Chapter One

No good deed goes unpunished.

—Oscar Wilde

Michael Cavalcante tried to remember the exact circumstances that’d led to his sudden and alarming inability to see straight. Or to unlock his throbbing jaw. Or to hear anything other than a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Either he could now perceive frequencies otherwise reserved for dogs, or he’d been ambushed by a tiny brunette with a frying pan and trust issues.

The bad news: If he died, it would take weeks for anyone to find him. He’d just settled in for the night and caught a nice buzz when the call came in, so he’d left his bike at home and taken an Uber. No one knew where he’d gone. Would anyone wonder why he’d disappeared? Would they worry about his fragile well-being? Not likely since there was nothing fragile about him. But a guy could dream.

The good news: Death would be preferable to the throbbing in his jaw. And his neck. And his right shoulder. Actually, anything would be preferable. Fire ants. Torture. An IRS audit.

He lifted his lids long enough to realize the sun had crested the horizon, the light a soft glow around him. He’d been out a while.

The sound of metal scraping against wood broke through the ringing in his ears, followed by the soft rustling of feet and a cascade of falling objects like a box being dumped out beside him. He tried again to focus on his surroundings and received a stabbing pain along his left temple for his efforts, so he gave up.

He let his lids drift shut and leaned his head back against the cool, smooth surface of what he could only assume was an oven door. Or possibly a dishwasher. Either way, his hands had been bound with a rope to the handle of whichever kitchen appliance his captor felt would hold him best.

They didn’t know him very well.

It was this complex. The apartment complex he’d been conned into buying by a fourteen-going-on-forty-year-old named Elwyn Alexandra Loehr. The preternatural daughter of two gods, Elwyn had been making strange requests of the entire team commissioned to protect her.

She’d had his friend Donovan start following the team’s gorgeous, ask-no-questions doctor—a godsend, considering their lifestyles—only to find out the woman was a wraith from another dimension. She’d encouraged another member, Eric, to take a break and visit his old friend in Idaho, where he stopped a woman from being killed by a man who’d been stalking her for years. And she’d convinced Michael to invest in real estate. To make something of himself. To expand his horizons. As if watching over the girl destined to save the world from a demon uprising wasn’t enough.

He hadn’t questioned her motives then, but he was beginning to now. She was far too intelligent for her own good, and he was beginning to see a pattern, as though she were moving pieces on a chessboard. Collecting a pool of humans with supernatural abilities. Gathering her army.

The whole thing made him nervous. At this point in her life, she was far too young to face an opponent like the king of Hell. She needed time, and they needed to come up with a plan. Together.

Besides, Michael didn’t have a supernatural bone in his body. He probably would’ve known to steer clear of this building if he did. Strange things had been happening since he bought it. Like lights flashing at all hours of the night. And creepy sounds keeping the tenants awake. Clearly, it was cursed. Or haunted. Or both.

Probably both.

He made a mental note to call in a favor from Elwyn’s mother and have the place exorcized. What were friends for, if not to purge one’s demons? Then again, would the building still be standing when she finished? She’d exorcized a nasty bottom dweller out of one of his best friends a few years back, and he’d turned out okay—if one used a very loose definition of the word.

A lyrical voice wafted toward him, one with a soft British accent. “Excuse me, my lord, would you like milk and sugar?”

The situation just got a whole lot weirder.

He pried open his right, less traumatized eye. A little girl, who couldn’t have been more than five, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. She sat in the middle of a thousand tiny plastic dishes and held up a pink plastic teacup.

A bevy of wild, dark curls encircled her head, some wilder than others, as though she’d just woken up. She wore pink pajamas, the kind with feet, and a single barrette did its best to keep one of the more brazen curls out of her eyes. But that’s not what surprised him the most. Well, besides the whole situation. The girl’s eyes. They were huge and a silvery brown, like the fur on the coyote he’d spotted outside the compound one foggy morning.

“Tea ought to have milk at least, don’t you think?” she asked, raising dark brows until her forehead wrinkled.

He wondered what part of England she was from and how she’d ended up living in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

She picked up a toy milk carton and poured it into his empty cup. “It’s the civilized way to drink it, after all.”

He grunted, and she glanced up at him as though surprised.

She put the cup down and picked up another plastic dish, just as empty as the first one. “One lump or two?” she asked as she held up what had to be her mother’s tweezers.

He eyed her with a wariness usually reserved for psychopaths, scammers, and McDonald’s employees. Was she punking him? Was this a joke? A setup? He wouldn’t put it past his more asshole-inclined friends, but he had a killer headache and was starting to lose feeling in his hands. Surely, they wouldn’t go this far. “I’ve had enough lumps for one day, thank you very much.”

