Chapter Two

How soon after getting up

is it okay to take a nap?

—Meme

No. Not a gun. A black toy gun, the kind that shot foam darts. Seriously?

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, doing his best not to scare them and failing miserably.

The woman, now dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved V-neck, stood on the other side of the bed, holding the girl to her with one hand and the gun on him with the other.

“You’re not fooling anyone with that piece of plastic, Killer.”

The indignant expression that flashed across her face was almost worth the subsequent pain a chuckle evoked. Almost.

“How did you—?” She snapped her mouth shut, annoyance flitting across her face. No, not annoyance. Confusion. And fear. She drew in a shaky breath, doing her best to regroup, but the fear had taken hold. Though she kept her jaw firmly in place as she held onto what tattered remnants of defiance she could muster, the gun shook in her hand. Still, she was a fighter.

Attagirl .

He almost smiled, but he had genuinely scared the girl, and he was sorrier for that than anything.

“To the average person, this gun looks real,” the woman said, holding it as still as she could while her gaze periodically darted around. Looking for a real weapon? A phone? An escape?

Michael did his best to seem innocuous, which was hard with his size. And his features. A woman at a bar had once called him The Hulk . He didn’t appreciate the comparison, but she wasn’t wrong. “That looks about as real as those diamond rings you get from a gumball machine.”

She raised her chin a visible notch. “You knowing the difference only confirms what I already suspected about you.”

He cocked a single brow. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“You’re a criminal, through and through.”

He shrugged. “I never said I wasn’t.”

The air left her lungs with his confession, and she inched toward a large, plate-glass window that led to the fire escape.

“How is he moving?” the girl asked.

For some reason, the woman kept the gun trained on him. If it made her feel safer, he was all for it. Her gaze darted to her dresser beside him for the third time, and he finally saw the Taser she’d electrocuted him with earlier. But it was closer to him than it was to her. Much closer.

He calculated how long it would take her to open the window and get her daughter and her outside. He would have more than enough time to intercept, but to what end? There were laws against holding someone against their will. And she could scream. He and cops didn’t usually get along.

He held up both hands, doing his best to calm her. “Look, lady, I don’t know who you are, but I got a call at two this morning about a heater on the fritz.”

“It’s not that cold. Why would someone call in the middle of the night?”

“Right?” he asked. Finally, validation. “I was asking myself that very thing.”

She reached over and unlocked the window. “Even if you’re telling the truth, I know the maintenance man very well. You’re not him.”

He ran a hand over his face. “He’s with his wife, my property manager. They are both out having a baby.”

She drew in a soft breath. “Allison is having her baby?”

“As we speak. And my maintenance tech is with her.”

“Right,” she said, the word drenched in disbelief as she tried to pry the window open. To no avail. “What’s his name?”

“Steve McBride. He works for me. I own the building. You can call him and ask. My name is Michael.”

Her gaze darted to the dresser again. Her phone sat right beside the Taser.

“Here.” He picked up the cell and tossed it onto the bed, praying she wouldn’t call the police. Hours spent at the station as he explained himself was all he needed.

The girl peeked out from behind her mother, wearing a grin that took up more real estate on her face than it had any right to. She wasn’t scared. Was this like a game to her? He hoped so. No five-year-old should know the evils of men. Well, other men.

Relief flooded every cell in his body.

The woman reached for her phone just as his dinged with a text. He took it out of his back pocket. “It’s a girl,” he said, happy for the couple.

The brunette tapped three numbers, only three, and he knew his day was about to be even more ruined than it already was, but she paused before hitting the call button. “Let me see.” She gestured toward his phone with her chin.

He tossed that to her, along with the Taser, hoping he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life. But how else could he get her to trust him? To open up? Because he wanted to know who was after her. And why. And where he could find them.

She grabbed the Taser first and put it on the nightstand beside her, then his phone. After checking the messages, she slowly raised her eyes to his. “You’re really the owner?”

He spread his hands. “I’m really the owner.”

“I knew it!” the girl said, climbing up to sit on the bed. “I told you he was light. It’s everywhere. He’s like an angel.”

