He could feel her fear . . . and see it, too. She had her fingers cranked down so hard on that cylinder that the knuckles were white. But really, she didn’t need to worry all that much. It seemed highly unlikely that Isaac had told her anything material—that would be her death sentence, and the guy knew it: Nothing would keep her breathing if she had intel on XOps. Not even a desire to shut her father up for good.

“I think you and I should come to an agreement,” he said, putting his hand inside his coat. “Hold it—don’t go crazy with your bug spray. I’m just getting you a business card.”

He pulled one out, holding it between the tips of his index and middle fingers, leaving the guns he was packing right where they were holstered. “If you see your client again, call this number, Ms. Childe. And know that it’s the only reason I came here to see you. I just figured you and I should meet in person so you understand how serious I am about Isaac Rothe.”

She kept the Mace with her as she came forward and tilted in, as if she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. And he knew damn well as she took the card what she was going to do with it. But that was part of the plan.

As she studied what little had been imprinted, Matthias left his free hand where she could see it. “Isaac Rothe is a very dangerous man.”

“I have to go,” she said as she shoved what he’d given her into her purse.

“No one’s keeping you. Here, I’ll even get the door.”

Opening the thing wide, he stood to the side and approved of the way she measured both him and the stairs that were revealed. Cautious, oh so cautious . . .

She went to hurry by him . . . and at the last moment before she was free, he snatched her arm and held her back. “I left something for you in the trunk of your car. After all, most accidents happen in the home, and you might need to call for help.”

She ripped herself out of his hold. “Don’t threaten me,” she snapped.

As Matthias stared into those beautiful eyes of hers, he felt ancient. Ancient and broken and trapped. But as he had learned two years ago, he couldn’t stop the trajectory of his life. It was like putting your palms up to an avalanche: You got crushed and the rush of snow and ice didn’t even notice.

“I am not afraid of you,” she said.

“You should be,” he replied grimly, thinking of the twelve different ways he could make it so she didn’t come down for breakfast tomorrow morning. “You should be very afraid.”