“I’m not a stalker, Nevada,” he said. “I understood no.”

“I didn’t want you to stalk me, Rogan.”

“What did you want?”

“I wanted you to give me a chance to decide if I wanted a relationship with you. You wanted sex. If you’re really hard up for some uncomplicated sex, I hear Harper is single.”

He made a grunt that might have been no, but it was hard to tell with that much disgust saturating it.

My legs shook. I kept moving. If I told him that the stress was getting to me, he’d probably try to do something ridiculous like carry me. I wouldn’t be carried by Mad Rogan, especially not in public.

“I didn’t say I just wanted sex.”

“Let me quote: ‘Do you want seduction, dinners, and gifts? Seduction is a game, and if you pay enough in flattery, money, or attention, you get what you want. I thought you were above the game.’ Did you not say that to me a week before you strolled into my garage to invite me on ‘a date’?”

“Yes. I wanted to skip the bullshit.”

“So what happened? You changed your mind and now you want the bullshit?”

Rogan’s phone chimed. “Yes, I want your bullshit.”

“Well, you don’t get to have any of my bullshit. I’m keeping it.” Okay, and that didn’t sound childish. Not at all.

“Why not?”

“Because you call it bullshit.”

A silver Range Rover slid around the curve of the road and came to a stop in front of us, Troy behind the wheel. I got into the back before Rogan or I said anything else. I really didn’t want to continue this conversation in front of Troy.

Rogan took the front passenger seat. “Home.”

Troy drove out.

“I’m not sure I fully understand the concept of bullshit,” Rogan said, his voice quiet. “Would you care to discuss it, over dinner perhaps? I’d be happy to listen to an explanation of how I erred. A place of your choice.”

No. If I went to dinner with him, I wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out. I would kiss him. I would probably do other things . . . More intimate things . . . I wouldn’t be able to help myself, and I didn’t want to open that door now.

“I would like to go home.”

“Would spending an evening with me be such a terrible thing?” he asked.

The sincerity in his voice stopped me in my tracks. The witty replies died.

“No.”

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

No, I realized. He would never hurt me. I didn’t even know where that belief came from, yet I was absolutely sure that he wouldn’t. His power terrified me, but it was a deep-seated, instinctual kind of fear. I wasn’t afraid of Mad Rogan. I was probably the only person in Houston who wasn’t.

“It’s not that.”

“I realize that the way I act is disturbing to you,” he said. “I’ll do almost anything to make you feel at ease, but if you want me to be conflicted about eliminating someone who is a threat, I don’t think I can. I don’t believe I’m capable of it anymore.”

This conversation had gone deep really fast. His facade had cracked and the man behind it was looking at me.

“I just killed two people,” I said. My voice came out small. “I’m trying to not deal with it, because if I do, I might lose it. Today was a long day. I need to go home and hug my family, so I know they are still okay.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice carefully controlled.

I saw him close himself off. One moment Connor was there, and the next Mad Rogan reasserted himself.

We’d witnessed so much grief today. So much pain. Cornelius, Jeremy, the faces of Rogan’s soldiers . . . Forsberg. Two bodies on the street behind us. Dreams, futures, lives severed abruptly. I didn’t even know how to process it all. It had to have an effect on him—he wouldn’t be human otherwise—and I saw an imprint of today on his face: fatigue, grief, and grim determination in his eyes. He looked older; not worn, but rough, like he hadn’t slept for ages. He was still sharp, still deadly, but it was the dangerous edge of a predator backed into a corner after a long chase.

I would go to our warehouse and be surrounded by a warm human chaos. Someone would be cooking; someone would be watching TV or playing video games. My sisters would be sniping at each other; Leon would complain about his never-ending battle with the French language; then Grandma Frida would come in, smelling of engine grease and metal, and poke fun at my mother . . . I would wrap myself in these warm human connections and let them melt away the dark coldness of today.

Mad Rogan didn’t have anyone to go home to. He would return to his Zorro house, eat whatever someone brought him, and probably watch that recording again to see if there was anything he’d missed. He had all the power but it brought him no warmth. No human safety net that would catch him when he was sinking and help him keep his head above water.

I couldn’t let him do it.

“Have dinner with me,” I asked. “At my house. You can help me explain to my mother and grandmother what happened to my work vehicle.”

A hint of a grin touched his lips. His eyes lit up. “Do you think your mother might try to shoot me?”

“Possibly.”

“Then absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”

And he would be the politest dragon ever. Tail tucked in, fangs hidden, and talons carefully folded on his lap. I had just invited Mad Rogan to have dinner. Again. My poor mom.

Rogan’s phone chimed. He glanced at it and swore.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Luanne’s sister just arrived in Houston. I have to meet her.”

I tried to sort out the tangled mess of emotions. Was I relieved or disappointed? I wasn’t sure. “Rain check?”

“What time is dinner?”

“Usually around five thirty, six.”

“I can make it.”

I glanced at my phone. It was three fifteen. He could reasonably make it.

“Pull over,” Rogan said.

Troy took an exit and pulled into a gas station.

“I’ll be there,” Rogan promised.

“I’d like that.” I meant it.

He opened the door, stepped out, and bent down. “Take Ms. Baylor wherever she wants to go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rogan grinned at me and shut the door.

Troy pulled away. “Where to, Ms. Baylor?”

“Nevada. Would you mind making a small detour for me to pick up some takeout?”

“Your wish is my command,” Troy said.

Right. I dialed Takara’s number. My sisters would get their sushi after all.

Chapter 5

The Katy Freeway slid by outside the passenger window, the traffic unusually light, the five lanes of smooth pavement channeling a handful of cars forward. In an hour, when the workday rolled to a close, traffic would be murder. The sky, torn between rain and overcast drudgery all day, had finally decided on rain. Water poured from above as if some giant had decided to hold a showerhead above the city.

I petted the plastic bag on the back seat next to me. I had spent way too much money on sushi and I didn’t care. After all of the nightmarish things I had seen today, I wanted to buy my sisters all the sushi in the world. I was so grateful they were alive I might even hug them when I got home. Of course, they’d freak out and claim I needed to have my head examined.