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The pattern of the bruising is far too repetitive to be from my head hitting the window. And the spots on my neck? Definite finger marks.

So why didn’t the doctor think so?

It will be fine. Ryker is surely a whole lot scarier than the person who did this to me, right? Except, I don’t really know, do I?

With a deep breath, I search for the toothbrush Ryker said would be beneath the counter. After brushing my teeth, I strip out of my clothes and pull on Ryker’s shirt. It falls to well below my knees, completely dwarfing me in a way that would be amusing if I weren’t so distracted by the fact that it smells just like him.

To keep myself from pressing the fabric to my nose and inhaling like a weirdo, I pull the pants on—only to have them fall right back down.

Fantastic.

Even tightening the drawstring as much as I can doesn’t help matters. I snort and cover my mouth to keep from completely losing it to laughter at the absolute ridiculousness that is my situation.

I shouldn’t be laughing.

But, I mean—come on. Why did I think those pants stood a chance at fitting me? The guy is literally built like what they call him—a tank.

Because sleeping in just a shirt in a stranger’s bed is not something I’m comfortable with, I pull the leggings back on and run my fingers through the tangled mess of my hair.

When I step back out, I see that Ryker has already changed into a pair of sweats. His bare back is to me, and I stop in my tracks as I drink in the sight of his muscled back. But it’s more than the strength I see—it’s yet more evidence of war.

“Danger is a specialty of mine, Miss Swanson.”

How accurate was that statement?

How much war has this man seen?

He turns toward me, and I catch sight of a silver cross hanging around his neck. “All good?”

“Yeah, sorry. The pants didn’t stay up, but thank you.”

“Sorry about that. I don’t have many other options.”

“No worries.” I smile at him, then walk over to where I saw him pull the pants out. After I’ve put them back, I turn to face him again.

He’s standing still, staring at me with such intensity it heats my skin. Does he feel this weird connection, too? This unexplainable attraction?

“Uh, I changed the sheets.” He runs a hand over the back of his head. “We’ll head to Anastasia’s for coffee and breakfast first thing, then we’ll go to Charleston.”

“Sounds good to me. But I’ll take the couch.” I start toward him, but he shakes his head.

“No, you get some sleep.”

“Ryker—”

“My couch is comfortable, Dahlia. I will be fine.”

“But this is your home. I don’t want to take your bed.”

“I don’t mind,” he says with a soft smile. “I promise. Get some sleep.”

I stare at him a moment longer, trying to decide if there’s even a chance I can win this argument. But when he heads into the bathroom, I know there’s not. So, I bury the guilt I feel that I’m stealing his bed, and fold back the covers to climb in.

Let me tell you, the guilt is a tad easier to deal with when the bed is so comfortable it honestly makes me feel like I’m sleeping on a cloud. The moment my head hits the pillow, exhaustion wraps around me.

Ryker steps out of the bathroom, then clicks off the light, plunging us both into darkness. Then, as if he knows I need it, a small nightlight clicks on just beside the couch. The golden glow is so faint I can barely see, but as my eyes adjust, I can make out Ryker’s shadow as he heads toward the couch.

Every movement he makes seems precise, every step laced with power.