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Tabitha

The mercenary was going to be an issue.

For two weeks after their initial skirmish—oh, how she loved that word—Tabitha didn’t go into hiding as such, she just kept her head down. The voices were getting worse, and she was laying the blame squarely at the feet of the big goof who’d thoroughly fucked up her undercover recon.

For the first time in a long time, she’d felt the weight of a man on top of her, felt the prod of his erection against her ass, and she’d freaked. Her golden rule was simple, was it not?

Do not get pinned down by an enemy.

Death, dying, wasn’t something she feared. She dealt too much of it to others for her to be afraid of it. Being tortured fell under the same umbrella—pain was simply the nervous system signaling a problem; it could be controlled, muted, even blanked out with the right training.

Tabitha had all the training.

But succumbing to a man, getting pinned down beneath him, was a hell no.

The last two weeks hadn’t been focused on her target. She’d accumulated enough data on Elias Mitchell during her month of research to understand killing him was, as Jasper told her, against her code of justice.

He loved his wife, his husband. Despite the odd games he played with them at night, he truly loved them both. She’d seen that for herself when she slipped out of the bedroom closet after they’d fallen asleep in a tangle of exhausted limbs and heavy, slow breathing.

Hotel rooms were incredibly easy to breach.

In time, she’d end her side of the contract on his life. There were measures she needed to put in place before she did so; no doubt, someone would be sent after her as soon as she terminated the agreement, which meant a return trip to Ireland to hunt down the fucker who hired her.

The delay also meant no one else should attempt a hit on Elias.

Shouldbeing the operative word; contract killers abided by a code of ethics—no poaching—but there were some who thought they were above that silent code.

Sitting in the shade provided by a cluster of boxelder maple trees, Tabitha searched the construction site with her binoculars. She’d had to spend a couple days wandering around in the forest after she escaped Grit’s presence, but she’d used the time wisely, sourcing the best positions for continued reconnaissance.

Hitchhiking back to the city had been arduous, but the truck driver hauling fallen trees for the forestry commission further up the valley had been pleasant enough… once she’d warned him what would happen if he dared be otherwise.

“Where are you, big boy?” she murmured, scanning the hive of activity below her. She was absolutely sure he hadn’t returned to Arizona; the contract was still live. “What have we here?”

Oh, now he was just spoiling her fun. A pout kissed her lips as she studied one of the crew, then jerked the binoculars over to another. Unlike her current obsession, the two men stood out like nudists at a church. They weren’t blending in, contributing to the working population; they wandered about, assessing everything they saw, and one even kept sliding his hand to his hip as though checking his weapon.

“Nervous nelly,” she said aloud, a giggle bubbling up. “It might be amusing to play with you, nelly.”

Had she spooked Rory McCabe so badly he’d called in backup, she wondered with a smirk, or was it a case of Atticus doing the noble thing and protecting his asset? Maybe a bit of both, she mused. After all, she’d always been on the good guy side of the fence during a fight; they knew some of what she was capable of, but not all.

Finally, she found Grit. She let the binoculars linger on him, taking in his rugged build. He knew how to fit in with the crew, she thought in approval, watching him cross to one of the rapidly growing buildings with a stack of planks over his shoulder. He was alert, aware of his surroundings, yet simply one of the guys.

Tabitha snorted. What a stupid saying. If a man had a dick, he was one of the guys.

Little tufts of dark blond hair peeked from beneath his hard hat. The scruff on his face was a lighter shade; he’d look much better with a beard than just that stubble. Perhaps she’d tell him that when she next saw him.

With that in mind, she checked her watch. It was a two-hour hike back to her jeep, and she had other things to do before she went on a nocturnal adventure. With one last look at the man who took up more space in her head than she liked, she packed up her gear and headed back.

*

Grit

Leaving Austin and Kyle on protection detail didn’t sit well with him, but he was exhausted. Six weeks of an assignment that shouldn’t have lasted a fucking week was taking its toll, especially now he had firsthand experience of Tabitha’s skills and mental deficit.

Both men were armed, trained to Atticus’s exacting standards, but they were young and a little too cocky for Grit’s liking. From an eavesdropped conversation, he gathered they believed they could take Tabitha down with ease—not unlike he had—but she’d wipe the floor with the pair of them if they maintained that attitude.

Still, that was a lesson they would learn the hard way.

