted the truth. “There are two of them!”

  And if she’d been thinking about the odds of two against one when she knew Gary would have that handgun, she understood instantly from the look he gave her that he cared more about the fact that one of them might reach her while he was busy with the other.

  He slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her to his side—and suddenly she was running through darkness, clinging to him... trusting him.

  Behind them, Gary’s car spun its wheels, fighting the wreckage that enclosed the hood—pulling what remained of the fence down behind him.

  They’re coming! she wanted to say, and couldn’t find the breath. Alex barely slowed to lift her to the bike, his left hand somehow free once more of any weapon—and she’d barely settled into the cruiser’s shaped passenger seat when he mounted the bike in front of her, turned to jam a helmet into her hands, and fired up the engine.

  She’d barely plonked the helmet on—too large at that, and half covering her eyes—when he accelerated away from the curb. With completely unabashed terror, she flung her arms around him, waiting for his headlamp to come on... and realizing that in spite of the moonless night, he wasn’t going to use it.

  By the time Gary backed his car out of the alley, they’d spun out into the darkness, finding an alley of their own. A dodge, a weave, a wild clutch around his waist, and his route spat them out on an abandoned street, where Alex accelerated into the night.

  And, as an afterthought, finally flipped on the headlamp.

  Chapter 4

  Alex took a circuitous route to the duplex—an older home right on the outer edges of town, bridging the gap between open rows of newly planted corn and the town proper. He let the bike coast to a stop and halted it with a final whispering touch of the brakes, propping his leg out to stabilize it as the other foot reached to toe down the kickstand.

  She didn’t release her death grip around his ribs.

  Not that he minded. Her cheek between his shoulders, her body pressed up against his back, her thighs clamped around his hips—

  sweaty, gasping, crying out

  She jerked against him, and instantly pushed herself away.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  She sounded infinitely weary. “What did I say about lying?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Right. Got me. Not totally sorry.” But he added, in the silence that followed, “Not sorry for me. I’m sorry you don’t feel the same.”

  “Bad boys,” she muttered, somewhat nonsensically. The bike shifted slightly as her foot sought the ground. “Maybe it’s me I don’t trust, then.”

  “Maybe you should start,” he suggested. He stood, and managed to disengage from the bike even as she did, catching her elbow while she found her feet.

  “Where are we?” she said, looking at the wide, well-lit front porch somewhat askance. “Besides not a hotel.”

  “You said you wanted to feel safe,” he told her. “This is where I can make that happen.”

  “This is your place?” she asked, and that disbelieving tone returned to her voice. The wary one. “I don’t really think—”

  screams and splashing blood and breaking bone

  She sucked in a gasp and held it there. He let her get her balance, supporting her elbow, until she asked, “What—?“

  He didn’t answer right away, absorbing the blade’s message. When he spoke, he couldn’t hide the new tension in his voice. “It’s from the blade,” he said. “It’s what is. It’s what will be—what could be.” In her silence, he added, “It was meant to be a warning. A kindness, I would say. It’s hard to tell.”

  “The blade,” she said flatly.

  “My knife. You’ve seen it. You have some idea of what it is. What it does.”

  “Your truths,” she said, with no little asperity, “are missing pieces.”

  No doubt about that.

  “Safety,” he said, and nodded at the porch—one double door plain, the other decorated with a child-made welcome sign and sporting a pink girl’s bike with streamers and training wheels. Flower boxes overflowed with blooms—snapdragons and sweet peas and daisies. “A hot shower. Rest. And then I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon,” she muttered.

  “Then we’ll go,” he said.

  Maybe it was the utter simplicity of it. Maybe she simply gone as far as she could this night. Maybe she understood the blade’s warning.

  Maybe it was, in some neonatal fashion, trust.

  Except there, on the porch, with the squeaky screen door propped open and his key on the lock, she hesitated again.

  He couldn’t entirely blame her. He knew who he was—what he was. What he’d become, these past few years. And it was those past few years that gave him some true sense of what she’d likely been through.

  The beatings he’d stopped. The killings he’d thwarted. The men—and occasional women—who had died at his hand, determined to turn their violence upon him when he protected their victims.

  That’s when the blade was the happiest.

  a shattered windshield, a gun grabbed from the glove box, a confusing juxtaposition of faces old and new, all sneering... all full of disdain and victory.

  The boyfriend was looking for her. For him.

  He was looking hard.

  He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere near. But all the same, best not to be out on the porch.

  Alex slid a hand to the small of his back, moving slowly as she stiffened—even more slowly as he brought out the compact Sgian Dubh—and held it out to her.

  She returned him a look of utter disbelief.

  “It’s a Sgian Dubh,” he told her. “It’s at rest.”

  “Skain Du,” she repeated, still in utter disbelief. “And what makes you think I want to touch it?”

  He laughed, short as it was. “Good point,” he said. “But you’re safe from it. And if you have it, then you’ll be armed and I won’t.”

  She narrowed her eyes, there in the light where she could see him perfectly well. “What did you do in the alley with that thing?”

  “Baton,” he said simply. “Broke the windshield. I doubt he even saw that fence.”

  “Baton.” She looked at the blade. “Show me.”

  He shook his head. “It’s dozing,” he said. “Better not to wake it, don’t you think?”

  She made a little huff of noise. “Tell me, then.”

  “Inside,” he suggested, and presented the blade to her again, even as he couldn’t believe he was doing it at all. It had tried to kill him once, on the day it had become his. Now it had entwined itself around his soul, becoming pushier as the days and weeks and finally years passed by.

  It would not be pleased to be in her hands. He had no doubt it would make him pay.

  But then, he paid for its presence on a daily basis.

  She slapped her hand on his, picking up the blade—pushing past him to enter the house. He locked the door behind them. “I know he’s looking, but he won’t find you here.”

  “But tomorrow... how can I be safe if you’re at work?”

  He latched the door chain. “This is my work,” he told her. It didn’t trouble him to relieve loan sharks, drug dealers, and thieves of their money. “The blade and I.”

  But when he turned back to her, he found her a lot closer than he’d expected.

  He found her drowning in his leather jacket, swamped by fear... and the spear of a blade pointed right at his belly. Touching it.

  He sucked back that vulnerable flesh. “Hey, now—”

  “Turn around,” she commanded him, and her eyes had gone hard. For a moment, he thought the blade had gone to her after all. For a moment, he thought he’d done utterly the wrong thing.

  Which meant there would be no right thing. No escape from this moment.

  So he turned, feeling the prick of the blade up against his spine, but it was her other hand that went to work—fumbling at his shirt, yanking it up. He knew what she was staring at. He knew, too, that it was mostly healed by now. The unnatural burn of it had faded; the blood was dry. So was his voice. “I was sleeping it off when you called.”