Connor would have a kitten. Kane would be beyond pissed. And it wouldn’t make her feel a damn bit better.

Some memories just haunted you no matter how far or how fast you ran.

She wasn’t in denial of her circumstances. She knew how fucked-up she was and made no apologies to herself. Self-preservation was a powerful thing, and she knew that what she did kept what little of her sanity she still possessed.

Being alone freaked her out. She couldn’t even think about it without feeling the suffocating darkness close in around her. It brought back the feeling of utter helplessness. Guilt. Despair.

The fact that she’d stood by and watched her mother die and never uttered a word. Too scared to cry out. To say stop. To run for help. To scream for help. She’d known that any movement, any sound, would thrust her back into a madman’s attention. And she’d suffered his attentions for far too long.

She closed her eyes and felt the familiar sting of tears. Her head ached from holding so much back, from the constant fight to keep her carefully constructed walls from crumbling.

“Oh, Mama, I’m such a mess,” she whispered.

She hadn’t spoken to her mother in a long time. There were days she still battled her rage and, with it, the terrible guilt for feeling so angry with a mother she’d adored.

She stood in the middle of her room, surrounded by . . . nothing. Silence. Stillness.

“I’m so tired of this,” she whispered.

Panic clawed at her throat at the idea of being here alone. The house. The room. It was all unfamiliar to her. These weren’t her things. No matter how much of a badass Kane professed to be, he couldn’t keep her safe from her dreams. He couldn’t keep her safe from her memories.

Connor.

She stared at their adjoining door and was suddenly filled with such powerful longing that her throat ached and swelled. For several long, wonderful moments she’d found exquisite peace in his arms. He’d made her forget about every bad thing that had ever happened to her.

And she’d taken off like a scared rabbit. He must think she was either crazy as a loon or a first-class bitch. Maybe both.

She took a hesitant step toward his door and then another until she was mere inches away. She laid her palm over the wood and held her breath, listening for any sound from the other side.

It took several minutes to work up the courage to turn the knob. She was half-afraid it would be locked. Part of her hoped that it would be.

The knob turned and she pushed the door open wide enough that she could slide in. Light poured from her room into his and she could see him lying on the bed, the sheet in a tangle around his hips.

For a moment she simply stared, drawn to his chiseled features. His body was beautiful. Lean and muscled. His brow was creased as if he was thinking over an important matter in his sleep. At his side, his fingers were curled into a tight fist.

Now that she was here, she had no idea what to do. She felt like a complete idiot, but the idea of turning around and going back to her empty room filled her with panic.

She closed the door behind her, careful not to make a sound. She waited until her vision adjusted to the darkness of the room and then she tiptoed over to the love seat by the window.

She rarely slept for long periods of time. She could catch a few hours on the couch and be up and out of here before Connor ever woke up. He didn’t even have to know she was ever here.

Feeling marginally better about her panic episode, she eased onto the couch and positioned a cushion under her cheek. A blanket would be nice, but she wasn’t going to tempt fate by going back for one.

She stared over at Connor as she settled and held back a snort. Some security guy he made. She stifled a yawn and closed her eyes. He hadn’t even realized someone had come into his room.

Connor smiled in the darkness as he watched moonlight spill over Lyric’s face. She moved once after she closed her eyes and then went still as she slid into sleep.

She’d bolted but now she was back, and from all appearances she had no desire for him to know it.

Patiently he waited, watching as she slept. When he was satisfied that she was down for the count, he slipped from the bed and pulled the comforter with him.

He draped the blanket over her and gently tucked the ends around her shoulders.

“Good night, Lyric,” he whispered.

Then he smiled and crawled back into bed.

Lyric’s cell phone had rung nonstop since seven that morning. Connor didn’t know how the hell it hadn’t woken her up yet. Even from the next room, the peal was loud and obnoxious. But she was still curled up on his love seat, covers pulled up to her nose. She hadn’t so much as stirred since Connor had risen to shower. For the longest time he’d simply lain in bed watching the soft rise and fall of her chest.

Knowing how little she’d slept in the past days, he was careful not to awaken her. He moved silently around his room, and once he was dressed, he slipped out of the bedroom.

He picked up the annoying cell phone from the nightstand beside her bed—the bed where he’d made love to her just hours before—and pocketed it after seeing there were fourteen missed calls and half as many voice mails.

He’d let her sleep as long as she would. She’d mentioned that she had a lot to do today but he figured she’d manage better with several hours of sleep in her system.

He was halfway down the stairs when his cell phone went off. He sighed when he saw it was Phillip Armstrong.

“Connor Malone,” he said when he put the phone to his ear. He continued toward the kitchen, where already he could smell food cooking.

“Where the hell is Lyric?” Phillip demanded. “Is everything okay there?”

“Yeah, fine. She’s asleep.”

There was a brief hesitation and Connor thought he heard Phillip sigh in relief. “Good. She needs to rest. She’s way too high-strung and she goes without sleep for too long at a time. Just make sure she makes her two o’clock at Reliant Stadium. She has to meet with the stage crew and sign off on the details for her performance. I don’t like that she’s not using her band, but she was determined to give them a break. Hell, I think she’s on some weird mission to prove something by taking on so much herself for these two weeks. But who she’s trying to prove something to—her or everyone else—I’m not sure.”

“There’s plenty of time for her to make her two o’clock meeting.”

“Be expecting a call from Paul. I gave him your number because he was having a kitten over Lyric not answering her phone.”

Connor bit back a curse. Just what he needed. Her asshole manager screaming in his ear. But better his than Lyric’s. It pissed him off the way her manager treated her, and Connor had only met the man once.

On cue, the line beeped and Connor pulled the phone away to see unknown caller flash across his screen. “That’s probably him now,” he said as he put the phone back to his ear. “I’ll have Lyric where she needs to be. Don’t worry.”

He punched the button to switch calls. “Connor Malone.”

“Mr. Malone, this is Paul Woodrow. I’ll be flying into Houston at noon, and I’ll expect to be picked up at the airport so I can meet Lyric at Reliant Stadium at two.”

His snappish tone flew all over Connor. It briefly occurred to him that he should probably be conciliatory. Briefly. But he remembered Phillip’s advisory that Connor worked for him, not Paul. It was enough for Connor to speak his mind.

“Want in one hand and shit in the other. See which gets fuller faster.”

“What? What the hell does that mean? Where is Lyric? Why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“She’s indisposed and unable to take your call. I’m so sorry. I’ll have her return your call later. If I remember.”