He should have known that routine well because he had just lived through it. “We got this, Sugar. No worries.”

She threw the phone on the bed and glared at it. “Roman just forced my sister out of GUNS. She’s probably scared to death and has no idea what’s happening. Bring me to her.”

“Can’t right now. I have to go to GUNS.”

Resolve painted her face. “So bring me there.”

He didn’t want to take Sugar into the action, but he couldn’t lock her in a safe room, either. She wouldn’t go willingly, and she wouldn’t stay put. If he was planning to tie Sugar up, he wanted to stick around.

They slid out of bed, and for the first time in his life, he wished that life was normal. No saving the day. No concerns about death threats. No snipers or kill teams searching for Sugar. Just loving his woman, petting his dog, and manning his house. Simple.

Sugar walked toward his dresser, and he liked that she’d learned her way around. Her hair curled, ignoring her as she raked fingers through it. Her bottom was still pink from before. And when she looked at him, he wanted to beat his chest, stomp his feet, and holler to the world that she belonged to him.

“Thank God I keep spare clothes in my office. Got a comb in this place?”

He shook his head. If his hair got past a tight clip, he just buzzed it again. “Right, because we’ll have time to work on your wardrobe.”

“J-dawg dropping jokes. What comes next?” She opened his drawers and pulled out fresh clothes.

What comes next? First comes love, then comes marriage… Figure it out, woman.

Her makeshift outfit was too big and fit ridiculously. She rolled the waist of his sweatpants so they barely hung over her hipbones and then cuffed them at the ankles. Next she pulled on a white T-shirt. All he could focus on was her tits and the dark outlines of her nipples behind the cotton. “Nuh-uh. No white shirts for you. Find something else.”

She checked the mirror and laughed. “Whoopsie.”

“Whoopsie, my ass.”

Somewhat satisfied that she could leave his house and not bare her goods to the world, he pulled on his tactical gear.

She watched as he strapped weapons into holsters, then double- and triple-checked his ammo supply. The process was nearly scientific. He could don enough gear to be a one-man unit in less than thirty seconds.

“This isn’t a fluke, is it?” Concern etched her voice. “GSI is at GUNS, and there was a threat to my sister.”

“Rocco is at GUNS, Jenny is fine, and I prepare for the worst case.” He snagged a Beretta stashed behind his dresser. “Not sure where you’re going to put this thing, but take it until we get there. Then arm yourself up. Deal?”

“I could—”