licetteer

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Grundy,” he muttered, giving the cat a side-eyed glance. “You and your vet receptionist friend with the killer smile. Funny you’re both redheads.”

Grundy meowed once in reply, nonchalant and unimpressed.

They were in his house.

Touching his woman.

Trying to take her.

They didn’t know what kind of hell they’d just invited in.

She turned to look at him — the hard cut of his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes never stopped scanning.

He was a machine tonight. Her protector. Her fury and her shield.