Michael Cavalcante has one thing on his mind when he knocks on Izzabel Walsh’s door at two in the morning, half-dressed and a bit toasted: fix the woman’s heater and get back to bed. He vows never to cover for his maintenance tech again, especially after he gets tased and knocked out with a frying pan for his efforts.

Izzy thought she was safe. She’d dyed her hair, changed her name, and moved 1,500 miles away, and still they found her. When a member of her ex’s motorcycle club knocks on her door in the middle of the night, supposedly to fix a perfectly good heater, Izzy panics. Not only have they found her, but they would soon discover she has a daughter. Aka, a weakness. Aka, leverage. She needs time to think. To plan. To figure out how to keep the sexy neanderthal quiet. But she has no idea how to, short of murder. Can she win him over to her side? Or will he be just like all the others once he finds out what she is capable of?

Michael has one chance to convince Izzy he doesn’t want to harm her or her daughter, but more than that, he wants to know who does. And why. And where he can find them. After all, how else is he going to make sure the two sprites, who have wound their way into his heart, are safe?

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Excerpt: Graveyard Dog

Why would a five-year-old need a go-bag? He looked at the woman’s profile, taking in the soft lines of her face and full mouth, and something reared up inside him. Something he didn’t want rearing up. The desire to guard. Protect. Avenge.

“Who’s after you?” he asked.

The woman jumped and turned to look at him, but just as quickly turned back to her daughter.   “Hurry, sweetheart. We don’t have much time.”

The girl nodded obediently and rushed into a narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. When she disappeared, the woman lifted her watch and waited.

“Can I change?” came a shout from one of the rooms.

“I’ve already grabbed you some clothes. They’re on my bed.”

“Okay,” the girl said. She rushed out of her room carrying a backpack and entered the one across the hall, waving at Michael before closing and locking the door.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said, staring at her watch. “You won’t remember me either.”

He cocked his head to the side, trying to figure her out. “I don’t know. You’re pretty unforgettable.”

She glanced at him, blinked several times, and then shouted, “Time!”

The girl didn’t make a sound. How often had they practiced this scenario? And why?

He tried to rub his head, forgetting his wrists were bound. “Look, Killer, I’m all for bondage, but   I may need a minute to get over this headache.”

“Frying pans’ll do that.” She said it almost absently as she took some food out of a pantry and put it on the table.

He’d fought nature, animals, and gangs that would make a lesser man hightail it in the opposite direction. To be brought down by a forest sprite who weighed less than his saddlebags irked.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any oxycodone, would you?”

She glared at him. “Why would I have that in my house?”

“Ibuprofen?” When she only glared at him, refusing to answer, he probed again. “Tylenol? Aspirin? Herbal tea?” Nothing. He rolled his eyes and winced, hoping the concussion killed him quickly. His deepest fear was suffering a lingering death. And spiders. Mostly spiders. “Can you at least answer one question?” he asked as she began transferring the food to a duffel bag. He realized almost all of it was either dry or canned. She knew what she was doing.

She ignored him as she worked around his form, and the plastic dishes sprawled across the floor, moving with the grace of a dancer. Then she looked up, clearly needing something above him. She bit her lip, trying to decide if the item was worth risking her life. She decided. He could see it in the determined set of her jaw. She knelt in front of him and locked those huge eyes onto his. “You will sit here for one hour, and then you will free yourself from the stove and leave.”

His brows cinched together as he tried to figure out exactly how unhinged she was. A little worked for him on several levels, but pure madness? Not worth the hassle. He’d given it his all once. It’d ended badly.

“You will not move.”

Damn it. She was inching her way up the loony scale with every word.

“You will not speak.”

He was more of a thinker anyway.

“Once you cross the threshold, you will not remember me or what happened here.”

He wouldn’t forget her in a thousand lifetimes.