Malcolm stopped right in front of her, so large she almost backed up to look him in the face. “You sure you don’t want to come and stay with Pippa and me tonight?”

She nodded. “I want to stay here, but I should be at work.”

Mal shrugged. “The communication devices on Raider only work a short distance away. We can’t communicate with him. Wolfe and Force are excellent backup, and they’re in place. So there’s nothing more for you to do than get some sleep. We need you on your game tomorrow.”

Whatever. “Okay.” She patted Roscoe’s head and the dog nudged her, nearly knocking her over.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? Pippa is making some sort of fancy steak-and-noodles dish.”

Okay. That sounded amazing. But being with a happy couple right now was more than Brigid could take. She wasn’t sure where she was with Raider, and she needed some alone time. “I’m sure, and you can leave the kitten if you want.” She was safe enough with the handgun in her bed-table drawer and the ex-soldier German shepherd at her feet. She wasn’t supposed to let him sleep on the foot of the bed, but what Angus Force didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“I promised Pippa I’d bring home Kat,” Malcolm said. “But you get the dog.”

She smiled. “’Night, Mal.”

“’Night.” Malcolm brushed past her. “Lock the doors.” He gently shut the door.

She engaged the locks, and soon his heavy footsteps retreated down the hallway. She looked down at the dog. “You hungry? I bought some good treats for you.”

The dog’s tongue rolled out again, and he panted.

Man, he was smart. Maybe Raider should’ve taken Roscoe. He would’ve been a decent backup if things had gone bad, but taking Roscoe to a tavern was too much of a risk. “Come on. Let’s have a treat, and I’ll make you some lean hamburger for dinner.” The pooch didn’t like dog food.

He sneezed and followed her into the kitchen, where he froze. His ears went back, the fur on his neck stood up, and he growled.

She paused, looking around the small space. “What—”

Roscoe bunched his hind legs and leaped high into the air.

“Roscoe!” She tried to grab him, but he was too fast.

He landed on the counter, skidded sideways, and shoved his tongue into one of the two empty wine bottles. His yip was one of joy.

“No.” She hurried to him and tried to take the bottle.

He growled, shaking his head. He whined, sounding pained.

Oh God. His tongue was stuck in the bottle. How the heck had he done that? “It’s okay, baby.” She patted his head as he flopped down across the stovetop, his eyes wide and his tongue in the bottle.