Her fingers tightened around the lock pick in her right hand and the tension tool in her left. She spun around, the soles of her shoes catching against the worn scruff of the carpet, and held the two tiny steel tools up in front of her as if they were a weapon. As Henry Kavenski—who looked even more enormous close up than he did from a half-block away—shoved the door closed, she locked her knees to keep them from shaking. Cold sweat prickled along her hairline as her brain frantically scrolled through all the things she had done wrong. She wasn’t prepared. She should’ve brought a Taser or even some pepper spray or, better yet, backup. Her sisters were going to be so pissed if she got herself killed in such a stupid way.

From the hard set of Henry Kavenski’s mouth, he wasn’t feeling particularly merciful.

They stared at each other without speaking, the only sound Cara’s heart thundering in her ears and the rapid breaths she couldn’t seem to slow. She couldn’t help but notice the details that she’d missed during the weeks she’d been tracking him from a distance. The scruff on his face was just slightly darker than the sun-bleached, tousled hair on his head. His jaw was solid, almost blocky, his nose and his mouth drawn with aggressive slashing lines, but the tops of his ears came to the slightest point. That elven detail didn’t fit with the rest of his solid form and rugged features. Henry Kavenski was more of an ogre or giant. Despite those unsuitably adorable ears, he could never be mistaken for an elf.

She blinked, pulling her thoughts back in line. He still hadn’t said a word, and she wasn’t sure whether that meant she should be more or less terrified. Their mutual silence did give her a chance to come up with a plan—a fairly dumb plan, but at least it was something that might give her a chance to get out of this alive.

“Who are you?” Her voice shook, but she figured that was only natural.

His scowl deepened. He still didn’t make a sound.

Her trembling worsened, her fingers tightening around the lock-picking tools. She tried to tuck them behind her in a way that looked natural, but his gaze followed the movement. His eyes met hers again, and she fought to keep from quailing beneath that stone-cold glower.

“What are you doing in…” she mentally grabbed for an imaginary friend’s name, “Martin’s room?”

His head cocked just slightly in question, although those eerily light eyes didn’t soften.

Cara cleared her throat, using the sound to take a precious few moments to scrabble for her composure. It helped slightly, but she knew that all the time in the world wouldn’t magically give her nerves of steel. She’d never envied her twin sister’s badass-ery more. “I came here to surprise him. Uh…Martin.” Why was her brain working at turtle-slow speed? She knew she’d think of all kinds of credible stories as soon as she left the room—if she managed to leave. The reminder that these could easily be her last minutes alive made her talk faster. “I passed my test—my…” She held her hands in front of her, forcing her fingers open to reveal the slim tools. “My locksmith test. Martin gave me some tips when I was practicing for it, and I thought we could go out to celebrate. Mexican. He loves Mexican.” She made herself stop adding made-up details about her non-existent but very helpful friend. “This is his room.”