I’m pissed at her now, but I’m also weirdly enjoying this, and my blood pressure is up. It’s pumping through my body in the way it does when I’m about to go into a new assignment and hunt down some fucker to take out. Except I don’t want to take Carolina out, but I do want to capture her.

Play with her in a way we will both enjoy.

“Does anyone ever win an argument with you?” I ask her, smiling.

“Do I amuse you?”

“Yeah, you kind of do.”

“Christ, you’re annoying.”

I give her a shit-eating grin. I'm purposefully dialing up the asshole now and kind of enjoying it. She's fun to spar with and gives as good as she gets.

This is a verbal version of our pillow fight last night, and both feel an awful lot like foreplay.

We pull up outside the house and disembark from the car. I wave Simon off and, not even thinking, put my hand on Carolina's lower back and guide her to the house. She doesn’t shrug me off.

As we approach, I see something dark laid out on the white step leading to the door.

I take hold of Carolina's arm and slow her down. “Wait here,” I order.

She immediately does as I say and stops dead in the driveway, clutching Brutus to her tightly.

Thankful she understood the urgency in my tone and realized this wasn't game-playing, I undo the bottom two buttons on my shirt. Reaching inside with my other hand, I take out my gun. Weapon raised, I move carefully toward the house. Even though I'm moving forward, my eyes focused on what's on the step, all of my senses are on alert. I'm listening for any sounds behind me, even aware of the wind direction against the parts of my skin which are exposed. My peripheral vision is excellent, and I keep an eye out for movement to the sides.

As I reach the step and look down, my heart sinks. There’s a dead dog on her doorstep. It's the spitting image of her beloved Brutus, and a less subtle message would be hard to imagine. I don't want her to see this, and I need her inside where she's safe. Glancing around me, I walk back to her.

“Do you trust me?” I ask her.

“I don't really know you,” she replies.

“Carolina, I'm not playing now. I want you to trust me, okay?”

“I understand.” She looks at me, her eyes wide with fear.

“I want you to walk toward your house but do not look down. Do not look at the step; focus on the number on your door.” I point to the number five lettered in gold against her shiny black door. “Stare at that letter as if your life depends on it, and don't look elsewhere. Promise me.”

“You're scaring me,” she says.