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Hewitt Birch had spent most of his life avoiding interpersonal drama. But a big ol’ boatload had just fallen into his arms.

Literally.

The dark-eyed waif, who had hoarsely introduced herself as Sabrina Greenlee, had teetered toward him when she realized the FBI was on the scene. He’d caught her before she could hit the ground. And then, when it became clear the feds weren’t content to speak with Britt at the gate and had every intention of walking through BKI’s front door, he’d hoisted her up against his chest as chaos erupted around him.

Boss had yelled for everyone to return to their workstations and act like it was business as usual. Ozzie had switched on the music, and the shop had once again been sweatin’ to the oldies—or the eighties, as it were. And Eliza had hissed, “There’s no time!” when Hew suggested he hide Sabrina and Britt’s brother upstairs in his bedroom.

Which is how he found himself sitting cross-legged on the pantry floor with Knox Rollins on his right and an unconscious woman in his lap.

Formerly unconscious , he corrected himself.

Sabrina came awake with a frightened gasp. Her foot kicked over the box of strawberry-flavored Pop-Tarts sitting beside a basket of russet potatoes.

“Shhhh.” He pressed his hand over her mouth, frowning slightly when the feel of her warm breath against his palm had the hairs on the back of his neck lifting in a way he recognized.

It had only been three weeks since he’d taken someone home from Red Delilah’s Biker Bar. And he’d gone far more than three weeks without nookie before. In fact, when he’d been a newbie Nightstalker flying missions across the Hindu Kush, he’d gone a full two years without the comfort of a woman.

So maybe it was all the amoré floating in the air at BKI that made him ultra-sensitive to the touch of a woman.

The original crew was so partnered up and content it was almost sickening. And one by one, he’d watched his active-duty friends succumb to flying sparks, skipping hearts, and weak knees. First, there’d been Hunter. Sam had quickly followed. And now Fisher—whom Hew had thought would remain a bachelor forever—was planning his wedding.

So, yeah. It was in the air. Which meant maybe he shouldn’t be surprised he was reacting to the little flotsam perched lightly in his lap.

Although the bloodless look of her skin and the deep, sleep-deprived shadows smudging the undersides of her eyes assured him that the last thing she needed was some huge, hairy man having less-than-platonic thoughts about her.

“Mmm!” she mumbled against his hand, her fingers gripping his wrist. Her short nails sharply pinched into him, and if he’d had thinner skin, she would have drawn blood.

“Shhhh!” he whispered again, pressing his hand harder against her lips while squeezing her arms tight against her sides to stop her squirming. “Be quiet!”

To his relief, she settled against him. But fear clung to her like fog on a New England bay, making her muscles quiver and her chest heave with quick, shallow breaths. The absolute horror he saw in her eyes when she stared up at him gutted him.

“You’re okay.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You’re safe.”

His lips barely brushed the delicate skin of her lobe. He noticed her hair smelled of car exhaust, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of terror. But beneath those scents was something sweeter…the lingering hint of her shampoo.

“You have to be quiet,” he added. “The feds are right outside the door. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”

He pulled back slightly so he could see her face. Up close, he noticed the thickness of her long, dark lashes and the little mole beneath the arch of her left eyebrow.

When she nodded, he tentatively lifted his palm. But her lips left behind a ghostly imprint on his skin, a tingling sensation in the exact shape of her mouth. Instinctively, he curled his fingers around it. Then he loosened his hold on her so she could sit up. Unfortunately, the move had her ass brushing against his dick, and the over-eager sonofabitch twitched with interest.

He was about to give it a strict—although silent—talking to that started with now’s not the time and ended with seriously, bro, read the room! But before he could begin, she shifted again, and there was no longer any need to criticize his pecker. The thing nearly turned inside out in an attempt to crawl inside his body and escape the pain of his balls being smashed like pancakes between the sharp point of her tailbone and the relentless surface of the polished concrete floor.

The urge to throw back his head and howl was intense. But he managed to bite the inside of his cheek, reduce his howl to a gruff-sounding grunt, and adjust his hips so his poor testicles pulled free and returned to their formerly round shape.

Wincing, she mouthed, “Sorry.”

He nodded and tried to smile but figured his expression was more of a grimace. He was so focused on not throwing up that he didn’t immediately notice she hadn’t climbed off his lap. But he definitely noticed when she placed a slim hand on his shoulder to steady herself so she could look around.

He understood the confusion in her eyes. If he’d come awake to find himself inside a cramped pantry with stacked cans on one side and cases of Goose Island IPAs on the other, he’d be disoriented, too.

When she returned her attention to his face, one sleek brow lifted in question.

All he could do to answer her was shrug. And maybe get a little lost in the depths of her dark eyes.

The chorus to Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” drifted through his head.

She swallowed convulsively and shuddered when the muffled voices of those in the kitchen drifted through the closed door.

