Riley has taken charge, and even though this is my house and I’m more than capable of watching out for it and myself, I let him. The truth is, I’m exhausted and I’m scared. It was one thing getting creepy notes. It’s something else altogether to have someone inside my house. Someone who may or may not have intentionally put my cat out. My sweet Pumpkin who never harmed anyone and is far too pampered a kitty now to survive on LA’s dangerous busy streets.

Fuck with me, and it may take me a while to get my ire up.

Fuck with my cat, and you’re dead meat from the get-go.

After what seems like forever, most of the cops are gone, and Riley comes to me, then pulls me to my feet. “Why don’t you go wait for me in the bedroom? I think I saw Pumpkin run and hide in there, and she probably needs you.”

“Maybe I need you,” I say, then hate myself for sounding scared and needy.

Riley just kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’ll be right here. But I want to finish up with Detective Garrison and check the work on the new locks. Stay if you want. I just thought you might like to get away from the insanity.”

I nod. The truth is, he’s right. “Thanks for taking care of this.”

“I think we had this conversation earlier,” he reminds me. “As long as you let me, I’ll always take care of you. And frankly, I’ll do it even if you protest.”

The last part earns him a smile, even though we both know he’s not joking. And I think it’s that last little reminder of how much he cares that gives me the strength to leave him in charge of my domain and escape into the safety of my bedroom.

I’m not sure how long I’m in there, sitting on the edge of the bed petting Pumpkin before Riley comes back. All I do know is that when the door finally clicks open, the cat scrambles off my lap and races under the bed, only the orange tip of her tail showing.

“She going to be okay?”

Despite everything, I laugh. For over an hour, he’s been overseeing the cops and the locksmith, doing everything in his power to make me feel safe and secure in my own house. Now, he’s standing in the doorway wearing leather, his broad shoulders filling the frame, looking so damn tough he could be an action hero.

And what is he concerned about? The mental health and well-being of my cat.

“What?” he asks as my laughter ratchets up a notch.

“You,” I say, smiling so wide it hurts. “Just…thank you.”

He crosses to me, then sits on the bed and pulls me into his lap. “For what?”