His black soles scuffed the white tile floor each time he pivoted, but he kept going, needing an outlet for the rage building inside him. He had to keep telling himself that Kylie was okay. She’d struck her head on the coffee table, and the resulting wound had bled like a bitch, but it was small, no stitches required. The ER doctor had ordered a head CT scan to check for more significant injury but said it was just a precaution.

He glanced at her, his stomach lurching all over again at the absolute whiteness of her still face. She looked small and vulnerable on the bed in the white hospital gown, an IV line snaking out of the back of her right hand. A clamp on her right index finger kept track of her pulse, its steady beat echoed by a monitor next to the bed. He told himself that the darkness of her hair made her look paler than she was, but that didn’t stop him from grinding his teeth, especially when he focused on the fist-size smear of purple along her jaw.

The man who did that to her was dead. Sam had had no choice but to kill him in self-defense. And, at the moment, they had no idea who he was.

Chase tore his gaze away from Kylie and hooked his hands behind his neck, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as her account of what happened replayed in his head over and over. That bastard was going to rape her. And then he was going to kill her.

The rage dug his fingers into the nape of his neck until he felt his skin threaten to give under his nails. He needed to get a grip, get control. He was no good to her, to anyone, if he let violence take over. But, God, he wanted to pound the life out of someone, make someone pay for hurting her, for terrorizing her. It didn’t help that her assailant was dead. Nothing helped.

“Hey.”

He opened his eyes to see Kylie watching him with a small smile. He fought the urge to let his body fold, to fall to his knees at her bedside. Instead, he returned her smile with his own, lazy, “Hey.”

Resting his hip on the edge of the bed, he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. She was so warm, so alive, and the knowledge stirred up a new surge of gratitude. “How’re you doing?” he asked.

“I’ve been worse.” She turned her head against his hand, closing her eyes briefly as though his caress sustained her. Then she opened her eyes and met his gaze. “The police officer . . . he’s dead?”

Rage and grief billowed up inside him like rolling clouds of choking black smoke. Steve Burnett had been a good man, a good cop. He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

She absorbed the news with a soft, hitching sigh, tears welling into her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He skimmed his thumb under her right eye, catching the first tear, amazed that she’d let it fall. “Shhh, it’s not your fault. He was doing his job.”

“That could have been you . . .”

He leaned forward and kissed her, so fucking grateful for the warmth, and responsiveness, of her lips. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

She cupped his face with her hands and deepened the kiss, her tongue sweeping between his lips before she tore her mouth away and pressed her cheek to his and held him there, her fingers in his hair, stroking, holding, her body trembling.

He drew back to smooth away the tears spilling over her pale skin, marveling that she was letting herself cry. This was different. She was different. She wasn’t trying to hide her emotion, wasn’t even trying to control it.

“I love you,” she whispered, her smile wet but glorious.

The words shook his world, made it light up like the sun had just exploded, and he almost laughed. He wanted to drag her against him, feel the beat of her heart against his body, rejoice in the simple fact that she was alive. But the threat of causing her discomfort held him back, so he cupped her chin, smiled into her eyes and responded with a gentle, reverent kiss.

He felt her sigh against his lips, and a shudder of want rolled through him. The reverence of the kiss turned desperate for a moment, and he had to force himself to back off, to let her breathe.

When they parted, they both shifted so she could snuggle against him, her head resting against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, stroking her fingers over the triangle of skin exposed at his throat. “I’ve been a total idiot.”

He closed his eyes and ran a hand lightly over her arm, her hair. Everything felt like silk, like life. “I can’t argue with that,” he murmured. “Can I ask what changed your mind?”

She drew in a shaky breath. “When I realized that I was going to die, all I could think about was how much time I wasted running away from love. Away from you.”

His cell phone started to ring, but he tuned it out. Nothing was going to end this moment too soon. Nothing.

She lifted her head to look up at him. “Shouldn’t you get that?”

“It can wait.”

Smiling, she trailed a finger over his lips, laughing softly as he nipped at it. “We have a lot to work out. Quinn . . .”

He nodded as he drew her closer. “We’ll figure it out, Ky. If anyone can, two strategists like us can.”

He held her for a long time, listening to her breathe as she drifted in and out of sleep for about half an hour. Eventually, he’d have to show her the picture of Mark Hanson he’d stashed in his pocket. He’d have to ask her if he looked familiar to her at all, as a possible assailant from ten years ago. He’d have to ask her specific questions about the attack today, to try to figure out why the guy came after her in the first place.