He glared at her. That was going too far. Most angels were dicks.

She giggled.

Could the kid see auras? He’d certainly witnessed stranger things.

The woman tried to explain but couldn’t figure out what to say. “I didn’t—I-I thought—”

“Who’s after you?” he asked, hoping for an answer this time.

“No one.” When he offered her his best deadpan look, she added, “Someone from my past. When I saw you, I thought he’d found me.”

“Why?” Before she could answer, he asked, “Is that window stuck?” That was a clear code violation. He’d been reading up on codes since he’d purchased the building.

When he walked around the bed toward them, the woman didn’t grab the Taser. She grabbed the gun—the fake one—and pointed it at him. She really needed to up her game.

“Scoot,” he said when he got close enough to be tased had she thought things through.

Instead, she kept the gun on him as she moved to the side.

“Ah, there are two latches. You only unlocked one.” He unlatched the second and raised the window just to make sure it opened. It did, so he closed it, resecured the latches, and turned back to them. “Why did you think your ex had found you when you saw me?”

With every move slow and calculated, she inched around him, taking the girl with her as she backed toward the door.

He followed. Apparently, they were going to have this conversation in the kitchen. Or the living room that was as small as his left ventricle.

The minute they got to the kitchen, the woman rushed to the coffee maker and slammed a K-cup into the dispenser. Addiction was a terrible thing.

The girl waited for him to emerge from the hallway, then took his hand in hers and led him to the table. And…he was lost.

“Can you pick up your dishes, sweetheart?”

“Can’t I just kick them to my room?”

The woman hid a smile and said sternly, “No, you may not.”

“Mom,” the girl said, drawing the title out until it formed several different-pitched syllables.

Michael pressed his lips together to keep an ill-mannered grin at bay. “Can I ask what your names are?” When the woman didn’t answer, he added, “You know I can just look at your rental agreement.”

She drew in a deep breath and turned to him. “I’m Izzy. That’s Pickle.”

“Pickle?” he asked, impressed.

“This week,” Izzy added.

“Oh, yeah?” He smiled down at the girl as she tossed plastic dishes into a box that had seen better days. “What was it last week?”

“Biscuits and Gravy.” Her face lit up like she’d just won a trophy.

He fought that grin again, tooth and nail. “I like it.”

“Me, too, but Mommy said it was too long.”

He chuckled. “I’m sensing a pattern. Are all your nicknames food-themed?”

She picked up a pink teapot with a cracked lid. “Yeah. I really like food.”

“Get outta here. I do, too.”

“Really?” She stood and plopped her crossed arms on the table. “What is your very favorite thing to eat?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “Probably biscuits and gravy with a pickle on the side.”

She crinkled her nose and laughed out loud, then sobered and asked nonchalantly, “Is it because you were hungry for a long time, too?”

“Emma,” Izzy said, scolding her daughter softly.

But it was too late. Michael stilled when he realized the girl showed signs of malnutrition: dark circles under her eyes, hollow depressions below her cheekbones, wrists the size of his pinky.

“That was a long time ago,” Izzy said, placing a mug in front of him.

“How long?”

“Cream and sugar?” she asked, evading his question.

What could’ve brought her to Santa Fe? It was one of the most expensive places to live in the US, according to his personal observations, which bore no resemblance to scientific data in the least. He glanced at the duffel bag. They had food now, too. He wondered how her circumstances had changed so drastically. Did her ex starve them? Is that why she ran?

His hackles were rising, and he didn’t even know what hackles were. “How about we make a deal?”

She put some nondairy creamer and a sugar bowl on the table, then sat across from him, her own cup in hand. “What kind of deal?”

“How about you answer my questions, and I don’t call the cops for assault?” He would never call the police, but she didn’t know that.

Her body stiffened with the threat, but she pretended to be unfazed and doctored her coffee with meticulous care before answering. “I’m sorry. I mistook you for someone else. Can you leave, and we’ll just call it even?”

“Not today, Cupcake.”

She looked up in surprise. Or desperation. He wasn’t the very best at reading people.

