She chewed her lower lip. That’s why she’d felt a strange sort of kindredness with Theo. Their histories were dissimilar, but they shared one past incident—abuse, though it sounded like Theo’s had been far more traumatic than hers.

“And your story?” she asked him.

Adam went silent for several heartbeats, then laughed harshly. “Sorry, baby girl. That one’s not up for discussion.”

“Sorry, Adam. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

“No sweat, but it’s just not something I want to talk about.”

He parked the SUV in front of the house and put it into park. She climbed out and looked up into the night sky to admire the scattering of bright stars.

Where was Boyle tonight?

She hadn’t told Thomas about the demon’s ultimatum…and she never would. His interference will mean his death. That’s what Boyle had said.

Her life wasn’t worth Thomas’s life. It just wasn’t.

Thomas strode from the front door of the Coven, drawing her eye. He wore a pair of close-fitting jeans, a black sweater, and black boots. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes hooded, and his jaw locked, and his long, loose hair streamed around him as he walked toward her with purpose.

“Thomas—” She only had time to get the one word out before he grabbed her around the waist and hefted her over his shoulder. “Thomas!” she yelled at him as he turned without a word and walked back up the stairs and into the Coven.

Lady, she never thought he’d literally do this!

Adam’s laughter rang behind her as Thomas carried her off.

Despite her outrage and despite the looks they got from the Coven’s inhabitants, he carried her through the building. Thomas was single-minded in his focus and nothing she said or did stopped his slow, purposeful stalk to his room.

Once inside, he slammed the door closed with his foot and Isabelle felt the hiss snap along her nerve endings as a warding spell seal his apartment.

Her throat closed and the familiar panic tingled through her limbs. Her breath came quick, her heart started to pound, and she felt her eyes grow wide. She dragged in a harsh, ragged-sounding lungful of air.

Thomas sat her on the couch. Looking down at her, he frowned. “What’s wrong?”

She raised a hand and shook her head, trying to ease her panic enough to speak. Closing her eyes, she fought to regulate her breathing and talk to herself rationally. Thomas didn’t know about her problem with locked rooms and small places. She was safe here, safe. She was always safe with Thomas.

His hands closed over her shoulders. “Isabelle?”