“She is.”

“You sound so sure.” Priss chewed her lip. “But how do you know that?”

“Murray broke me in by having me accompany Hell on a few shopping trips.” He gave her a pointed look. “Believe me, I overheard plenty.”

Until Priss relaxed, he hadn’t realized how keyed up she was. “So you never…”

“What?”

Priss rolled in her lips, but didn’t hold back. “You haven’t taken other women there to be outfitted? You haven’t…been a part of their abuse?”

“No.” His shoulders tightened. Fuck, no. Even before his sister’s ordeal, he’d never stood by and watched anyone mistreat a woman, and he never would. It was the one big conflict in his cover. Put to the right test—a test against his morality and conscience—how would he handle things? He wanted Murray and all who associated with him, but he knew where to draw the line. “Never that, Priss.”

With the smallest of relieved smiles, she nodded. “Good to know.”

A few miles from the apartment, they went into a small grocery to buy Priss more supplies. While she loaded a cart with junk food and a few basics, Trace grabbed other necessaries she might need like toiletries and a few magazines that’d help give credence to her being in residence.

Back in the car, Priss looked over a magazine, and then put it back in the bag. “It’s going to feel emptier now, without Liger there.”

“I’m sorry.” Trace knew how any living, breathing creature could offer comfort when the shadows started to close in. He suspected that Priss had a lot of shadows in her life. “Maybe you can watch TV or something to help pass the time.”

“Maybe.”

Minutes later, he pulled into the lot and, without being obvious, scanned the area. Nothing seemed out of place, but to be sure, he told Priss, “We’re back in our roles, okay?”

“Yeah, I get it.” She opened her door and stepped out, hefting several of the packages into her arms.

The second the slick, black sedan pulled into the lot, they both noticed. Priss straightened, tracking the car as it pulled past and parked toward the back of the lot, away from the street.

Suspicion narrowed Trace’s gaze as he watched the vehicle; absently, he handed the additional bags to Priss. “Get in your apartment and lock the door.”

She stiffened with alarm. “What are you going to do?”

He gave her a small push even as he started toward the car. “Do as I say, Priss.”

Three big bruisers stepped out of the car. The driver sent a smarmy smile toward Trace.

Jackson should already be in place. Trace hoped he had the good sense to stay put because he wouldn’t need his help, but later, Priss just might.

PRISS GOT TO THE TOP of the rickety steps and rushed to the front door of the apartment. Though she scanned the area, every nook and cranny that led to the apartment access, there was no one else on the landing, and no one near the stairs.

For the moment, she felt safe enough.

She wasn’t a dummy; she wouldn’t take unnecessary chances that would divide Trace’s concentration. Not with one man against three.

Impressive as Trace might be, those odds sucked.

After she unlocked the front door and tossed the heavy bags onto the couch, she darted to the railing to observe the confrontation taking place.

The three hulks facing off with Trace looked like professional ass**les. Black T-shirts, black slacks, dark sunglasses.

Could they be more clichéd?

Oh, God, oh, God. Trying to read Trace’s body language, Priss gripped the railing and held her breath. The men awaited his approach as if they’d come there specifically for him.

Murray’s men? Another test—or something else?

Trace looked…well, he looked relaxed. Maybe even amused.

Stride casual, he continued to advance on the men without a single obvious concern.

Other people were in the lot, out in front of the bar next door, driving by on the street—but no one paid any attention to them.

With less than four feet separating them, Trace stopped. His voice was firm, clear, reaching Priss where she waited safely out of reach of harm.

“Who are you?”

The man who’d taken the lead spit near Trace’s shoe. “None of your f**king business.”

“I’m not asking again.”

The guy laughed and reached for…a gun!

Priss gasped at the same time the guy said, “Screw yo—”

His reply ended when Trace put his boot to the idiot’s jaw. Shattered sunglasses went flying and the man’s head snapped around. He lurched back to slam into the side of the car. The gun slipped from his hand.

Trace kicked again, and the fellow slid down into a heap on the ground.

It happened so fast that Priss was left with her mouth hanging open and her eyes flared wide. For a very brief time, the other two men had the same reaction.

Seconds later they shook off their surprise.

One of them pulled another gun while the third attacked Trace. Though she wasn’t a girlie-girl by any stretch, and she was never given to drama, Priss barely swallowed back a scream.

She started to race down the steps, determined to find a way to help, but in seconds she saw that Trace had the upper hand. Again.

Dumbfounded, she watched the battle unfold, and she watched Trace dominate.

Oh, he got hit. Several times, in fact.

But nothing seemed to damage him, or slow him down.