One way or another, she'd be protected.
And once the security situation was handled—once I knew she wasn't in danger—I'd ask her out properly. Do it right, not muddied by protective instincts and half-naked memories.
I wanted all of her. The gentle veterinary assistant and the fierce instructor. Every complicated piece.
But first, I had to keep her safe.
Chapter Three
Lacey
Friday's appointment with Judge had been torture.
I'd stood in that exam room trying to focus on the healing tissue in the dog's shoulder while Gage crouched beside me, close enough that his thigh brushed mine every time he shifted weight. Close enough that I caught the scent of leather and soap, warm and masculine.
The intensity in his gaze every time our hands brushed made me fumble the bandage scissors. The way his voice dropped lower when he said "Yes, ma'am" sent heat racing through me. By the time he left, I was wound so tight I could barely function.
Now it was Friday evening, and I still couldn't stop thinking about it.
I didn't have class tonight, but I'd driven to the studio anyway. New combinations had been running through my head all week, and I needed to work them out. Needed to move, to burn off this restless energy that had nothing to do with pole fitness and everything to do with a certain sheriff and that deep drawl.
The building was dark and quiet when I arrived just after seven. No pawn shop customers, no students, no one around. Just me and the cold January wind rattling the loose siding.
I let myself in through the main entrance and headed straight for the first-floor bathroom. The small space was cramped—barely enough room to turn around—but it had a door that locked from the inside. I slid the bolt into place and started stripping off my work clothes.
Scrub top over my head. Tank top next. I was unclasping my sports bra when I heard it.
Scraping. Metal on glass.
I froze and turned toward the window.
A dark silhouette filled the frame. Backlit by the streetlight in the alley, just a shadow—but unmistakably male. Watching me.
The scream tore out of my throat before I could stop it.
The figure jerked back, disappeared. I heard running footsteps on gravel, fading fast.
My fingers wouldn't steady as I yanked my tank top back on and slid the bolt free. I stood in the cramped bathroom, heart pounding, listening.
Nothing. Just wind and the creak of old wood.
He's gone. You're fine. You came here to practice.
I forced myself to finish changing—pulling off the tank again, sports bra and shorts on, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands. I wouldn't let some creep ruin this. Wouldn't let fear win.
I climbed the interior stairs to the studio, flipped on the lights, and started my playlist. The familiar bass thumped through the speakers, and I approached my usual pole.
Grip. Climb. Simple warm-up moves I'd done a thousand times.
Except my palms were slick with sweat. My hands slipped on the chrome. When I tried to invert, my core wouldn't engage—too tense, too wound up. I came down hard, stumbling.
Breathe. Focus.
I tried again. Made it into a basic spin, but my timing was off. My body felt wrong, disconnected. Every shadow outside the window made me flinch. Every creak of the building made my pulse jump.
What if he was still out there? What if he came back?
What if he climbed the exterior fire escape while I was up here alone?
