Evangeline didn’t respond. Dropping her car keys on the counter she immediately took off her shoes and put them on a small shelf built into the wall near the door. He walked right into the center of the room. It was wide and spacious with a high ceiling. He needed room, lots of it. The Arnotto mansion had room, but without Siena, Antonio Arnotto’s granddaughter, there, it was cold and hollow—like him. Siena was safe now, with Elijah, and he’d keep her that way, but Alonzo would always watch over her.

He liked Evangeline’s home. It was . . . her. Sweet. Homey. All the little touches that said Evangeline. It was neat, with gleaming, polished wood floors in rich, warm tones. Her sofa was small, like her. Suited to her. But it was inviting and very comfortable-looking in tan and brown tones. There were two smaller chairs positioned in front of a fireplace. A sheepskin rug gave him far too many ideas.

He kept moving, wandering through her private space, guessing he was the first to ever be there—man or woman. She was private, his woman. She seemed friendly and approachable, but even here in her private sanctuary, there were no pictures of family, nothing to give her past away.

The living room gave way to a nice-sized dining room. A cherrywood table that seated six with a chandelier hanging over it. The chandelier appeared to be branches dripping with leaves, small lights on them. Classy. Beautiful. Like Evangeline.

She was going to run from him. He was certain of that. She was intelligent and she knew what he was. What his leopard was. She saw the killer in both of them. She didn’t accept that it was too late for her, but he knew it was. He’d spent every damned day of his life in brutal, relentless hell. His childhood had been hell. His young adult life.

His leopard had grown vicious with the childhood abuse heaped on him, the violence and the cruelty of his life. The leopard had raged to protect him and in raging, had grown more and more dangerous until, as controlled, as disciplined and as powerfully dangerous as Fyodor was, his leopard was nearly his equal match. The beast raged for blood. A fury of need. Of demand. Every second, sleeping or waking. Until he walked into that bakery. Until Evangeline.

He ran his hand along the granite counter in her kitchen. Clearly she’d bought this house for the kitchen. It was easily the largest room in the house. The most modern. It smelled like her. Cinnamon and spice. Like Evangeline. His woman. He never thought he’d ever have that. Have someone of his own. For himself.