“As you wish.” She pushed the cup toward him across the yellowing linoleum floor—the one he’d hated since he bought the place. It would be the first thing to go when he started the remodeling project. If he lived that long. These apartments were in serious need of an upgrade. Especially with the astronomical rent the tenants paid. Then again, this was Santa Fe.

A loud gasp came from the doorway, and a woman who looked eerily familiar rushed into the kitchen, snatched the girl to her, and backed away until they were both out of his reach. Which, at the moment, was like two inches, but she seemed determined to put space between them.

Then reality sank in. It was her . The woman who’d answered the door at two in the morning holding a frying pan. And possibly a Taser. Who did that?

“Oh, it’s you,” he said in his favorite language: sarcasm. “I didn’t recognize you without the frying pan.”

She had hair the same color as the girl’s, hanging in soft waves around her face and past her shoulders. A similar bow-shaped mouth and eyes the same ashen brown confirmed their relationship.

“She’s not my daughter,” she said, frantically clutching the girl to her.

Or not.

“Mama,” the girl pouted, placing the accent on the second ma , her lower lip jutting out.

“She’s the neighbor’s kid. They’re British. I just watch her from time to time.”

The girl tried to shake out of her grip. While she failed, she did manage to turn in the woman’s arms and look up at her. “Why do you always say that?” she asked in her soft British accent—one the woman didn’t have.

The laugh that escaped the older woman was so exaggerated and forced that Michael was appalled such talent had somehow eluded Hollywood scouts. She pulled the girl to her and petted her hair until he worried the child might go bald. “She’s a bit dramatic.”

The girl pushed at the brunette’s hands. “Mama, stop.”

“Look,” Michael said, growing impatient. And numb. “Like I said when you answered the door this morning, I got a call about your heater.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my heater.”

“Then why did you call?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t. But you know that already.”

“I do?” He did? He was lost. Had he come to the wrong apartment? Damn it. How much had he drunk? He tried to count on his fingers but could no longer feel them.

The woman pushed the girl behind her as she walked closer to him. So close he could have easily taken her out with a single sweep of his leg and a triangle chokehold. And it wasn’t like an oven—dishwasher?—door handle could hold him if he didn’t want it to. Maybe for a few seconds. But he’d once fought a bear. Long story. He was fairly certain he could take an appliance door under the right circumstances.

Clearly not a criminal mastermind, the woman leaned close to him, the scent of peach shampoo washing over him, and said the oddest thing he’d heard all day. And he’d heard a lot of strange things already. “Be still.”

He could barely move as it was. How much stiller could he get?

“You will forget the girl in sixty seconds.”

“Mama!” the girl shouted in protest, tugging at the woman’s robe—a micro-thin garment that did little to conceal the curves underneath.

How the fuck was he just now seeing them? The curves. It was the frying pan; it had to be. Because as she leaned even closer, her beautiful face came into focus, and he felt a rippling punch to his gut.

Unhinged and beautiful.

Just his type.

Son of a bitch.

“You will never remember her,” she continued.

“Mama, don’t,” the girl said, her pout firmly in place. Only this time, she crossed her arms over her chest for added emphasis.

He leaned to the side to see her better. “I’m pretty sure I won’t forget you anytime soon.” He winked at her, and she giggled before a look of sadness shadowed her bright features.

“See?” she said, pointing at him. “He’s light.”

She would be pale, too, if she’d been hit with a frying pan and tied to a kitchen appliance.

The woman knelt and turned the girl toward her. “Get your go-bag, honey, and then lock yourself in my room.”

Why would a five-year-old need a go-bag? He looked at the woman’s profile, taking in the soft lines of her face and full mouth, and something reared up inside him. Something he didn’t want rearing up. The desire to guard. Protect. Avenge.

“Who’s after you?” he asked.

The woman jumped and turned to look at him, but just as quickly turned back to her daughter. “Hurry, sweetheart. We don’t have much time.”

The girl nodded obediently and rushed into a narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. When she disappeared, the woman lifted her watch and waited.

“Can I change?” came a shout from one of the rooms.

“I’ve already grabbed you some clothes. They’re on my bed.”

“Okay,” the girl said. She rushed out of her room carrying a backpack and entered the one across the hall, waving at Michael before closing and locking the door.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said, staring at her watch. “You won’t remember me either.”

He cocked his head to the side, trying to figure her out. “I don’t know. You’re pretty unforgettable.”

