What now?

Stepping from the shower, Lyrica gave in to a yawn as she hurriedly dried. Wrapping the towel around her body, she quickly used the blow dryer, taking the worst of the dampness from her hair before brushing the nearly straight black mass back from her face. It trailed to the middle of her shoulders, not quite as neat as she liked it but dry enough to be comfortable.

She dropped the towel and pulled a large T-shirt with a U.S. Marines emblem on the front over her head. As it fell past her thighs, she smoothed her hands down her sides, staring down at the gray material with a sense of regret. At one time, she would have been excited to be wearing one of Graham’s shirts. Now she was too nervous, the fear that followed her still too fresh.

The shirt was something to sleep in, and she needed to sleep. Desperately.

She couldn’t think yet. Exhaustion weighed on her mind, and the memory of that bullet firing in her direction was still too recent.

She was safe.

Graham had told her that a dozen times since he’d locked the doors behind them. No one knew she was there; no one knew who had come for her.

She was safe.

For this moment.

But she couldn’t hide at Graham’s forever. And hiding wasn’t going to draw out those who had decided she no longer deserved to live.

If she wasn’t certain she was being used to draw Dawg out, then she would insist Graham call him. At the moment, she didn’t know what to do. Anyone she called could be placed in danger¸ and she refused to do that to her family. She wasn’t hiding behind a Dumpster anymore. She had to figure out what to do without endangering anyone else she loved.

Breathing out roughly, she stepped from the luxurious bathroom and back into Graham’s bedroom.

God, how had she let him talk her into this?

Oh, yeah—he hadn’t asked. He’d simply followed her up the stairs when she’d been heading to the guest room and pushed her into his room.

Now, standing just inside the bedroom with the safety of the bathroom behind her and the sensually, sexually dangerous appeal of Graham in front of her, she swore she was going to lose her breath completely.

“Your little bunny isn’t going to appreciate me sleeping in your bed,” she told him as he turned from the television and the news he’d been watching.

Something flared in the rich, golden brown of his eyes in that second. Quickly hidden, but not unseen.

Her heart seemed to pause for one broken second before it raced out of control. Her entire body seemed to ignite, heat pouring through her, need assailing her.

“She hasn’t slept in this bed.” Tight, a deep, brooding rasp, his voice darkened as his expression tensed.

She glimpsed the hunger he’d quickly hidden in his expression. The fierce, savage angles, the way his gaze seemed to lick over her, pausing at her unbound breasts, the hem of his T-shirt, then flicking up again.

“She sleeps on the floor, then?” she asked, knowing she hadn’t hidden the breathlessness his look caused.

Damn him. She didn’t want to need him like this. She didn’t want to ache for him like this. She wanted to look over him as easily as she did other men, rather than dreaming of him, fantasizing about him, every chance she had.

“She doesn’t sleep on the floor.” He shrugged. “The connecting room.” He gestured to a closed door but didn’t finish the thought even as she watched him expectantly.

“So you don’t play in your own bed?” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “I want to sleep in my regular bed. I like it fine. I’m not sleeping wherever your latest fuck sleeps.”

His jaw bunched almost violently, the muscles there jumping for several long seconds as he obviously ground his teeth over whatever he found offensive in her statement. And she really didn’t give a damn what he found offensive. She’d stopped caring when she’d realized how little taking her would mean to him.

“You’ll sleep right here, in my bed.” The snap in his voice had a surge of nervousness racing up her spine. “This is the most secure room in the house, the only one I’m one hundred percent certain can’t be bugged or accessed without my knowledge. That means this is where you will stay until I can figure out what the hell is going on.”

Her eyes widened.

“What about the kitchen?” He’d fixed breakfast, though they hadn’t talked much, she remembered.

“I took precautions. For the short time we were there, the precautions were enough. Over time, they’re not foolproof. And by god, I want foolproof,” he informed her, his tone deadly now.

Moving to the bed and jerking down the blankets on the left side, he then turned back to her, his expression still tense, his gaze fierce. “Sleep on this side. It’s the safest.”

“Why is it the safest?” She wondered if that was a question she should have asked at the moment. “Maybe I like sleeping on the right side of the bed.”

Did she really want the answer?

“Because I’m right-handed,” he drawled, the lazy response spoiled by the pure anticipation that flickered in his gaze. “I keep my weapon in easy access and I don’t want to be hindered by reaching for it with my left. And, baby, I’ve checked on you when you’ve stayed the night here. You sleep firmly on the left side of the bed and rarely move.”

Nope, she shouldn’t have asked. And she sure as hell didn’t need to know he’d watched her sleep.

“Perv.” She threw the accusation at him with a quick, disgusted narrowing of her eyes. “Really, Graham, I’m sure I should be surprised. But I guess I’m really not.”

The look that came over his face was one that had her stomach tightening, her nipples swelling, and the sensitive flesh of her clit pulsing with heated need.

Dammit, masturbating hadn’t been on her agenda before going to sleep, but at this rate . . .

“Perv?” he asked softly. “I can show you perv, sugar.”

Oh, yeah, she just bet he could. She had no doubts in her mind.

“Really?” Disbelief colored the short, mocking laugh that fell from her lips, though the question was weakened by the breathlessness that attacked her once again. “Sorry, stud, I never was much into being part of a crowd. I’m rather unique, you know.”

“Definitely unique.” The agreement was made with the air of a man who was most definitely considering the uniqueness of what she wasn’t offering.

The key word? Wasn’t.

But still, her knees were weak, her flesh too sensitive, the exhaustion that had been pulling at her suddenly dissipating, though a far too sensual drowsiness pulled at her as he began moving slowly toward her.

“I’m not sleeping with you, Graham. Forget it,” she snapped.

“The Chinese say if you save a life, then it’s forever your responsibility,” he informed her softly, completely ignoring the warning in her statement.

“Since we’re not in China—” she began, trying to speak over the rapid-fire beat of her heart.

“Doesn’t matter.” He was in front of her before she could take more than a few steps back. “I saved your life. You’re mine now, Lyrica.”

His chest brushed against the material of the shirt covering her breasts, exciting her already hardened nipples as she took another step away from him, her back meeting the wall.

She’d tried to ignore the fact that his chest was bare, that the light sprinkling of dark hair over its broad plane appeared far too warm. Just as she’d tried to ignore the fact that he, too, had showered. His hair was still damp, the fleece pants he wore loose. But they could never be loose enough to hide the erection rising hard and impressive beneath the material.

“Look at you,” he whispered, catching her hands as she moved to push against his chest, lifting them and securing them to the wall as his fingers curled between hers. “Wearing my shirt, naked and soft beneath it, and so damned certain you can rule me with all that feminine arrogance spitting from your eyes.”