Carrying his takeout box in one hand, a six-pack in the other, he wrestled his hotel door open, stepped through, and slammed it shut with a sigh of relief. Locking it again, he toed off his boots, carried his meal to the couch, and indulged in his first night off in what felt like forever.

Asking Atticus to send support to Denver stung his pride, but after a month solo, it was obvious this assignment was going to be longer than anticipated. There was only so much he could do alone before standards began slipping, and accidents happened.

With an appreciative groan for the comfiness of the couch, Grit switched the TV on with one hand and flipped open the pizza box with the other. Flicking through the channels, he finally settled on an action movie—mainly to critique the hell out of the fight scenes—and selected his slice.

Movie, food, and a beer. Not much more a man could ask for on a Friday night. Well, aside from the obvious, of course—a soft, warm woman to share the pizza and beer, pull apart the action flick, and roll under him later on when the lights were out.

Fuck, he missed Avalon. His membership there was new, but the kinky side of him was an energy he’d possessed since around the time he discovered what his dick could do to a willing woman. He found it relaxing to swing by the club on his nights off, find a play partner who enjoyed the same things he did, and lose himself in not only the kink, but the aftercare.

He fucking loved aftercare.

There was something soothing about holding a woman when she’d given him her all. Cuddling her close, wiping away the sweat and tears, letting her sip water bit by bit until her breathing calmed and her eyes refocused.

Sometimes, aftercare was more vital to the empty spaces inside him than all the restraints, floggers, butt plugs, and toys in the world.

Although the pizza went down fast, Grit rationed himself to just two beers. It was rare he drank to excess anyway, but a two-drink limit was habit now. Tonight, even though he was technically off-duty, he wanted to be ready to go if Austin or Kyle requested assistance.

One movie turned into two. Halfway through the second, he fired off a text to Kyle asking for an update, and got the all clear back. Ten minutes later, he was asleep with his head tipped against the back of the couch, his almost empty bottle clutched in his fist.

When he woke, some Evangelist was talking crap on the screen. Yawning, eyes burning, he set the bottle on the coffee table, then turned the television off.

Time for bed. If he slept in this position any longer, his neck would take days to recover. As it was, his lower back protested as he dragged his tired ass off the couch.

The logical part of his fatigued brain forced him to check the door again; it was shut, locked, and safe. Using a hand to guide himself along the wall to the bathroom, he relieved himself, then washed up and staggered to the bedroom.

Tempted to just fall face-first onto the bed, he stripped off his shirt.

A soft snuffle brought his brain online fully; reaching for his gun, he stepped aside so the hallway light filtered into the room, over the bed where a goddamn pixie slept.

“What the fuck?” he whispered, letting his hand drift away from his weapon.

Tabitha lay on her back, her pretty features serene. The madness and manic energy she possessed was apparently a curse only when she was awake. She had the longest, palest eyelashes he’d ever seen.

Approaching warily, Grit wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now. He saw no weapons within her reach; her small hands were empty. He doubted she was a heavy sleeper—in her line of work, that was a death sentence all its own—which meant one wrong move and she’d likely rip his throat out.

Could he cuff her to the headboard before she woke?

His gaze roamed over her, seeing no signs of injury or blood. What was she doing here, and how had she got in? He knew he’d locked the damn door when he came in. It was reflexive habit, whether he was at home or on a job.

Carefully, not entirely sure he wanted to rile the beast into waking up, he skimmed the back of his finger over her soft cheek.

Pain jabbed into his wrist as her hand shot up, her fingers clamping around the joint from the underside, slamming his hand into the mattress beside her and pinning it.

He froze as the sharp tip of a knife poked into the side of his neck, wielded by her other hand.

Tsking quietly, opening her eyes leisurely as though she had nothing better to do, she peered up at him. The blue was fierce and amused. “Big boy, did no one ever tell you not to disturb a monster when she’s sleeping?”

He lifted his eyebrow. “You’re in my goddamn bed, Tabitha.”

“I got bored waiting for you to wake up.”

“That’s your excuse?”

The knife dragged lightly around his throat, the tip scoring a line in its wake. “I’m used to it. Every time I visit, you sleep like the dead.”

Grit’s mouth dropped open. He knew for a fact he wasn’t a heavy sleeper; like her, it was detrimental to his health. “How many times have you visited, Tabitha?”

She smiled absently, drawing the tip back and forth over his Adam’s apple. “Oh, just a few. I sit and wait, but you never know I’m here. You intrigue me; I don’t know why. You’re becoming a bit of an obsession.”

The words every man wanted to hear, he thought with a feeling of dread sneaking up on him. “Are you stalking me?”

“Maybe? I’m not sure.” A frown puckered the skin between her fair brows. “Something in me is drawn to you. I don’t think I want to kill you…” She seemed to mull that over. “No, that would be unpalatable. It’s like I want to be close to you because you make me… happy? No,” she said with a twist of her lips. “Not happy. I don’t know, but it’s frustrating.”

Well, he agreed with that. It was damn frustrating and not a little unnerving that she evidently spent a lot of time watching him sleep. “How did you get in? The door was locked.”

Tabitha snorted. “I have a key.”

“What?”

“Master key,” she muttered, her eyes sparkling as she drew the blade down the center of his throat to draw patterns on his chest. “I have master keys for all the hotels. Dublin, London, Paris, you name it, I have the key. Any I don’t have, I can get.”

He glanced down at the red lines scoring his skin. “Have you been in Elias’s room?”

Elias, Evander, and Callie were only a couple of doors down. Kyle and Austin had managed to score the room to their left.

Tabitha’s smile turned sly, but her eyes shuttered. “Dirty boys, those two. Always doing bad things to the girl. Not that she minds,” she muttered in a tone that said she didn’t understand why the girl didn’t mind.

“Are you afraid of sex, little tiger?” He didn’t know why he asked the question, but as the knife dug painfully into his skin, he realized asking it when there was a blade teasing his chest probably wasn’t wise.

Her tone was devoid of any emotion when she said, “Wouldn’t you be, if Dominic taught you everything you knew?”

After seeing what Dominic had done to the Alpha team that night, Grit readily admitted the man hadn’t been one to fuck with, but when Atticus needed a job done, his team did it one way or another, regardless of the cost to themselves.

Greater good, and all that.

It wasn’t much of a shock to discover that the fucker had likely raped his daughter in the name of lessons. Still, Grit wasn’t going to pry any deeper into this territory when her knife was still using him as its canvas.

“Well, I think it’s time I called it a night.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Next time you, ah, visit, why don’t you knock on the door?”

Tabitha frowned and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Her mouth turned pouty and biteable. “This is early for me, but okay.” The knife eased away from his chest, spun between her fingers, and disappeared somewhere behind her. With a huff, she released his hand, then… made herself comfortable. “I already know you don’t snore, so that’s okay.”

Rubbing his wrist, Grit scowled at her. “You’re not staying, Tabitha. Unless it escaped your notice, you and I are on different sides of a conflict here; you want to kill someone, and I can’t allow it.”

Puzzlement shimmered in her eyes, then she hummed under her breath. “Hmm, silly me, did I not tell you? The contract will be terminated once I have some safeguards in place. Elias is safe from me.”

For a moment, his temper flared. All the wasted time, resources, man hours, sheer fucking monotony he’d put into this assignment, and she just… acquiesced, on a goddamn whim? “I beg your pardon?”

Still fully dressed, she made a soft purring sound. “You heard me. He’s safe until I end the contract, then it will be open season on us both. Need to kill the contact before that happens.”

Growling, he shoved her shoulder. “Don’t you dare fall asleep. How long ago did you decide not to go through with it?”

Eyes closed, she smiled serenely. “When I understood the man more. Make my own judgements, don’t I?” She rolled onto her side, tucking her arm beneath the pillow, and nuzzled her cheek into the cream-colored material. “It’s quiet time now. Shush.”

Shush?By God, if she was his submissive, she’d be over his lap in a heartbeat, getting her tight ass spanked for the insolence. “Tabitha—”

“I said,” she repeated darkly, wiggling deeper into the pillow, “shush.”

Just like that, she was asleep. In his bed.

Stunned, Grit stared at her while his Dominant side raged. So many punishments, so little consent. A damn shame, really; the little tiger had a lot of repressed emotions bubbling under the surface. A hard spanking might release some of that shit, although if she was as stubborn as Jasper, she’d let the world end before she caved.

Yanking his phone from his back pocket, he began pacing as he called Atticus. It was beyond late, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Grit, you got an update?” Voice strained with sleep, Atticus answered.

“There’s an assassin sleeping in my bed.”

“I—what?”

“About five-seven, blue eyes, white-blonde hair. Likes to pull knives out of thin air and poke people with them.” Swiping his hand over his chest, he wasn’t impressed with the smear of blood on his palm. “She told me to shush, Atticus.”

A low chuckle rumbled down the line. “Tabitha is in your bed?”

“Fast a-fucking-sleep.”

“Well, at least you’re still alive. The way her moods fluctuate, she might have gutted you. As for the shush…” Another rumble of amusement. “Make sure you film it if you try and spank her; the rest of the team can learn from your mistakes.”

“Asshole.”

Atticus sighed. “Are you in imminent danger?”

Grit studied the sleeping form on the bed, his lip curling. “Not unless she stabs me in my sleep.”

“Always a possibility with her. Has she reconsidered her stance on the contract?”

“So she says. She’s terminating the Irish contract once she has safeguards in place.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Did anyone ever know what she meant? Half the time, she spoke in riddles and whimsical diatribes. “She said something about taking out the fucker who instigated the contract. Sounds like both she and Elias will be subject to a new hit.”

“We need to know who her contact is.”

“Want me to interrogate her?”

“Pretty sure torturing her won’t work. She passed Dominic’s training program—the majority of his methods involved torture in one form or another. Can you bring her in?”

“If I had a gallon of chloroform and a straightjacket, maybe.”

Atticus hummed thoughtfully. “How sure are you that she’s being honest?”

Elias’s life came down to this, Grit thought in disgust. If she was lying to him, the probability Eli would die rocketed into a certainty. But something she’d said to him gnawed at his sense of duty.

I can’t abide liars; I like to take their tongues as souvenirs.

“Honesty is important to her, Att. For all her faults, I think lying is low down on the list.” Hell, looking at her now while she slept, he thought a lie would turn her tongue to ash. “She honestly believes she has this contained.”

“What Tabitha believes and what she does are often worlds apart,” Atticus grumbled. “Are you confident she has this under control?”

Grit grimaced, grateful his boss couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

“Very well. I’ll pull Austin and Kyle back to base in the morning.”

“I’ll pack my gear.”

“”I’m keeping you on the assignment, Grit.”

His patience stretched to the end of its tether. He was tired, he was stressed, and he really needed a couple of hours with a warm, eager sub to smooth out the jagged edges. Maybe he’d have to scout around town, try and find a club.

Damn shame Serenity was still in progress.

“I know it’s probably not what you want to hear,” Att continued when Grit stayed silent, “but until the threat is eliminated, Elias stays protected.”

“So send me to Ireland,” Grit suggested hotly. “Let me go take care of the root of this shit.”

“There’s only one person who knows anything about the contact,” Atticus reminded him. “She’s sleeping in your bed.”

Hmm, could he get the information from the little pixie without her trying to cut his throat? Doubtful. He guessed she’d get possessive over what she considered her business, despite the fact he was being dragged into it. “You want me to work with her?”

“Tabitha isn’t the type who works well with others. They were all trained to function alone. No support, no team behind them. Just them against the world.” The disgust in Atticus’s voice was strong. “Besides, I’m not sure how she interacts with people on a day-to-day basis.”

Grit rubbed his throat where the knife had scored his skin. “I’m guessing not like normal people.”

“No. Just… handle her however you deem fit, Grit. She’s family, but so are you. I don’t want to see either of you hurt.”

“Me either. Fine, I’ll deal with it.”

“Thanks. With any luck, she’ll go back to Ireland, terminate the contract, and you can come home.”

See, that didn’t sit right with him. Yes, she was a contract killer. Yes, she’d been doing it for years and likely had more experience than he did. But he hated the idea of her going off alone, facing untold threats, because that was what was expected of her.

She was so small.

Deadly, sure, yet he had no trouble imagining her being surrounded by a bunch of Irish pricks used to brawling in the streets. No matter how strong, determined, or fucking insane she might be, there was a limit to how many opponents she could tackle at once.

No, no, no. He was not getting invested—physically, emotionally, or psychologically—in her wellbeing. Tabitha was a big girl who’d lasted this far without a man interfering in her business; he wasn’t going to be the first.

After saying goodbye to his boss, Grit plugged his phone in to charge, then weighed up his options. Couch or bed? Completely different room? Just find a new hotel altogether?

The bed was out, he decided. While he probably wouldn’t sleep with the lunatic pixie next to him, he was tired enough to prove himself wrong. He didn’t fancy waking up with that knife jammed into his jugular.

Another room, even another hotel, wouldn’t deter her—not if she had a master key.

Which left the couch, because there was no way in hell he was going to disturb her when she was asleep; it was the only time she was quiet as far as he knew.

Grumbling under his breath, he started to walk out, then hesitated. Approaching Tabitha as though she was an unexploded bomb, he flipped the duvet over her from the shoulders down.

He left her alone, not shutting the door fully so the hallway light lit a swath across the carpet beside the bed.

As he sank onto the couch, stuffing a cushion under his head, he wondered what the hell he’d done to deserve this.

*

Tabitha

Boy, he was sleeping late.

Sitting cross-legged on the coffee table in front of the couch, Tabitha watched him for the umpteenth time. She liked how relaxed his face became, the muscles and lines easing into a peaceful mask. Like death, but without the deadness. A person really wasn’t attractive once the color leeched from their skin and it became rubbery.

His eyelashes were a rich, dark-tinted gold, more like the stubble on his cheeks than the hair on his head. She still thought he’d suit a beard rather than that stubble, but that was his choice. His skin was gaining a tan from all the hours he was putting in on the construction site—no office time for him here in Denver.

He was dangerous to her heart, and she had no idea why.

Emotions were useless, really. Deathtraps. Nuisances designed to lure people into a vulnerable state of mind. She’d had them once, before the incessant mindfucks and physical duress pushed her to the point of shutting them down once and for all.

Her baby half-sister, Caera, had failed the rabbit test as a child. Couldn’t stick the bundle of fur with a hypo full of poison, yet it was she who’d become the epitome of the saying, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Rita scorned her; Caera tore her to pieces with a scalpel and years’ worth of pent-up rage.

Tabitha couldn’t be prouder.

Her gaze slipped from Grit’s face to his bare chest. Her appreciation for his half-naked form centered more around his prowess as a fighter than anything sexual. Lots of tanned skin pulled taut over hard muscles. Not perfect by any means, she thought, studying the scars on his upper arms and torso.

He was a warrior.

Such a shame he was bound by social etiquette—he’d have completely dominated their fight if he hadn’t been so concerned about hurting her. He had the bulk, the speed, and the strength; she was strong in her own right, just as fast, but had no qualms about annihilating anyone who stood between her and her goals.

“How long you gonna stare at me?” he demanded gruffly.

Huh. The huskiness of his barely-awake voice did strange things to her insides. It was the first time she’d hung around long enough to see him wake; after all, the secret was out, and he knew she watched him sleep on a regular basis.

She wasn’t going to tell him how regular.

“As long as it pleases me,” she crooned in response. Hmm, his eyes were a fascinating color when they opened; not quite green, not really blue or brown, but a strange mixture of the three. Little flecks merging into a miniature storm of…

Tabitha recoiled slightly, recognizing the look in his eye. Not as potent as her father’s lustful gaze, but the same… yearning. She reached for the knife tucked into the sheath at the small of her back, but Grit was so damn fast, even half-asleep, that he caught her off-guard.

With a grunt, he reached out and snagged her wrist, hauling her off the table. She barely got one foot on the carpet between the two pieces of furniture before he yanked her down on top of him.

What the fuck?

Panic flared as her breasts hit his chest, then compressed against it. She tried to free her wrist, but his grip was like a steel shackle. His other arm banded around her lower back; his legs hooked over hers and pinned them.

He had her immobile in seconds.

“Quit wriggling,” he ordered gently, giving her side a gentle pat. “Not gonna hurt you, little tiger. Settle down now.”

“Let me go! Let me go!” Panic squeezed her throat so the words became a whine.

“Nope. Got a few hours before I clock back on, and I’m sleeping those hours away. Suggest you do the same, Tabby Cat.”

And they said she was crazy. Obviously, her presence in his life was contaminating him because he had no marbles left in his pouch. No one called her nicknames, absolutely no one, yet he had the gall to give her two?

She bucked, squirmed, slapped at him with the hand he couldn’t restrain. She heard him stifle a moan, felt his cock stir beneath her, and froze. “Please, Grit. Let me go.”

“Seems to me,” he murmured, releasing her wrist to grasp the nape of her neck, “people been letting you go do your own thing for too long. Following your own code, your own rules.” The strong fingers hit a spot that created an ache in her belly. He gripped her harder for a few long seconds, then began to knead the tense muscles. “Forgot one thing, Tabitha. There are other rules in the world, different laws; you’ve broken several of mine since the first time we met. Consider this your timeout.”

Timeout? Indignation coiled inside her like a cobra, hissing and ready to strike. Did he not realize she could gut him in a heartbeat, would do so if she just…

Those fingers massaged up into her hair, moving over her scalp in a way that blanked her brain. As though her body belonged to someone else—someone who wasn’t literally scared to death by the prospect of any kind of intimacy—it capitulated.

“That’s a good girl. Just relax. Lay your head down, take a deep breath.”

Orders. She hated taking fucking orders. She lived her own life, performed her job her own way. She chose the contracts she took. She executed bad people however she wanted. She ate pizza for breakfast, requested room service at two a.m., took naps for several hours through the day—because that was her choice.

Not Dominic’s. Not Rita’s. Not Rory freaking McCabe’s.

So why was her ear pressed to bare skin? The steady, unflustered beat of his heart buh-bumped in a soothing rhythm, merging with the stroke of his fingertips through her hair.

“Why are you doing this?” she mumbled.

“Because anyone with as much as energy as you needs a break now and then. This seems like the perfect time.” The arm around her waist loosened, then his hand began to run up and down her spine in long, slow sweeps. “If I wanted to hurt or incapacitate you, I’d have done so already. Close your eyes, little tiger. Catch some Zs with me.”

No. No, this was too open, too vulnerable. Even though she held the dominant position by being on top, it was clear Grit was competently in charge. “Damn Dom.”

His chuckle was low and amused, rumbling up into her. “Is it that obvious, or have you been stalking my private time in Phoenix too?”

“I…” Tingling ran under her skin, over it, wherever his hands touched. Even through her clothes, her body responded to the gentle caresses. “I hear it in your voice. Primal power…” She moaned softly, her head tilting against her will as his fingertips manipulated a spot around her ear. “The demanding… tone. Just like Jasper.”

“A compliment, indeed.”

“Don’t take it that way. He’s an asshole.”

“He’s one of the best men I know. He’s your brother; you love him.”

Tabitha snorted, barely able to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head. “Doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole. Can’t love him. Can’t love anyone. All alone.”

“Do you want to be alone, Tabitha?”

She shook her head. Her brains were leaking out of her ears; she knew she was in a stupid predicament, but it was nice to be held. He’d taken the time to cover her with the duvet, something no one had ever done for her, that she remembered. “Don’t know how to be anything but.”

“Not for much longer,” Grit promised. “Trust somebody else other than yourself for once, little tiger. Trust me, and close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

“No sex,” she whispered, her breath leveling out. God, she was tired. She felt heavy and cumbersome, all her weight melting over him as decades-old tension oozed from her muscles. “I don’t want it.”

“That’s a shame on so many levels.” His chin rested on top of her head. “Sleep only, I promise.”

It was disconcerting how easily he suppressed her anxiety. More, how easily she succumbed to simple touch. Warmth from his body; the glide of his hands over her back, through her hair… the hum of his voice in her ear.

Little things in the grand scheme, yet so foreign to her.

Human connection was an alien concept—she’d learned that hands on her meant someone intended to do her harm.

“Stop thinking,” Grit told her. “Switch that busy brain off.”

Before she could tell him that was an impossibility, her eyes fluttered closed as he skimmed his fingertips across a point on her neck, over and over again.

Her brain turned off of its own volition.

*

Grit

What was he playing at?

The question plagued him as he dozed beneath Tabitha’s sleeping form. She was out like a light, her breathing even and deep. Every now and then, she snuffled adorably, rubbing her cheek over his chest until she found a comfortable position.

He couldn’t imagine being afraid of touching another person. Personally, he was a tactile man. He thoroughly enjoyed different textures under his hands, and in his opinion, skin was one of the best. Different temperatures, ranging from rough to smooth, and sensitive to a large number of stimuli.

What would it be like to be trained, forcefully trained, to see other people as either targets or tools? One or the other with nothing in between. Did she walk through a mall or down a busy sidewalk and see individual faces, unique personalities, or were the general population akin to browsing the hardware section of a store to her?

No, there was more to her than that, he told himself. However she viewed herself, however she came across to others, she felt something beyond that; he’d heard how she interacted with the women from Avalon, the Masters’ subs.

Rumor had it that she’d taken care of Sonic’s stepfather; a predatory fuck obsessed with his stepdaughter, who’d kidnapped, raped, and murdered young girls within his county for years because he couldn’t have her.

There had to be some kernel of softness inside the little pixie, he mused. If there wasn’t, Elias would already be dead, along with Grit for standing in her way. She wouldn’t have a code of ethics, her own system for meting out punishment on the evils of this world.

If Dominic had corrupted her as deeply as she believed, there’d be no one safe.

Why was he even contemplating this? It wasn’t as if he was intending to keep the woman. She needed help to reconnect with herself, to dig under the roots poisoned by her father, and discover who she was without their influence.

Rolling his eyes, he scowled at the idiocy of that thought. There was no her without their influence, was there? They’d gotten their sadistic hands on her from day one, manipulated and molded her since before she could walk, talk, think.

Yet, like Jasper and Caera, something vitally good had survived.

Maybe he should bundle her up while she was asleep and haul her back to Phoenix so Connie could work her magic. The psychologist had a way about her—firm, supportive, compassionate, and oddly intuitive when it came to wounded little birds.

That would be best. A woman with her issues didn’t need a big, strict Dom demanding submission from her. BDSM wasn’t a recommended therapy for sexual trauma; hell, Tabitha was likely to dismember him and feed him to the cougars in the mountains if his hand stroked over her ass, for God’s sake.

Besides, he wasn’t sure how to handle a woman like her. The occasional phobia, a few hard limits—those he could deal with. Tabitha… how did one start unteaching habits and fears stemming back decades?

No, despite how well she fit against him, Tabitha was not meant for him. She needed someone like Saul, who seemed to have traversed a similar minefield with Caera with great success.

Maybe Connie or one of the Masters knew of someone who could guide Tabitha the same way.

As though aware of the direction of his thoughts, Tabitha’s fingernails dug into his chest, her muscles tightening beneath his hands. Noises reverberated in her throat, sounds he’d only ever heard from cornered, injured animals.

“Easy, little tiger.” Fully aware of his predicament if she woke in a murderous mood, Grit made sure to keep his voice and touch calm, unthreatening. “It’s okay, you’re safe here.”

She jerked once, twice, three times in succession. A low wail broke the quiet of the room, rising to a pained crescendo. More jerking, always in a set of three.

In his head, Grit imagined the crack of a whip. One, two, three. It timed perfectly with those involuntarily movements. He tipped her face up, unsettled to find her eyes open but blind. Her facial muscles were strained with pain that wasn’t real here in the present, yet was absolutely real in her memories.

Waking people from nightmares was a risky business; waking Tabitha from hers might be more costly than he liked.

Fisting his fingers in her hair, he tugged gently in between the vicious jerks of her body, each one growing harder in an effort to encourage her to wake. When that didn’t work, he tried pinching her side, slapping her ass, even tickling her.

Whatever chains held her deep in her subconscious, they were unbreakable.

“Little tiger, what you’re feeling, it’s not real. Phantom pain from memories. Terrible memories,” he murmured, grimacing at the sight of sweat trickling down her temple. “I know they hurt you, but they’re dead. Gone. The only way they can hurt you now is if you let them do it from the grave, Tabitha.”

No matter what he said, he couldn’t break the cycle. Eventually, he just cradled her close to his chest and did his best to soothe her every time she flinched. For more than twenty minutes, his heart ached for the little girl she’d been, alone and in the hands of monsters.

Whining under her breath, Tabitha finally went limp, her body shuddering in perceived pain. Her clothes were damp with sweat, but when her eyes cleared, there seemed to be no recollection of… well, anything.

“That’s my good girl,” he said cautiously, bracing when those pale blue eyes narrowed their focus on him. “Easy, Tabitha. Remember where you are before you rip my head off.”

The awareness, the suspicion, didn’t lessen as he watched the pieces fall into place behind her eyes. She was taking stock of everything—herself, her surroundings, the situation.

Finally, her lips curved. “You can keep your head for a while longer, big boy.”

Well, that was reassuring. “Thanks, I appreciate it. Think you can slow your breathing down some more, little tiger? That nightmare packed a punch.” He traced a fingertip down her cheek where sweat dampened her skin.

Tabitha snorted derisively, the look she gave him indicating she thought he was an idiot. “Ugh, and people say I’m crazy. I don’t have nightmares; you need to feel emotions like fear to have nightmares.” She paused, frowned. “Just for clarification, I don’t feel fear.”

She did on some level, he thought. Whether she realized it or not, she felt a hell of a lot more than she believed. “Not feeling anything would make you a monster, which is something you’re not. Little tigers who bare their fangs and lash out with claws extended know fear, understand it.”

Indignantly, she pushed up on his chest. Irritation flashed in her eyes. “This is how I wake up every time, Grit. Sweaty, a little breathless, maybe nauseous sometimes. Just like normal people.”

Jesus Christ, someone needed to open her eyes to the truth of what was happening inside her own damn head. She’d been on her own for so long, her issues were warping her sense of self-care. “You’ve been watching me sleep for how long, Tabitha? How many times have I woken up sweating, gasping for air, my heart hammering in my chest until I want to vomit?”

“I always leave before then,” she said slowly. “But others… they’re the same as me. I smell the sweat on them if they wake before I finish the job.”

Probably because she scared them shitless as they snapped out of sleep to a knife at their throat, or however she dealt with her hits. “Can you remember what you dream about?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not fanciful enough to dream. It requires imagination, and my father wasn’t fond of cultivating that in his offspring. The only imagination we were permitted was what we needed to master improvisation. Dreams are for romantics and fools.”

Grit’s eyes drifted to her mouth. Kissing her was a tremendously bad idea, but he had a yen to show her what romance and dreams could do to a fool. Later, perhaps, when her eyes weren’t narrowing into slits of frosted annoyance. “Like it or not, Tabby Cat, your brain is working overtime once you fall asleep.”

“Must you call me names?”

“Must you stalk me?” he countered.

She actually took time to consider his question seriously. The skin between her eyebrows creased with the depth of her thoughts, her lips pursing. “Does it bother you?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of disturbing to know a woman who mastered the art of killing people as a child is consistently breaking into my room and watching me sleep.”

“Oh.” Tabitha chewed on her bottom lip. “Am I supposed to… apologize?”

“That would be appreciated, but I’d honestly prefer you promise not to do it anymore.” Christ, he didn’t enjoy her kicked puppy expression. “When you feel lonely, send me a text or call me. Nine times out of ten, I’ll probably invite you over for takeout and a movie.”

“But not the tenth time?”

Wow, she really picked up on the finer details of a sentence, didn’t she? Grit met her eyes directly, unashamed. “Sometimes, I might have alternative plans.”

Her lip curled in revulsion. “Sex.”

“Men—and women,” he added when her mouth firmed into a line, “have basic needs, Tabitha. Water, food, company. Sex is a big part of our basic needs as humans. It might be a physical representation of love, but sometimes it’s just about connection. Two people coming together to feel.”

Tabitha made a tortured noise in her throat, rolling off him and onto her feet. Her eyes were wildly blue, not completely focused, as she rambled in a sing-song voice. “No, no, no, said the dandelion puff. Too big, so scared, too rough. The monster laughed and made her cry, until the dandelion puff wanted to die.”

Shit. Grit pushed into a sitting position, swinging around to stand, but her jittery movements warned him to sit still. She was like a gangly-legged raccoon dancing on a sea of minefields. “The monster is dead, little tiger. You killed him, remember?”

“Monsters never die. Kill them, kill them, kill them, and they always come back.” Her hands fluttered indecisively, then grabbed a hank of her own hair and yanked savagely. She whirled toward the door. “Blood washes everyone’s sins away but mine.”

Letting her leave the room when she was as far apart in body and mind as this was asking for someone to die. An accidental bump, a harsh word, or even a misinterpreted glance would set her foot down on one of those mines and set off a chain reaction.

Even as he rose, Tabitha strode away, ignoring him when he called her name despite the sharp snap of command in his voice. She flipped the lock, tearing the door open. “Goodbye said the hatter to the hare. Farewell, friend, this is not the end.”

Hell, he’d snapped what few sane wires were left in her head, it seemed. The woman needed a kind touch, quiet words, and a damn good fucking. Her father’s actions had screwed her up seven ways to Sunday; only a man with a wealth of patience, a firm but sympathetic approach, and about fifty years of time stood any chance of breaching her defenses.

A small voice niggled at him, pointing out the obvious: he’d already slipped under her guard. Regardless, he wasn’t the man she needed, not by half. His kinks and her phobias were as far from compatible as engine oil on cereal, and he wasn’t a shrink by any definition.

It was odd, he thought as the door slammed shut behind her, to feel the urge to call her back. To have a sense of emptiness now that she was gone, even though her presence kept him on edge.

Tabitha was beautiful, smart, a brat in the best way, and appealed to him on every level. She’d already proved she was a challenge, inclined to throw wrenches in the works, and had no regard for anyone’s laws but her own.

Any man who dared to try and tame her better have watertight life insurance.

They were in for a wild ride.