She glanced at him, blinked several times, and then shouted, “Time!”

The girl didn’t make a sound. How often had they practiced this scenario? And why?

He tried to rub his head, forgetting his wrists were bound. “Look, Killer, I’m all for bondage, but I may need a minute to get over this headache.”

“Frying pans’ll do that.” She said it almost absently as she took some food out of a pantry and put it on the table.

He’d fought nature, animals, and gangs that would make a lesser man hightail it in the opposite direction. To be brought down by a forest sprite who weighed less than his saddlebags irked.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any oxycodone, would you?”

She glared at him. “Why would I have that in my house?”

“Ibuprofen?” When she only glared at him, refusing to answer, he probed again. “Tylenol? Aspirin? Herbal tea?” Nothing. He rolled his eyes and winced, hoping the concussion killed him quickly. His deepest fear was suffering a lingering death. And spiders. Mostly spiders. “Can you at least answer one question?” he asked as she began transferring the food to a duffel bag. He realized almost all of it was either dry or canned. She knew what she was doing.

She ignored him as she worked around his form, and the plastic dishes sprawled across the floor, moving with the grace of a dancer. Then she looked up, clearly needing something above him. She bit her lip, trying to decide if the item was worth risking her life. She decided. He could see it in the determined set of her jaw. She knelt in front of him and locked those huge eyes onto his. “You will sit here for one hour, and then you will free yourself from the stove and leave.”

His brows cinched together as he tried to figure out exactly how unhinged she was. A little worked for him on several levels, but pure madness? Not worth the hassle. He’d given it his all once. It’d ended badly.

“You will not move.”

Damn it. She was inching her way up the loony scale with every word.

“You will not speak.”

He was more of a thinker anyway.

“Once you cross the threshold, you will not remember me or what happened here.”

He wouldn’t forget her in a thousand lifetimes.

“You will go about your day as usual and never think of me again.”

“Does this usually work?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Surprised, she jerked away from him, then repeated, “You will not speak.”

“Right. I get that, but—”

“Stop talking,” she said, her voice rising a notch with panic.

Fine. He’d play along. He closed his mouth and waited to see what she would do next. He wouldn’t get anything out of her like this. She needed to trust him, but, apparently, he only had an hour to accomplish the feat. If that long.

She eyed him warily, then slowly went back to her task, glancing at him from over her shoulder every so often. After hauling the duffel bag off the table, she looked longingly once more at the cabinet above the stove. Whatever she wanted called to her. She stuck a nail between her teeth in thought, then leaned down to him again.

“Close your eyes and don’t move,” she said.

He obeyed. This was getting too interesting not to.

Then she stepped over him, one foot at his hip, the other between his legs. His muscles clenched in response. The scent of peaches drifted over him, and he lifted his lids—just barely—trying to see what she was up to. The robe parted at her knees as she reached up, and he caught a glimpse of her shapely thighs. He welded his teeth together when one of said thighs brushed his fingers.

She stepped back, and he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to move, so he lowered his head again and sat there. Quiet. Bound. Obedient. This whole thing would’ve been much easier if he were a sub. He’d never been submissive a day in his life. He may have to rethink that.

After tossing the mystery item into the bag, she zipped it closed and then dragged it with both hands to the front door before hurrying back to her bedroom.

Michael sat there in thought for several long moments. She would never confide in him as long as he was tied up and unable to speak. No, he would have to convince her to open up to him. He just didn’t know how.

Before he could decide, the bedroom door squeaked open, and the girl—now dressed in a pair of purple sweats and a hoodie—tiptoed out.

Michael closed his eyes again and waited as the girl crept past him to put her go-bag next to the duffel full of food. He watched her through heavily lidded eyes. She tiptoed to the refrigerator and took out a sparkly pink water bottle before stopping in front of him.

“Live well, my lord.” She said the words a microsecond before she bent and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

It broke him. He waited until she stepped back before moving. The shock on the girl’s face when he looked up at her almost made him laugh, but he had to be quick. One jerk and the handle gave. He let it drop to the floor, then went to work on the ropes.

“Mommy!” the girl shouted, her British accent gone as she ran down the hall. “The prisoner escaped! The prisoner escaped!”

“That’s impossible,” the woman said, stepping into the hall as the girl ran past her into the room.

The knots in the rope weren’t bad. Again, she knew what she was doing. But they took all of twenty seconds to discard.

The woman gasped, slammed the bedroom door, and locked it.

His boots plodded to the flimsy barrier. One shove, and he was in. Just in time to see the woman raise a gun and point it at his head.