Hew couldn’t make out what was being discussed. The old factory had been constructed with thick brick walls and insulated with horsehair. Sound didn’t travel far. But he got the impression that whatever was being talked about outside had everything to do with Knox Rollins and little to do with Sabrina.

It was clear the poor woman was collateral damage in whatever trouble Knox Rollins had brought to their doorstep. She didn’t have the hardened look of a criminal. Her body was too lithe; her hands were too soft. Her jeans were dirty, but they were designer. Her ballet flats were scuffed and scarred but were genuine leather. And the small hoops in her ears looked to be 18 karat gold.

Before she’d gone on the run, Sabrina had led a relatively comfortable life.

Of course, that certainty made him wonder how she’d gotten herself mixed up in Britt’s brother’s mess. What unfortunate set of circumstances had found her in the company of a convicted felon with the FBI hot on her heels?

All thoughts drained from his head like his skull was a rusty sieve when she leaned forward to press her cheek against his. Her skin was cool and soft. By contrast, her breath was hot and moist in his ear. “Water?”

He nodded. The move rubbed the coarse hairs of his beard against the delicate skin of her face, making him aware of himself in a way he’d never been before. There he was, this lumbering oaf, all huge and hairy and hard. And there she was, so frail and feminine and fragile.

It was like a delicate snowflake had fallen into a polar bear's lap.

Twisting slightly, he found a case of water shoved beneath the shelf to his left. A thin film of plastic held its bottles together. But he could silently slide one from the hole someone had torn into the side.

The cap came off with a twist of his wrist, and he gladly handed her the H?O. Her lips were so dry that when she pulled them into a parody of a smile, her bottom lip split down the center. She winced and flicked out her tongue to lick at the tiny drop of blood beading in the breach.

Poor little lamb.

He wanted to run his hand along her spine but didn’t dare. It was one thing to hold her in his lap. It was another thing entirely to touch her in ways she hadn’t asked for.

He satisfied himself by leaning back on his hands and watching her long, pale throat work as she gulped down the water like she’d been walking through the desert for days. After she tipped the last drop into her mouth, she blew out a shaky breath and handed him the empty.

He was careful not to squeeze it, fearing it’d make that terrible crackling sound. Then he hitched his chin toward the case of water, silently asking if she’d like another.

She shook her head, making her hair swish across the plastic of her bright blue raincoat. Then she got distracted by the furry paw peeking beneath the door, batting at the air.

Hew sat up straight as his breath strangled in his chest. Damnit, Peanut! You’re gonna get us caught!

Thankfully, in the next instant, the paw disappeared. And when he didn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Sabrina stared at the door like the devil himself was on the other side. He took the opportunity to study her profile.

She had high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her nose was straight, with only the slightest bump in the bridge. And her hair was thick. It fell down her back in soft waves. The color matched her rich, dark chocolate eyes.

It was her mouth that truly enchanted him though. It was wide and lush-lipped. Like Julia Roberts or Jessica Biel, it took up too much of her face. But he would bet his bottom dollar that meant she had the kind of smile that could brighten the darkest day and melt the ice off the coldest heart.

Will I ever get the chance to see it? he wondered absently.

She turned back and caught him staring and he wanted to kick his own ass for not being more discreet. Easily reading the appreciation, the hunger , in his eyes, she blanched an even paler shade of ivory and squirmed off his lap.

And who could blame her? he thought, helpless to assist her in her efforts. For one thing, she might scream if he put his hands on her. For another thing, he was afraid if he tried to help, he might hinder her ability to dismount without making noise.

It was a little awkward—and he suffered another ball-squish in the process—but eventually, she maneuvered off his lap and huddled on the floor beside Knox. She pulled her legs up to her chin and wrapped her arms tightly around her knees.

Way to go, jackass , he castigated himself, already missing the weight of her, the warmth of her.

When voices sounded outside, he watched her eyes grow as big as saucers. She shoved a hand over her mouth to hold in a scream. Then she buried her face into the tops of her knees.

What the hell happened to her to make her so scared? he wondered.

He took the thought a step further. And whatever it was, will she recover from it? Or will it consume her like a living thing until there’s nothing left but the rot?

He’d seen it happen before. Seen decent kids turn terrible after suffering the abuse that seemed an inevitable part of the foster care system. Seen good fighting men go bad from dissociating so often from the horrors of bloodshed that they lost the last scrap of their humanity.

That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

Whoever said that was a damned idiot. Too often, what didn’t kill a person only made them wish it had and?—

His thoughts were interrupted when a loud thud sounded against the pantry door.

His heart, which had remained rock-steady the last time he’d flown BKI’s old Blackhawk toward a moving warship only to execute a perfect pop-up breaking maneuver before hovering steady so the Black Knights could fast-rope down onto the bow, now thundered out of control.

He fully expected the feds to bust down the door. He was a little shocked when he heard a… moan ?

What the hell is happening out there in the kitchen?