Page 17 of Wraith’s Promise

"Exactly. Which is why you need to go upstairs, get her somewhere safe, and let me do what I was hired to do."

"That's my daughter you're talking about." His voice has gone low and dangerous, the kind of quiet that precedes violence. "You think I'm going to hide upstairs while someone tries to take her? You think I'm capable of doing that?"

"I think you're capable of being smart about this." I step closer to him, force him to look at me instead of the window. "You go up there, you make sure she's locked in and safe. You call Phoenix, call your brothers, get backup coming. I hold them off until help arrives."

"They'll kill you."

"They'll try." I say it with complete certainty, no bravado, just fact. "And they'll fail, because I'm very good at what I do and they're expecting someone they can intimidate. They're not expecting me."

He's shaking his head before I finish talking. "I'm not letting you do this alone. That's not happening."

"Dean—"

"No." He grabs my shoulders, not rough but firm enough that I feel the desperation in his grip. "I hear what you're saying. I understand the tactical logic. But that's my daughter upstairs, and I'm not letting a single one of these assholes past me even if I have to put my life on the line to stop them. Do you understand? Not one."

I look into his eyes and see something absolute there, something that won't bend no matter what argument I make. This is his line in the sand. His child, his protection, his responsibility. I can respect that even if tactically it's a nightmare.

"Fine," I say. "But you need to tell Mariah something. Make it a game, tell her to lock herself in your room or her room, somewhere with a solid door and a lock. And you need to call for backup right now, because this is about to get very messy very fast."

He holds my gaze for another second, then nods. "I'll tell her it's hide and seek. That she needs to stay hidden until I come get her, no matter what she hears."

"Good. Go. Now."

He releases my shoulders but doesn't move immediately. "Don't do anything stupid, Quinn. I'll be right back."

Then he takes the stairs two at a time. I turn back to the window and risk another glance. The Vipers are almost at the porch now, still taking their time, still confident. They think this is going to be easy. A single dad and maybe a babysitter if they're unlucky, some civilian they can push around until they get what they came for.

They have no idea what's waiting for them.

I move away from the window and do a rapid assessment of the space. Living room connects to kitchen, kitchen has a back door, that's my exit route if I need one, though I'd prefer to keep them outside entirely. Front door is solid wood with a deadbolt but not reinforced. They'll get through it eventually if they want to, especially with a crowbar and enough motivation.

I could lock it, make them work for entry. Or I could open it and control the engagement on my terms.

I choose the latter.

I hear Dean's voice upstairs, muffled but calm, talking to Mariah. Hear her sleepy response, confused but not scared yet. Good. He's keeping it together, keeping her calm. That's what she needs right now.

Heavy footsteps on the porch. The kind of noise meant to intimidate, to announce their presence. Then pounding on the door. Not a knock, a demand. Three hard hits that rattle the frame.

"Open up!" A male voice, rough and amused. "We know you're in there. Let's have a conversation."

I move to the door, position myself to the side of it rather than directly in front. Never stand where bullets can find you through a door, and call out: "He's not available right now. You want to leave a message?"

Silence for a beat. Then laughter, multiple voices overlapping. They think this is funny.

"Who the fuck is this?" Different voice, younger, more aggressive. "Wraith got himself a girlfriend?"

"Babysitter," I correct calmly. "And like I said, he's not available. So why don't you gentlemen get back on your bikes and ride somewhere else?"

More laughter, and then the first voice again: "Sweetheart, you got about five seconds to open this door before we open it for you. And trust me, you don't want us to do that."

"Actually," I say, "I think I do."

I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open, and I have the satisfaction of watching all five of them register surprise for just a second. They were expecting locked doors and resistance, not a woman in gray sweatpants opening up like she's greeting guests.

The surprise doesn't last long.

The one in front, older, maybe forty, with a scar running from his eyebrow to his jawline, looks me up and down with naked contempt.