It was all the start of a beautiful romance . . . that culminated in, one week to the hour of their first date, him kissing her. Softly. While they stood on her back doorstep.

And because it was all just a fantasy, that kiss happened to be, in spite of him having absolutely no idea what he was doing, totally perfect for the both of them—

“Hi, you guys!”

As Mrs. Mary greeted them from the front door of the farmhouse, she waved and stepped out into the pool of warm illumination thrown by an exterior coach light. The good news was that Rhage’s female was exactly what anyone would want to see if they were looking for a safe haven: Her face was open and her smile sincere—which made her seem like somebody who’d be good at giving hugs.

No false advertising there.

Abruptly, people started talking. Mary. Rhage. And one of the social workers, Rhym, who also joined the group. Elyn stayed mostly silent, but she didn’t seem frightened.

Nate took a step back. Through the open doorway, he saw that furniture had been arranged in the living room, and, off in the distance, the kitchen as well. Everything looked cozy. Safe.

The social worker went inside. Rhage went inside. Mary said something and indicated the way in.

Elyn nodded and started for the threshold.

As Nate watched her go, he knew he wasn’t going to see her again. After he finished painting the inside of the garage? He’d be moved on to a different project by his supervisor, and any possible connection between them would disappear.

He wasn’t going to have a chance to say goodbye. At least not in the way he wanted.

Not in the way where he got her phone number. Or she got his.

With a ringing pain in his chest, he thought it was weird to mourn the loss of someone he didn’t even know—

Elyn hesitated and then looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you not come in?”

“Oh, you’re in good hands now.”

“Please. I’m scared.”

Staring into her wide silver eyes, Nate felt a flush go through his entire body. After which he took a deep breath and puffed up his chest.

“I won’t leave until you tell me to go,” he said as he joined her.

So are you going to examine my wounds? Or you can just stare at me like that. Both are fine.”

As Sahvage eased back in the old wooden chair, there was a creaking under him, the spindly legs accommodating his weight with a lack of confidence. But if he ended up on the floor? Well, that was good with him. This female would offer him a hand up—because it was in her nature to help.

And maybe he could pull her on top of him.

“I am not staring at you like anything,” she snapped. “I’m worried about your health.”

“And I’m glad you are. My point is, worry about me anywhere you like with your hands.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered as she bent over his chest.

Sahvage focused on her face, with its frowning brows and laser-sharp eyes. He had a thought that if he just sat forward a little—not much at all—he could kiss her.

And finding out how her mouth tasted seemed like a very good use of his time.

“You know . . . these don’t look right.”

Or at least that’s what he thought she said. His attention was elsewhere—and as shades of her at his throat came back to him, his hips rolled inside his combat pants and the urgency in between his thighs got thicker. Especially as he imagined her hair free and spilling over his naked chest—

Her fingertips traced a stripe of raised skin that ran from his collarbone all the way down to his abs.

When he hissed, she looked worried. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Yeah, pain was not the reason I made that sound, Sahvage thought.

Although he was beginning to hurt from wanting her. Which was what happened when you noticed a female, then took your shirt off in front of her . . . and she touched your skin. Anywhere.

Backing off, she stared down at him. “Why in the world did you get that tattoo all over yourself.” Before he could respond, she put her hand out. “I’m sorry—that’s none of my business—”

“I want my enemies to know what’s coming for them when they see me.”

As he braced himself for another sanctimonious lecture on not killing things, he had to stop himself from grinning at her. And meanwhile, she was so focused on his chest, he was wondering if she would ever look away from him.

Fine with him if she didn’t—and it was a letdown when she shook herself back to attention.

“So this is all about advertising?” she said dryly. “Couldn’t you just pin a ‘Hello, My Name Is Badass’ on your shirt?”

“I never wear a shirt when I fight. And I would argue that name tags are antithetical to badassery.”

“If you ask me, I’d think the stealth approach is better.”

“Whatever you like.”

“I don’t like.”

“My tattoo? Really? Then why do you keep staring at it?”

“I’m not looking at the ink—”

As she went to turn away, Sahvage caught her hand. “So what are you looking at?”

When their eyes met, there was a sizzling moment of stillness, and he was surprised that the pair of them didn’t spontaneously combust. But she wasn’t having it—and he let her pull out of his hold.

“Oh, wait, my injuries, right?” he drawled. “You were just staring at my owies. And you don’t like that I got injured.”

“Owies.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you, five years old? And you need a doctor.”

“I want a nurse.”

The female put her hands on her hips. “Stop it.”

“Okay.”

Cursing under her breath, she glanced around like she was searching for something, anything to do—and ended up reaching across to a paring knife that had been left out with that strange collection of salad dressing supplies and teacups.

At the rate she was going, she was going to clear the table sometime next week. Which was kind of adorable.

“You’re normally not that agreeable,” she muttered. “Are you feeling faint?”

“When you’re looking at my body, yeah, I get light-headed. But do you really want me to talk about where the blood goes—”

“Ow!”

The knife fell from her hand, clattering to the floor as she made a fist and clutched her arm to her chest.

Sahvage bolted upright. “Let me see—”

“I’m fine—”

This time, he didn’t let her go. And she didn’t fight him as he opened her closed-tight hand.

She’d sliced her finger—and bright red blood was welling along the surgical-worthy cut.

Licking his lips—because how could he not?—Sahvage looked up into her eyes. She wasn’t staring at the cut. Not at all.

Her attention was on his mouth.

“Let me take care of it,” he whispered. “Return the favor. You know, just what you did for me last night—and no further.”

She seemed caught, straddling the yes and the no, torn between what she wanted and what she knew was good for her. And all the while, the blood was forming a slow river that eased down her forefinger, circling ’round.