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taught her seemed to do any good.
    Rory started to pull her hand away from his hot skin, but his grip tightened and a look of fear widened his moss green eyes.
    “Don’t stop touching me,” he said, more a plea than an order. “Not yet. Not until I get you to safety.”
    They were only a couple of blocks away from the shelter, and the truth was it didn’t matter if she touched him or not. If he intended to do her harm, she was screwed.
    “I won’t hurt you,” he said as if sensing her worry.
    She lifted her chin, giving him a hard stare. “I wouldn’t let you hurt me.”
    “Of that I’m sure. Come on. Let’s get you inside and out of those clothes.”

Chapter 3
    “E xcuse me?” Rory nearly shouted.
    “That’s not what I mean,” he said, a hint of embarrassment in his deep voice. “The blood on your clothes will draw the demons. I’m sure Hope will have something else you can wear.”
    Oh. Well. That was different from what she’d first thought—that he had other, less noble intentions. Though with waves of delicious heat sinking into her wherever he touched, and those tingling vibrations dancing between them, maybe less noble intentions would be fun.
    No. Bad Rory. Remember Matt?
    Yes. She did. She also remembered those endless hours of fighting for her life, not knowing if she’d ever be free, or if she’d die as a snack for some monster lurking in that filthy water. Matt had caused that torture, and even though he was dead, Rory would not forget that lesson.
    “You know Hope?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from hellish memories.
    “Yes. How do you know her?”
    She could feel the low rumble of his voice all along her left side. He had the faintest hint of an accent—one that came out only with certain words, like he’d been raised somewhere else. She found it intriguing and sexy as hell. If circumstances were different, she would be happy to simply close her eyes and listen to him for hours. It wouldn’t even matter what he said. Let him recite his recipe for stewed Rory brains for all she cared—she’d bask in his voice all the same.
    After a moment of collecting the few scraps that were left of her wits, she cleared her throat. “I went to the old shelter where she worked sometimes. Before it burned down. Back when Sister Olive—” Rory couldn’t finish. Her throat tightened with grief, cutting off her air. She swallowed, trying to work through her feelings of loss and anger at the nun’s murder, but she wasn’t that strong. It was too soon. Only a few months had passed, but every minute had been lonely and isolated. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about what had happened in that abandoned building those demons had converted into home, sweet home.
    Words could not make the pain of memories like those go away. Nothing could. She’d carry that grief and terror around with her for the rest of her likely short life.
    His thumb slid over her side, clearly an offer of comfort. “Hope told me about her. Her death was a true loss.”
    Rory nodded, but that was all she could manage. She still hadn’t been able to shove away the memories of that night and all its lingering horror.
    And monsters had found her the moment she came out of isolation. Story of her freakin’ life.
    They reached the back of the shelter. The door was locked. Cain tapped it with his boot and a few seconds later, it opened to reveal Logan, Hope’s husband, who was way too pretty to have been born a dude. He had silky, dark hair, and silvery eyes that lit with recognition. The angles of his face were too perfect to be real, and he was much less gaunt than the last time Rory had seen him—back on the night Sister Olive had died.
    “Rory?” A frown wrinkled his brow for a second, then his eyes zeroed in on the blood staining her jeans. “Get her inside.”
    Cain carried her into the big kitchen, but instead of letting go of her like she expected, he pulled her a bit closer against his body, shifting her away