When you’re buried alive with someone, the only place for the relationship to go…is up.

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“I think you and I…” Preston rasped, “might be very similar.”

She felt the lick of his tongue against her earlobe. And maybe, the faintest tug of his teeth on her.

Desire surged through Sloane’s body.

He eased back. Stared into her eyes. “You aren’t scared of me.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I’ve gotten pretty good at spotting evil over the years.”

He laughed. Rough. Deep. Bitter. “Then maybe you need to take another hard glance at me.”

No, she didn’t. She knew what she was getting with him. Exactly what she needed. But they had to come to an agreement. “You don’t hurt me. I don’t hurt you.”

A furrow appeared between his brows.

“You don’t hurt me,” she repeated. “I don’t hurt you.” That was the only way their partnership would work.

His jaw locked. Frankie kept driving. Sloane didn’t think that Preston was going to respond at all until⁠—

“Angel, there’s something you need to realize.”

She waited, all her attention on him.

“From here on out, consider me your attack dog. Anyone tries to hurt you in any way, and I’ll rip out the bastard’s throat.”

Well, that was promising.

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