The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

Not that she lived alone.

Not exactly.

The bottom line was that there was nothing to gain by pretending she didn’t appreciate his help.

“Thank you,” she said, as they climbed the steps to the stoop. “Again.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. I’m glad to be able to help.” When they reached the front door, he held out his hand. “Your keys.”

She shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. “The lock’s broken.”

He wanted to say something. She could see it. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, opened the door …

And said something low and unpleasant.

She couldn’t blame him.

She felt the same way each time she stepped into the dark, dirty entryway, inhaled the stink of beer and pee and marijuana, saw the banged-up doors that lined the hall and the wooden stairs that rose into the gloom.

Say something, she told herself, say anything.

“Well,” she said brightly, “this is it.”

He looked at her as if she were crazy.

“My apartment is on the fourth floor.”

Still nothing from him. Or—wait. There was … something. A tiny glint in his blue eyes.

“What in hell are you doing in a place like this?”

She thought of half a dozen answers. Any one of them would tell him things far more personal than he needed to know.

“I live here,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and she started toward the stairs.

She didn’t get very far before his hands closed on her shoulders and he swung her toward him.

“Dammit,” he said gruffly, “cut the act! It’s a good routine, pretending you’re tough and street-smart, but I was there an hour ago when the price of that act got too high.” She gasped as he lifted her to her toes. “Anything could happen to you here.”

“Nothing has.”

“Really? Is that what you call what went on tonight?”

“That had nothing to do with this.”

“You work in a dangerous place. You live in a dangerous place.”

“It’s called doing what I can to keep a roof over my head.”

“Don’t you have anyone who can help you?”

“I’m doing just fine on my own.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can see—”

One of the apartment doors swung open. Two men stepped into the hall. They were big and ugly; half of one’s face was a blur of homemade tattoos.

Sage had seen them before. They made a habit of saying things to her, ugly things; one always made a clicking sound with his mouth when she walked by.