“I’m sorry you were dragged into this. I should have thought,” she finally said, shaking her head before staring back at him with such vulnerability it tightened his chest, and for the first time in his life, he felt something where his heart was supposed to be—melting.

Hell, someone besides his sister really gave a damn if he lived or died for them.

“Lyrica, sweetheart, this is a child’s game as far as I’m concerned,” he snorted. “Whoever had the balls to come after you hasn’t been covering their tracks as well as they thought they were. I won’t know just who they are but where they are, and exactly what the hell is going on, within forty-eight hours. And trust me, once I have the answers, I’ll have their hides for even daring to think they could strike out at you without repercussions.”

He was amused.

In the past hours he’d reached out to several underground contacts and sorted through the rumors and hints of jobs up for grabs. What he was piecing together was damned interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that if he was right, then his prey would be within striking distance even sooner than he’d imagined.

All he had to do now was wait for Elijah’s return to begin making contact and making the commander of that little group sorry he’d ever dared to take such a job without talking to Graham.

“Children don’t play with guns.” It was obvious he wasn’t convincing her.

Straightening from the door frame, he stepped back. “Come downstairs. I have the house secure, so we don’t have to worry about being overheard. And I have dinner ready.”

“I can move back into the room I normally use, then,” she stated, instantly piecing that one together.

Graham chuckled. She had always had the most incredible ability to make him laugh. He’d always liked that about her.

“We’ll discuss that,” he lied, amused. “Over dinner.”

Turning and moving down the hallway, Graham restrained his satisfaction when he realized she was following him.

She was still thinking, though. That wasn’t a good thing. Had she pushed aside whatever plans she was making after those first few minutes, then he wouldn’t have been nearly as concerned. But she was still building on whatever plots and plans were rolling through her mind.

Making his way downstairs, he listened for the pad of the leather soles of her sandals. He recognized the outfit she wore, but he’d be damned if he would let his sister ever wear it again. The way it shaped Lyrica’s pretty little body would be forever branded into his mind.

The violet silk of the strappy little top did very little to hide the fact that she was braless. The slim fit of the jeans hugged her hips and thighs like a lover’s caress and made him damned jealous. Hell, he wanted to touch her like that. Delicate little toes gripped the thongs of the sandals and revealed the pearly pink of the polish she’d painted them with. The whimsical color was so damned girly and flirty he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of it.

“Have a seat.” Gesturing to the small table sitting in front of a set of shaded windows, Graham moved to the counter and the plate of cold sandwiches he’d just finished making when she passed the silent alarm he’d set to notify his cell phone of movement.

Still silent, she moved across the room and pulled out one of the four chairs.

Damn, when had he begun actually sensing when Lyrica’s Mackay genetics were kicking into overdrive and that far too intelligent brain of hers was beginning to plot world domination? Or at the very least, some scheme designed to make him totally insane.

Normally, Kye was right there with her. At those times, he actually developed heartburn. Now, though, it was worse. It wasn’t heartburn—the hairs at the back of his neck were actually starting to lift in primal warning.

Snagging a bowl, he dumped a healthy portion of potato chips into it then lifted the platter and moved both to the table where Lyrica waited.

As she watched him with wide, shadowed eyes, her hands clasped nervously in her lap, he had to restrain the curse hovering on his lips.

Son of a bitch, he was going to spend all his time trying to find ways not just to keep the assailants out, but to keep Lyrica inside as well. And there was no way to be effective at both.

Placing the platter and bowl in the center of the table, Graham retrieved the plates, set them out, then filled two glasses with ice and sweet tea while he considered his options.

There were several ways he could forestall what he sensed would be an attempt by her to run, to protect everyone she loved by trying to hide, rather than dealing with this. Each would be completely effective, though all but one had several drawbacks.

Keeping her tied to his bed was his particular favorite, but if she wasn’t into that, then he doubted he’d find much pleasure in it. He could lock her in the basement and seduce her there. The apartment-size lower floor was secure, all but unbreachable, and fully furnished. There were far too many pieces of furniture that she could use as weapons once she realized she was pretty much a prisoner, though.

That left one last option. Confronting her with it.

Pulling out his chair, he straddled it, placed his forearms on the table, and watched her, waiting, knowing it was coming.

That gleam of mutiny. The fiery fight that filled her, the temper that was always just out of sight, making an appearance.

“Don’t you stare at me like that, Graham Brock,” she ordered him, voice low, lips tightening. “No one died and made you the boss of me.”

There it was.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he suggested softly, hearing the deep, unconscious rasp of command in his voice. A sound he’d rarely heard since coming home. “Convince yourself of that if you have to, Lyrica. Whatever helps you sleep at night. But if you slip out, if you run, if you give even a fucking second’s thought to facing this alone, then I promise you—take it to the fucking bank and cash this one, sweetheart—I will make damned sure you understand exactly how I can, and I will, ensure you never do something so stupid again.” Sitting back, he placed two sandwich halves and a handful of chips on her plate, pushed it to her, then served himself.

Her eyes hadn’t left his face. His expression hadn’t changed.

“Wanna try me?” he finally asked.

Pounding hard and heavy already, the pulse at her neck throbbed harder, faster. Her face was flushed, her gaze edged with an arousal he’d more than anticipated.

She cleared her throat before answering him. “Not at the moment.”

“And here I was hoping you would.” His teeth bit into the sandwich and he was rewarded with the faintest twitch of reaction from her.

Hell no, she had no intention of trying him. At least, not anytime soon. And in this case, he’d lied—he’d prayed she wouldn’t. Some lessons were best learned through pleasure rather than a need to prove exactly who was more dominant, who was the boss when it came to doing what he did best.

Protecting what he claimed as his.

SEVEN

“You’re not calling Dawg out of spite,” Lyrica said accusingly to Graham as he put away the remainder of the sandwiches and chips.

“You think?” Lifting his brows with heavy mockery, he pulled his cell phone from the holster at his side and placed it in the center of the table. “Bastard didn’t even let me know I wasn’t part of the group anymore. Damned inconsiderate if you ask me.”