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“Can I help you?” he asked. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard the shit-eating grin.

“You murdered her,” Sam shrieked, backing into the hallway. “Oh gods, you murdered her. I’m calling the Guard. Liv!”

I shot up from behind the couch on my knees, completely naked from the waist up, one throw pillow clutched to my chest like that provided any kind of dignity.

“Hi, Sam,” I said and gave a weak little wave. “I’m okay.”

“You’re naked,” she said.

“Yes.”

“He’s covered in blood.”

“Also yes.”

“The couch is covered in blood.”

“I noticed.”

Her eyes snapped to me. “Did he attack you? Are you hurt? Are you being tortured? I’m calling the Guard.”

He laughed, turning his head just enough to say over his shoulder in a teasing voice, “Liv, am I torturing you?”

I was going to die. Right here. Right now. I groaned and yanked the blanket up over my mouth.

“Liv.” Sam’s tone went full accusatory. “You did not.”

I squeaked, which was apparently answer enough.

Sam’s eyes went wide, and her jaw fell open.

“We’ll talk later, Sam,” I said, voice muffled.

Murder Boy leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, which would have been hot if blood hadn’t immediately darkened the bandage near his chest. He closed the door in her face before she could shove her way in. Her fist hit the wood a second later.

“Open that door,” she yelled. “Come out here and fight me like a man.”

He laughed again. “I really like her,” he said.

“I will fry your balls off,” she yelled through the door.

He thumbed the deadbolt and cracked the door once more, bending so he was closer to her height. “She’ll be out in a minute.” He shifted against the door, and the movement cost him. His mouth pulled tight beneath the mask. One hand pressed to his side, fingers going red all over again.

He shut the door before Sam could shove through, then turned toward me with a slow, uneven step. His leg almost buckled. Together, we got him to the couch. He lowered himself with a controlled grimace, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.

“A few things,” he said.

“Ground rules,” I guessed.

He nodded. “Ground rules.”

I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Hit me.”

“I don’t care what you tell her,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the door. “Or anyone at the coffee shop. You can say you have a stalker, a guard dog, a nightmare, whatever makes you happy. But you don’t get my name, and you don’t see my face. Not until I’m sure I can trust you, and you’re sure you really want this.”

That last sentence hung there between us.

I nodded. “Fine. Mysterious creeper it is.”