Wolfe punched him in the nose, and cartilage crunched beneath his knuckles. “Try again.”

Blood spurted from the guy’s face and he put a hand over the wound, tears filling his eyes. “Fine. You have no idea who you’ve messed with. I’m C-Spike from the Seventh Street Warriors.”

Great. A gang was after him. “What do you want with me?” He pressed the gun close to the guy’s no-doubt aching and broken nose.

The guy turned slightly to see his buddy still passed out in the car.

“You can tell. He can’t hear you, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to kill you.” Wolfe meant every word.

C-Spike spit out blood. “It’s a contract on the blonde. We were told she’d be at the medical examiner’s tonight or tomorrow morning. When she showed, we were to follow her and take her out somewhere discreet.”

Ice-cold fury settled into Wolfe. “Who hired you?”

“Don’t know. I swear. The order came from high up.” His words were slurred through the blood as rain pelted them without cooling off the night in the slightest. “I don’t even know her name.”

“Make sure you never do.” Wolfe hit him in the temple, knocking him out.

Sirens sounded down the road. He stood and ran to his truck, motioning Dana back to her seat. “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Well after midnight, Dana fluffed her hair with a towel after a long shower and then padded into Wolfe’s bedroom dressed in shorts and a cami. The splattering of rain echoed all around, tinging against the wide skylight in the master bathroom. Even though it had been raining for hours, the air still hung heavy around them. The whir of the AC came on, and she lifted her head, breathing deep. The image of Wolfe calmly grabbing his gun and striding into the storm to confront those bad guys wouldn’t leave her mind.

When she was with Wolfe, she always felt safe. Protected.

Roscoe looked up from the foot of the bed, where he was not supposed to be. He gave her a look, snuggled his nose into his paws, and started snoring again.

She left the bedroom to find Wolfe on the sofa, his bare feet crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. He’d changed into gray basketball shorts and a black tank top, and his hair was still wet from the rain. A case file lay open across his chest, and his head was back with his eyes closed.

So this was how he slept.

Whiskers covered his rugged jaw, giving him the look of a rebel. She let her gaze wander over his thick cheekbones, straight nose, and scar down the side of his face.

“What are you doing?” He didn’t twitch.

She jumped. “Looking at you.”