“You’re so tense.”

He glanced down to see Kylie with her head back and gazing up at him, her eyes sleepy.

“No need to worry,” he said, stroking the hair off her forehead. “That’s just how I always am.”

“Do you need to go do something?”

He smiled at the drowsy question. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Cop stuff.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Not already.”

He sighed. “I do have a few questions I have to ask you, if you’re up to it.”

“Okay.” She shifted off him and settled back against the pillows while he got up.

When she focused on him, she looked as tired as he felt, and he considered putting this off for a while longer.

“I’m fine,” she told him and smiled. “And I’m not just saying that.”

Drawing the photo of Mark Hanson out of the back pocket of his jeans, he handed it to her. “Do you recognize him?”

She peered at the picture for a long moment, her stillness telling him that she somehow knew she was looking at the photo of a suspect in her attack. “He’s so young.”

She raised her eyes to his, and they were so haunted that unease settled in his stomach like a greasy burger. “Do you recognize him?” he repeated.

She looked back at the photo, and he heard her breath catch almost imperceptibly. “He’s wearing braces.”

“And that’s significant because . . .”

“I thought at first that the one guy had a razor blade, or something, between his teeth, like he was going to use it to cut me.”

A roar began in his ears. Jesus. Every time they talked about it, some new, horrific detail came out.

Her voice cut through the noise in his head. “I realized I was seeing braces, but I never mentioned it for the description. I don’t think I even remembered the braces until now.”

He tried to think clearly. “Could this be that attacker?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, frustrated. “You could show me a picture of anyone with braces and maybe it would ring a bell.”

“What about his eyes?”

She tried to hand the photo back to him without looking at it again.

“Look at his eyes, Kylie.”

Her gaze locked with his, and for a moment, her fear was so stark, so shocking, that his breath caught in his throat. This was Kylie McKay without her defenses, and it suddenly terrified him. What if he screwed this up? What if he let her down?

She dropped her gaze back to the photo and examined it until her forehead creased. “We might have gone to school together.”

“His name’s Mark Hanson. He was in Quinn’s graduating class. Do you remember speaking to him or any kind of interaction?”

“It was a long time ago, but no, I don’t think so.”

“Could he have been a friend of Quinn’s? Or Jane’s?”

She arched a quizzical brow. “Jane’s?”

“I’m just trying to prod your memory.”

“I don’t know. I mean, he does look familiar, but I don’t know why. I probably just remember seeing him in the halls at school. What makes you think he might have been one of them?”

“He’s dead, Ky. He disappeared at the same time as your attack, and earlier today, his body was found at the construction site for the tennis center.”

“Oh my God.”

As she paled, he took her hand and stroked his thumb over the back of it as he delivered the rest of the bad news. “The side of his skull was crushed, possibly with the same baseball bat used on you.”

She stared at him. “Then he was one of them.”

“I think so, yes.”

“And you think the other one killed him?”

“It’s a strong possibility, yes.”

She grasped his hand with both of hers and looked him straight in the eye, her gaze so intense his heart tripped. “Quinn is not a killer.”

He used his free hand to cover their clasped hands. “Trust that I’ll do everything in my power to help prove that. Can you—”

Loud voices outside the door, one of them high-pitched and pissed, cut him off.

Kylie cast him a panicked glance. “That sounds like Jane.”

“I arranged for a guard outside your door. She can’t come in unless you want her to.”

“I can’t keep my sister out . . .” She trailed off and sat back to rub at her forehead. “God.”

“Head hurting?”

“A little.”

He gently lifted her chin with his fingers and smiled into her shadowed eyes. She’d really had a crappy day, and it was painted on her face in the dark smudges under her eyes and the ugly bruise on her jaw. “A little?”

“More than a little,” she conceded.

“Want me to run interference with Jane?”

“That’s not necessary. I can handle her.”

“How about I detain her for a few minutes to let you get your thoughts together?”

“That’d help.”

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Relax and let me handle things for you for a while, okay? I know you can do it, but you don’t have to anymore, not alone.”

She caught his face between her warm palms and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you.”

As he closed her door behind him, he spotted Jane McKay in the hall, toe tapping in barely restrained impatience.