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That feeling sinks deeper as I knock on her door—and she doesn’t answer.
I take a slow, assessing look around.
Her car’s here. I can hear Shrub yipping inside, and the dog sounds upset. The light’s on in the living room.
I wait several seconds that feel like hours passing and no one comes to the door.
Ice runs down my spine like cold fingers marching on my skin.
That instinct buried deep in my gut becomes a lion’s roar.
Something’s very wrong.
I start to figure out just what when I squint through the frosted glass of the little inset at the top of the door, and realize she’s home.
Also, she’s not alone.
Someone’s got her crowded against the wall. I can’t make out who, but that position sure as shit doesn’t look voluntary.
There’s a point in SEAL training where your body switches to autopilot. If BUD/S training teaches one thing, it’s never, ever hesitate.
You learn to assess a situation, determine the best course of action, and react to it in the most appropriate way without actually having to stop to make a conscious choice.
It’s reflex, and reflex is faster than thought.
Reflex makes the difference in those fate-mad seconds that hold lives in the balance.
And it’s reflex that propels me forward as I damned near pound the door down with my fist before deciding to shoulder through it.
I fling myself forward with as much momentum as I can, a human battering ram with one burning thought in my head.
Fliss, Fliss, I have to save her.
The door caves open. I barely stagger inside for a second before I’m moving again.
The tiny, strange woman pinning Felicity down is already turning, whipping her arm out, a flash of gleaming metal telling me she’s armed.
Again, reflex comes to the rescue and sends me diving to the floor—and not where she expects me to be when that blade jabs out.
Instead, I nail her at the knees and ankles, my hip striking the floor as I lash out with my legs, snaring hers in a brutal lock and twisting my calves to flip her over.
The force slams her against the floor.
The knife goes spinning away, and for a hot second rational thought comes back with a hint of confusion. She lets out a cry—not pain or anger—but loss, struggling not to get away from me but to reach out across the floor toward the whirling switchblade like it’s the only thing that matters.
What the hell?
I don’t even have time to ponder.
Taking advantage of her distraction, I drag her with our bodies tangled up, then twist free to flip her onto the floor and press my hand down on her skinny throat.
I don’t like beating up on women, especially little ones like this one, but she had a goddamned knife on my woman.
The least I can do is incapacitate her before she does any damage.
Before it’s too late to hold her for the cops and sort this out like civilized people should.
Before I get my chance to demand to know who the fuck she is and what’s going on.
I never get to do any of that.
Not when Felicity screams.
“Alaska!”
The urgent warning in her voice snaps my head up. I’m about to whip around—when a familiar feeling stops me cold, my hand still on the blond woman’s throat.
The cold mouth of a gun kisses the back of my neck.
Multiple intruders.
Ambush.
Shit.
I go completely still, staring down at this little nightmare who smiles up at me like a tiny wolf—sharp and full of teeth and very, very carnivorous.
“Now, handsome,” she purrs. “You want to let me up? Most guys ask a girl’s permission these days, you know.”
I narrow my eyes, wondering why she’s talking like a cartoon.
I don’t move a muscle.
“Don’t need to ask permission to snap your neck,” I growl quietly. “And I promise you I’ll do it before any of your boys can pull the trigger. I might be dead, but you’ll be too, and I have the strangest feeling no one will miss you.”
Her eyes narrow. She glares at me without fear.
This one’s got that crazy shine in her eyes, the kind that makes her dangerous.
“Ohhh, how dramatic! You’re pulling this, stunt man? You’re really willing to risk your life for trash like Felicity Randall?”
I almost crush her throat instantly.
No one calls Felicity trash.
Still, cooler heads prevail. I only tighten my grip, just enough to let her know I’m not fucking bluffing.
“Your men. Outside. Now. Or else this gets real messy,” I order.
The woman hisses through her teeth like a snake, then lets out a sulky, petulant sound. She gestures somewhere behind me.
A few disgruntled mutters rise from the goons—then the sound of retreat, heavy treads stomping through the house.
I glance up at Felicity, who’s watching over my head numbly, her face pale and stark and eyes so distant.
“Fliss?” I ask. I can’t risk turning around.
