“Rhoger,” she whispered.

If he hadn’t come home to die here? She never would have found him. She would have spent the rest of her life listening for the door, stuck with this house because it was where he would know to find her, wondering and imagining and torturing herself with a thousand different bad outcomes.

“I’m going to fix this,” she told him. “I promise.”

Getting to her feet, she groaned as every muscle in her body hurt—except that wasn’t true. It was only her upper arms that ached, and for a moment, she couldn’t figure out why.

Then she remembered being on the doorstep of the cottage. With Sahvage. Shooting at a shadow.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she said to Rhoger. “I have to make sure Tallah is okay. It’s . . . a long story.”

The fact that she paused for his response made her feel really unhinged. So she went to her room and quickly packed an over-day bag. The truth was, she couldn’t wait to leave the house—which made her feel guilty. But for godsakes, it wasn’t like Rhoger was aware she was leaving him all alone. Besides, it was better for her not to be around the body. If another one of those shadows showed up?

If she didn’t have him intact, she didn’t know what the hell she was resurrecting.

Holy hell, what kind of life was she living.

Out in the garage, she took a deep breath—

The scent of spoiled meat put her paranoia back in the driver’s seat: Was it a legion of the undead coming for her? Dear God, why had she told a weapon like Sahvage to leave? She was totally undefended—

Mae’s head cranked around. To the rolling trash bin in the corner.

“It’s Thursday,” she muttered. “It’s trash day.”

As opposed to the Zombie-apocalypse.

Going to the Civic, she tossed her canvas over-day bag into the back along with her purse. Then she hit the garage door opener and marched over to the roller. As the panels trundled up, she tilted the weight and started to pull—

Directly outside the garage, there were two sets of legs.

That were standing toe to toe. Or boot to stiletto, as was the case.

She recognized the former. Those were Sahvage’s cargo pants and footwear. But the female’s?

As the door continued to ascend, Mae paid a whole lot of attention to what was revealed on the fairer-sex side of things: Lots of leg. Tiny skirt. Perfect hip-to-waist-to- . . . wow, that was a heck of a bust. Long brunette hair.

And a profile that was begging for a close-up.

Okay, so she’d been wrong. Sahvage didn’t belong with one of those rave types from back at the parking garage. This was who he needed. The female was as stunning a specimen as he was, the extremely feminine balanced with the extremely masculine. And their bodies would fit perfectly together.

The fact that Mae was ever so slightly jealous was nuts.

And what the hell were the happy couple doing in her driveway?

Just as she was about to bring up the trespassing laws of New York State, Sahvage’s head snapped in her direction.

He didn’t say a word. But his eyes were communicating a clear warning.

And then the woman looked her way.

“Hello,” the brunette said in a voice that was part Sophia Loren, part Judge Judy. “It’s soooooo nice to meet you.”

As she spoke, Sahvage didn’t move. It wasn’t even clear whether he was breathing. But those eyes of his. So intense, they did not even blink.

Meanwhile, the woman’s glittering stare drifted down Mae’s body. “You know, I’m sure you’re all well and good—and that your mother loves you. But I’m really surprised he’s risking his own life to save the likes of you.” She put her palms forward as if to be reassuring. “No offense, I mean, I just think honesty is the best policy, don’t you? And you’re not exactly what I’d expect.”

Sahvage looked down. But not because he was being called out. He was focusing on something.

Sending a message.

Mae let the woman continue to talk while she tried to figure out what he was directing her to—wait, was that a salt container on the side lawn?

The woman sauntered up to the edge of the garage’s concrete slab. “Anyway, enough with the chitchat. I’m thinking about buying a place in this neighborhood.” She indicated her fabulousness, sweeping a hand down her curves. “You can thank me for improving your property values later. But right now, how about you give me a tour of this incredibly quaint little abode of yours? I’m just dying to see what you did with the kitchen. Harvest gold, right? With macramé plant holders and a throw rug the color of an avocado. I mean, you look like someone who peaked in the late seventies, early eighties. Assuming second grade teacher is, like, a style or an era.”

The smile was a study in condescension.

And as Mae looked back at Sahvage’s face, the woman threw her hands up. “Oh, will you stop worrying about him? Fine, yes, I’m going to fuck him, but I assure you, it’ll mean nothing on my side, so it won’t threaten your relationship—well, until he kills himself. That’s not going to be my fault, however. Besides, take my word for it, he’s a bad bet for anything long-term. You should never trust what you cannot control. Something tells me you already know that, though, don’t you.”

Mae focused properly on the woman.

And in a slow, clear voice, she said, “You are not welcome here. I do not welcome you into my home. Now and forevermore.”

The woman’s black stare narrowed. “I think you’re mistaken.”

Sahvage took three steps forward and crossed over onto the concrete slab. Facing the female, he stayed silent and went still again.

The expression on the rare beauty’s face shifted, her lashes lowering over eyes that now glittered with rage.

“Oh, you fuckers,” she said in a low voice. “You’re not that smart, either one of you. And parlor tricks aren’t going to keep me away. I am everywhere.”

Backing up, Sahvage extended his arm and punched the button to close the garage door.

As the panels began to trundle shut, the woman growled deep in her throat, like a predator.

“You’ll be seeing me again soon,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

Knocking.

Lots of knocking on Balz’s bedroom door.

As his heavy lids lifted, he couldn’t figure out why in the hell someone was waking him up in the middle of the day. He was fucking sleeping.

“What,” he snapped.

At his kind invitation, the door opened and airmailed him a shaft of light from the hallway that was like getting rusty-spiked in the iris. With a hiss, he went classic Dracula, putting his forearm over his face and rearing back.

“How are you still in bed?”

Syphon, back again. Of course. The Mother Hen motherfucker was an alarm clock that ran on gluten-free organic smoothies, almond shakes, and organic porridge.

On that note, if only there was a bag of Doritos to throw at the guy.

Or anything that had Red Dye 40 or GMO shit on the ingredients list.

“Yes, I’m still in goddamn bed,” he shot back. “It’s almost one in the afternoon. The question is why you aren’t in—”

“It’s midnight.” When Balz didn’t respond, the bastard went hello. “Twelve a.m. Like, one dozen bongs from the grandfather clock out in the—”