Something had snapped in Morgan, and it wouldn’t miraculously repair itself. Morgan would continue this downward spiral, and before long Gabriel was sure he’d come after Olivia. Physically.

Gabriel had spent the early part of the evening scouring a dossier that Lydia had compiled on Morgan. He’d been searching for serious wrongdoing. What he had already would smudge Morgan’s squeaky-clean image but not soil it. Gabriel needed real leverage—something that, if revealed, would destroy Morgan’s chances of ever joining the senatorial race.

Dozens of things could ruin a future politician’s chances. Many of them fell into the category Gabriel would deem “no one else’s damned business.” But Morgan had made it his business. If Gabriel could dig up visits to a dominatrix or a male prostitute, he’d be set. Hard-core drug use would also do the trick. Drug dealing would be even better. Gambling habits were a possibility—that made voters nervous, worried a politician would raid the public coffers to support his habit.

Gabriel would have settled for an interesting fetish or a thousand-dollar tab at a strip club, but there was absolutely nothing. While Morgan might cut corners in business, in his personal life he was as clean as his reputation. The more Gabriel had scoured that dossier, the more agitated and frustrated he’d become—which is when Olivia had returned, providing a welcome distraction.

Gabriel now found himself at the front door, about to go out. When his threat hackles rose, circling the block once or twice usually settled him. Which made him sound like a dog patrolling his territory, and perhaps there was a little of that, but it was more about recovering his sense of security. This close to downtown, he’d see hustlers and dealers and thugs, and even the odd gangbanger. Not one ever gave him more than a moment’s glance. He wasn’t eight or twelve or even fifteen anymore. No one bothered him. No one dared. He was safe.

Olivia would be fine—he had the best security. But as he touched the deadbolt, she groaned in her sleep, and he turned to see her, pushing aside the blanket, restless, as if she sensed his plans.

The blanket slid half to the floor. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt, as she usually did. It had ridden up around her hips and—

And that was enough of that. He pulled his gaze away, but the image lingered. He shoved a hand through his hair. None of that. None of that at all. He valued Olivia and her friendship too much to let his thoughts wander down that path, which they seemed to do with increasing frequency, proving that he was exhausted, less in control than he liked to be, than he needed to be. Be happy with what they had and do nothing, absolutely nothing, to endanger it.