I raised my free hand. “Lane, it’s me.”
He jerked at the sound of my voice, but his arm dropped instantly.
“Sutton? What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“What happened?”
“Can we talk inside?” I asked. “It’s freezing and I’m not too fond of being exposed right now.”
Even with his gun aimed at me, the back of my neck prickled, like the real threat was behind me, unseen in the darkness.
“Right, of course. Come on.”
He waited for me to climb the steps, eyeing my fluffy grey Maine Coon a bit warily.
“Who is this?”
“Boots,” I said, stepping through the door into his house, shivering deliciously as the warm air enveloped me. “He’s a sweetheart, I promise.”
“If you say so,” Lane said, coming in behind me and shutting the door. He stepped around me and led the way deeper into the house, bringing me into his living room.
I’d never been to his house before, never been in a living space that belonged to the man before me instead of the boy he’d been back then.
Then again, Lane was no longer the beautiful boy he used to be when we were kids, or the good-looking young man I’d first fallen in love with at nineteen.
This version of Lane was rugged and hardened, sex on legs wrapped in ink I wanted under my mouth and fingertips. The kind of sin I’d happily go to hell for committing.
I gave myself a mental head slap.
Not the time, Sutton.
His home, at least this part of it, was what I’d expect from him, though: nothing short of masculine. Warm beige walls, dark hardwood floors, large, soft suede couch and armchairs in a deep brown, topped with throw pillows in more earthy tones.
Lane perched on the edge of the sofa, groaning as he sank into it. I sat on a nearby chair.
“What happened?” he asked again, then grinned. “Assuming this isn’t a social call.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Lane. I’m here for a late-night booty call.” My tone was acidic.
“Okay, okay, sorry. That was rude. What’s going on?”
“I know Johns has been handling things at the department while you’re recuperating, but how looped in are you?”
“We have weekly status calls,” he said.
“So you’re aware of this night stalker asshole that’s been breaking into houses in town?”
His jaw clenched, likely because he knew where I was going with this. “Yes,” he gritted out.
“I was tonight’s victim.”
He leaned forward quickly, arm shooting out as though to reach for me, but he pulled back and settled his elbows on his knees. “Are you okay?”
“Just shaken up,” I admitted, especially now that the adrenaline had fled my system, leaving me exhausted, eliciting that wrung out sensation in my limbs, like they were too heavy to move properly. “I got out before I ever saw them.”
“And you came here.” Not a question, merely a surprised statement of fact.
