"You checking on me, Kitten?" He had a thing about trust and respect. It drove him to join the Army, pushed him to become part of Titan and strive for leadership. Trust and respect defined his world. He needed it from the team, needed it from Boss Man, but had more or less expected it from Caterina.

She waggled her eyebrows. "Maybe."

"We're all good."

"Good." She nodded and walked toward the front of their big-ass suite. The woman who had pressed her hands to his chest and purred a request to work together had been replaced by an operative forced to wear a pink dress. She was all business and as focused as he'd ever seen her. It was hot as hell.

His neck burned. His chest tightened. Rocco squeezed his eyes shut, praying that this was an over the top reaction to the skyscraper legs parading in front of him. He followed her, his feet feeling that they'd been cemented to the floor. Each step seemed heavier than the last. Piss poor timing if this was what he thought it might be...

Caterina turned around. The fabric of her dress hugged her tight, making him memorize her every move. A blur of haze blocked his view for a hot second. He focused in again on the pink and lost his sharp line of sight again.

Zip. