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“He sent me to the Order to save my life, but I don’t have a life,” Kensley said with a new hint of bitterness in his voice. “And King isn’t even out there living? Bastard.”

Bishop’s eyebrows rose. “He never wanted you used as leverage against him.”

“Great plan, as we’re speeding out of the city to some distant safe house, because one of his enemies came after me in my church!”

He angled the rearview for a better look at Kensley’s face.

Kensley was glaring at the opposite car door, cheeks red, but he seemed more determined than scared.

He hadn’t looked genuinely scared since Bishop told him to take his clothes off, as if instinctively believing he’d be safe, as long as he followed Bishop’s orders.

Bishop was used to that with his employees, but not with civilians.

Then again, Kensley remembered the much younger man Bishop had once been—before violence and vengeance and anger took over his life. Before Bishop became a stone-cold killer.

“The churches have historically been neutral territory,” Bishop said. “We’ve never crossed that line, never brought our grudges there, never hurt anyone inside of a church. They crossed a line sending those men after you. I’m just glad we were proactive and I was there.”

“So am I.” Kensley angled his head so their eyes met in the rearview. “Thank you for saving my life. Goodness knows what they would have done to me to retaliate against King.”

“We’re not going to find out, Kens. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I believe you.”

“Good. Settle in, we’ll talk later.”

Bishop turned on the radio. The first station had a brief bulletin about the armed robbery at Holy Order Ninth Cathedral during a fundraising dinner.

The newscaster said all but two attendees were accounted for, but that officers were still searching the entire abbey grounds and news was developing.

That made Bishop grin. They could search until the sun came up, and the only things they’d find were two open vents, and no sign of Elder Thorne or the volunteer named Drew.

It would take them a while to find Drew’s apartment, and even then, he’d left no evidence that anyone lived there except a workaholic bachelor.

Not that Drew was a real person anyway. The authorities would end up chasing ghosts for most of the weekend, giving King time to figure out a more permanent place to stash Kensley.

He switched over to a classic rock station and drove.

He’d memorized the locations of all King’s safe houses a decade ago, and so far, only two had been used and discarded.

Once they were less than forty minutes away and getting into more remote, wilderness locations, he turned his cell phone on and added the address to its GPS.

Despite his protests, Kensley was asleep, stretched out on the backseat.

While adrenaline could hit fast and make you feel like you’d be awake for a week, once it wore off, fatigue set in swiftly.

Good. Kensley deserved the rest. Bishop was used to toeing the line between life and death.

Hell, he’d dangled by a thread for a while after the explosion.

But this? All this terror and hiding and running away? It was all new to Kens.

The safe house designated Backhoe was a single-story hunting cabin, in a remote area about five miles from the nearest small town.

It had a generator and well system, and Bishop had been here once, maybe eight years ago, to recover from a gunshot wound.

Since it had never been tied to any active case against the organization, King hadn’t cut the cabin loose.

Once Bishop hit the outskirts of town, he double-checked his directions, and then turned off his GPS.

Since he knew King would call him next from a burner phone, he didn’t turn his own cell phone off.

His cell was a burner, so without a psychic on payroll, cops would have a hard time finding any cell tower records connecting King to Drew Burton.

Or have any idea Drew was now in a remote pocket of the state, far from the dangers of River City and its four rival mob factions.

Less than ten minutes of slow driving up single-car mountain roads ended at the cabin.

Part of him wanted to let Kensley rest, but he didn’t need any surprises.

He shifted into park, left the engine idling, and reached back to shake Kensley awake.

Kensley sat up with a start and reached for blankets that weren’t there.

“We’re at the safe house,” Bishop said. “It should be empty and ready, but I want you to wait here while I check it out.”

“Yeah, of course.” Kensley peered out one of the windows, but their view was of nothing more exciting than trees and wilderness and a whole lot of darkness. “How far off the grid are we?”

“Far enough to be safe. Sit tight. I’ll come get you.”

“Okay.”

Bishop adored the blind trust. He slipped his gun into his coat pocket and began inspecting the property.

The cabin was dark and cold, nothing of note.

Snow would have made it easier to tell if anyone had been around, but the ground was simply damp and covered in the remnants of last year’s leaf fall.

No new tracks in the soft earth. Satisfied, Bishop got the generator going before he returned to the car.

“We’re good to go,” he told Kensley. “Please, grab the bag I gave you. I’ve got stuff in the trunk.”

“Okay.”

Bishop continued observing the darkness surrounding them, while he gathered the last of their supplies.

Even though he’d already inspected the cabin, he still went inside ahead of Kensley.

They turned on lights as they settled in.

The single-story cabin had a large living space with a small kitchenette tucked in the rear, by a door that led to the bedroom and bathroom.

One bedroom with a king-sized bed. A bed for Kensley. Bishop would sleep on the couch.

Yeah.

“This is nice,” Kensley said after he’d taken a quick look around. “I mean it. It reminds me of the apartment I lived in with my mom. It was cozy like this. Just without the mountain views.”

Bishop wasn’t sure how to respond. “I grew up in a stone row house. We had windows facing front and back of more row houses, and on both sides, we had all the noises of the attached neighbors.”

“We aren’t competing for the worst childhood, Bishop. Or who had the best house. Money has never mattered to me. Just relationships. Genuine relationships I could count on.”

“You can count on me.” He began organizing the kitchen with their supplies. The cabinets had the expected supply of canned goods, shelf-stable meals, and bottled water. Nothing that took a lot of effort or energy to prepare.

With everything in place and all the doors locked, Bishop checked the time. Almost two in the morning.

“Kens?”

He found Kensley asleep on the outdated, floral-print sofa, both arms curled around a flat throw pillow.

Kensley looked so young, so unbothered while asleep, even though he’d yet to change out of his robe.

Bishop shoved away the burned-in mental image of how Kensley had looked naked, kneeling in front of him in that dim closet.

That had been a moment of pure survival, nothing else.

Certainly not one to tuck into the back of Bishop’s mind for when this was all over, and it remained the only truly glorious moment of his life.

Be professional, you idiot.

He gently shook Kensley’s shoulder, and when he didn’t wake, Bishop gathered his limp body into his arms. Carried him into the small bedroom.

Tucking Kensley into bed took a bit of effort, but he managed, leaving enough room for a second person, but that was out of the question.

As much as Bishop longed to curl his bigger body around Kensley’s and sleep together until sunrise, Bishop couldn’t.

For as safe as he did believe they were for now, Bishop could not indulge in forbidden fruits best left untasted.

He’d gotten too close for comfort (and personal safety) back in the janitor’s closet.

And it hadn’t just been the handsome, naked omega male on his knees; it had been the fact that Kensley had also been aroused.

Aroused and dripping wet, and if he’d turned around… if he’d begged to be fucked…

Bishop was thankful he hadn’t.

After securing all the cabin’s windows and doors, he found a blanket in the bedroom’s freestanding wardrobe, curled up on the couch with his gun, and tried to sleep.