“I’ll find another place to stay,” she pleaded. “We never have to see each other again.”

No way in hell was that happening. “Answer my questions, and I’ll think about it,” he lied.

She pressed her lips together and went back to her coffee. “I don’t know if I can address them all.”

“What do you say we give it a shot?”

She lifted a shoulder as she stirred, the weight she carried darkening her features. “I get to ask questions, too?”

“Of course, but unlike you, I live a pretty boring life,” said the guy living in a compound with the child of two gods, at least three ghosts, and a man who could see the last moments of a person’s life on Earth. And that wasn’t counting a deceased rottweiler named Artemis, twelve hellhounds, and countless other talented humans.

She took a long draw of her coffee, glancing at him from over the rim, then refocused on the cup as she set it in front of her. “You first.”

“Again. Who’s after you?”

“My ex.”

So, he’d been right. “Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“Did he hurt Emma?”

Startled, Izzy’s gaze darted back to his. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I would never have allowed that.”

Thank God for small favors. “Why did you tell me she wasn’t your daughter? Because of him?”

She dropped her gaze again and swallowed hard before answering. “Yes. He doesn’t know about her. I left before she was born. He had no idea I was even pregnant.”

“And you thought I would tell him about her?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What makes you think I even know him?”

She bit her lip, and he saw the tension his question had caused when the muscles in her jaw hardened.

“Would he try to take her from you?”

“No.” The smile that slid across her face held more sadness than a deflated balloon. “He would never do that.”

“Then why don’t you want him to find out about her?” He leaned closer. “Would he hurt her?”

The smile held steady as she shook her head. “Not in the way you think.”

“Okay, then in what way?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She took another sip as Emma grabbed an apple and sat at the table with them.

He was growing frustrated. Getting information from Izzy was like pulling teeth with chopsticks, so he decided to circle back to his original line of questioning.

“Why did you think he’d found you when I showed up?”

She hesitated. Cleared her throat. Pulled at a thread on her shirt.

“Really?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended. “Nothing?”

She pushed away from the table and put her half-empty cup in the sink, her willowy frame seeming frail for the first time. Had she starved, as well? A burst of heat rushed through him at the thought.

He decided to push her. If she tased him again, he probably deserved it. But if she ran now, he may never have another chance. He may never get answers. She may never be safe. “I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, Killer, but after what I’ve been through, I think I’m owed an explanation.”

She scoffed and turned to look at him, bracing her hands on the sink’s edge behind her. “Really? Someone like you, with your lifestyle? Are you sure you deserve anything?”

Another clue. He pondered her words for a long moment. “My lifestyle ,” he said, deep in thought.

“You guys stick together like saltwater taffy, right?”

“You guys?” he asked, feigning offense.

“Isn’t that your thing?”

As they spoke, the squirt’s head swiveled back and forth on her tiny body as though she were watching a tennis match. He barricaded his heart. If he wanted answers, now was not the time to cave to their charms.

“Who, exactly, are ‘ you guys ?’”

She gestured to his entire being with a sweep of her hand, like he disgusted her. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this one kind of hurt.

He grabbed his heart—not literally—and raised his brows askance.

After a long moment, she huffed out a breath—the act far too sexy for his peace of mind—and pointed at…his arm?

He wore a white T-shirt and jeans with heavy boots. Had he ridden his bike over, he would also have a jacket on. But he hadn’t, so he didn’t. Thus, his arms were visible. Making his plethora of tattoos—some he was actually proud of—visible, as well. But he couldn’t tell which one she had taken such offense to. The dogs playing cards—classic—or maybe the skull with a snake slithering through its eyes? He shook his head. “Look, I’m fairly sure I’m concussed, thanks to the frying pan thing. Can you be more specific?”

She scoffed once more, and he made a mental note to do as many annoying things to her as possible, so she did it again. She stepped forward and pointed at his motorcycle club’s official tattoo. His former motorcycle club.

The squirt leaned over him to get a better view, apple crunching in her mouth. “Oh, I like that one,” she said, running her fingers over the artwork. It was the official mark of a nationwide bike club called the Bandits. A triangle with a skull inside and two swords crossing under it, very similar to the international sign for poison. No one had ever accused the Bandits of being creative.

