Then it hits me. Like, square in the chest. A roundhouse kick. “Jordan. You said the Jordans own the house.”

He nods, sagging in relief. “Yeah. They do.”

“They’re relatives of yours?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Then his lips twitch. “Ray… The house is mine.”

“Yours?” I squint at him. Yeah, he’s still the guy I saw trimming the hedge, tanned and tattooed, his hair too long and his hands callused from manual work. “You’re kidding me.”

“It was my uncle’s. He left it to me in his will when he died.”

No way. “You’re totally shitting me.”

He says nothing. Silence settles over us, filling the car.

Jesus frigging Christ. He’s not joking.

I push my hair out of my face, twist it at the back of my neck. “Okay, you own the house. Your uncle owned a mansion in Boca Raton. Fine. I believe you.”

He’s observing me. Watching me put the pieces together.

“So he was rich. Like, very rich.”

“Something like that,” Storm says, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“And you think this has to do with the accidents?”

He blinks. “You think someone is trying to kill me to get this house?”

“Man, I’ve known people killed for a cell phone. For that house?” I tsk. “Absolutely.”

He shakes his head, laughs.

“What?”

“I’m telling you my uncle left me a mansion and that’s your first thought?”

I fold my arms over my breasts. “Why, what should have been my first thought? Go on, tell me. I bet you’re dying to.”

“Come on, Ray. I’m rich. I can pay off your dad’s debt. I know that was your first thought.”

“Fuck you.”

He shrugs, his mouth twisting. “It would have been my first thought, too.”

“You’re a bastard.” My heart thumps hard. “I wouldn’t ask this of you. It’s your house.”

“Ray.” His voice is low and flat. “You think a fucking house is more important to me than your life?”

I have no answer to this. Because if my family thinks money is more important than me, why would Storm, perfect Storm whom I barely know, do that for me? I look away, press my forehead to the window.

My anger is gone, pushed aside by sadness. There’s only so much space inside my heart.

“Your life matters,” he whispers, and his voice softens. “You matter. To me.”

I bow my head, my eyes burning. He takes my chin in his hand, turns my face toward him.

“I’d never ask you for this,” I say. “I wouldn’t want you to—”

“Shh.” His thumb caresses my cheek. “I’d give all I have for you. But don’t you see, Ray? Haven’t you connected the dots?”

My head aches so badly. “No.”

He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Baltimore. Jordans.” He waits for something, but I have nothing to say. “Ray. I’m the Jordan heir. Don’t you know who the Jordans are?”

I swallow. “… Rich people? Sorry, I stay offline to avoid leaving tracks, and I rarely buy magazines.”

He chuckles, and for the first time in what feels like days, a real smile spreads on his handsome face. “Very rich. Jordan Enterprises. Developers and Investors.”

That definitely rings a bell.

“You’re their son?” I remember a scandal some years back. The only son and heir to the Jordan Enterprises seen in seedy bar. Bad boy Troy skips town.

Troy Jordan. Heir to millions.

Holy shit.

“When my parents died, my uncle took over until I turned twenty-one. He died before I reached that age, but now I’m twenty-one, as of last week, and I can claim my inheritance.” He pauses. “I can pay your father’s debt. And I will. Because I want you to be safe.”

“This is nuts,” I mutter, my breath hitching, my brain aching as it tries to wrap around this. “Totally nuts.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you from the start,” he says. “I guess my trust issues are bigger than yours. But this is the truth.”

“If you’re telling the truth, then...” Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. “Why say you’ll help me out? You can have anything and anyone you wish for. You don’t need me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He leans in, his breath caressing the shell of my ear. “I need you, Raylin O’Brien. You’re my one bright light, the only person I can trust in the whole world right now. Even more than myself.”

PART II: BULLETS

Chapter Twelve

STORM

We’re flying back to Baltimore. My private jet, a Gulfstream G450, is waiting for us at the Boca Raton airport, notified by Hawk to come pick us up.

I get out of the limo and go around to open Raylin’s door. She climbs out and stands on the tarmac, in her torn shorts and blouse, her long dark hair whipping in the wind.

Alive. Unharmed. Unbearably beautiful.

“You okay, Ray?”

She nods. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since our little talk. I think she’s in shock. I take her hand, and she lets me guide her to the plane. A flight attendant is standing on the ground, waiting for us, dressed in a formal skirt and jacket.

Going back home.

Swallowing my reluctance, I help Raylin up into the dimness of the plane. We take our seats around a table, and the attendant comes to see what we would like to have a drink. Raylin just shakes her head, so I ask for juice. Despite drinking a whole bottle of champagne in the car, I’m parched.

And famished.

The attendant—Sondra, according to her name tag—brings us blueberry juice and a tray of warm prosciutto-and-fig sandwiches and lobster rolls with fresh chives and tarragon. She has barely set it down when I’m stuffing my face with everything, barely tasting it.

Takes me a while to realize Raylin is just staring at the tray, frowning.

I sigh and swallow the rest of my sandwich. “Come on, Ray. Eat. It’s good. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

She picks a roll, sniffs it. “I’m not…”

I wait, but she never finishes what she was about to say. She looks… nervous.

No, scared. She’s fucking scared.

“Hey.” I pat the empty seat by my side. “Come here.”

For a moment I think she will refuse, and I prepare to go around and get her, push her until she tells me what is wrong.

But she gets up and pads over to me. She’s still barefoot. We both are. In the rush of adrenaline, I didn’t even notice. I’m still only in my surfing shorts.

Shit, Baltimore will be a lot cooler.

Making a mental note to tell the flight attendant to call for clothes before we arrive, I wait until Raylin has sat down, and then I drag her to my side, wrapping an arm around her. She feels so slight and fragile pressed to me. I’d do anything for her.

I don’t think she realizes it.

“Is this a private jet?” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“How is this…? I don’t…” She never finishes her questions.

“Eat first. Try this.” I take a lobster roll and lift it to her mouth. She makes a grab for it, but I lift it higher. “Uh-uh. You had your chance to eat on your own. Now I’m gonna feed you.”

She glares up at me, but opens her mouth when I offer her the roll and bites. Ignoring the way she makes me go hard just by sinking her small, white teeth into the damn roll, I feed her more. Something inside me relaxes as I make sure she’s okay. We’re entering my domain now, my world, and she’ll need my help and reassurance.

I need to show her nothing between us has changed, in spite of the private jet and lobster rolls. Truth is, I was so much happier eating frozen lasagna and microwave popcorn, but going back is necessary, and not only because the beach house now has some extra ventilation holes. Which, by the way, I should have someone fix and set up the alarms before the house is cleaned out.

Already the pressure returns, stress tightening my chest. Not because of the beach house, but because of everything my return implies.

That I accept my place as the heir of the empire my grandparents and my parents built. That I’ll take the bloody throne and become just like them. Live, and die, like them.