He had an appointment this week for a full cover-up. In two days, to be exact. None of this would’ve happened if he’d already gotten it done. She would never have seen the tattoo, tased him, or taken a frying pan to his skull. She wouldn’t have leaned against him with those thighs.

What were the odds that he would get a call the very day he made the appointment? The artist, a good friend of his, had a cancellation and was able to get him in. Usually, it took months to get in with her, friend or not.

He thought back to the phone call he’d gotten at two this morning. The frantic voice. The frantic young voice.

Realization dawned, and a sense of astonishment sent an arctic chill up his spine. No way.

After grinding his teeth to dust, he scrubbed his fingers over his face, winced at the lump on the side of his head, and groaned. He was going to kill her. Elwyn Loehr. Had she really called him at two in the morning with a false report? How had he not recognized her voice? That little shit.

A harsh laugh escaped him. The girl was good. He’d give her that. And she’d been planning this for a while. No one else at the compound seemed to have picked up on her odd activities, but it was all becoming as clear as vodka to him. She would have waited until his maintenance tech was out, of course, but she had to make sure to get him to this apartment before his tattoo cover-up appointment.

But how? How did she know? About Izzy’s ex. About the doctor Donovan had hooked up with. About the woman being stalked in Idaho, who Eric was now dating—happily. And now Michael and Izzy? Was this like a blind date?

First, if that was indeed her plan, the kid had good taste. But Michael had no supernatural abilities. Did that mean Izzy did ? Did Elwyn need Izzy on her team? Did she want to add her to the list of soldiers for the upcoming war?

Every muscle in his body clenched at the thought of Izzy being in that kind of danger. He didn’t want her anywhere near his mystical band of misfits.

Like he’d thought earlier, the kid was collecting supernaturally inclined humans, gathering her army, readying for a battle prophesied years ago. The mere thought of that child going to war with the king of the underworld gave him acid reflux. They needed more time. She needed more training. And he needed a lot more alcohol.

“So, he’s a Bandit?” he asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest and turned to look out the window without answering.

“And you think we all know each other?”

“Don’t you?” She turned back to him, the accusation clear in her tone and expression. Hostile. Defiant. Wildly beautiful. She swept her hair off her face with one gesture, the rich color of her eyes shimmering softly in the glow of the early morning sun. She’d been hurt. Badly.

Guard the heart, Cavalcante. Don’t cave now.

“What’s his name? We may be besties, and I just never made the connection.”

A bitter smirk lifted one corner of her mouth, and he noticed tiny, almost imperceptible scars on the sides of it. “Dunsworth. Ross Dunsworth.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, Killer. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

She didn’t know if she should believe him or not. He could see it in the suspicious slant of her eyes. The thinning of her mouth.

Before he could question her further, the sound of heavy breathing filtered into his thoughts, and he looked at Emma. “You okay, Squirt?”

He glanced back at Izzy. A flash of fear registered on her face. She lunged forward and knelt beside her daughter. “Did you wash that apple, hon?”

“No. You already washed it. I saw you.”

“Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this.” Izzy pursed her lips and shook her head as though chastising herself. “I’m sorry. This is not your fault. Sit here, and I’ll get your inhaler.” She started to rise but whirled back around at the Squirt’s next words.

“It’s empty,” she said as she coughed into a tiny hand.

“Empty?” Izzy squeaked, kneeling down to her again. “Since when?”

“Since I said, ‘Mommy, my inhaler is empty.’ We were supposed to pick up a new one today.”

“Right.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, we’ll go get it now.” She checked the watch on her wrist. “They should be open, right? It’s not too early?”

Emma rubbed her chest as the wheezing sound grew louder. “Mommy, I don’t feel good.”

Izzy pushed a plethora of curls off the girl’s cheeks to expose how bright they’d become. Her jaw dropped as her gaze first locked onto Michael’s and then darted to her purse. She dove for it, but Emma had closed her eyes and started sliding off the table.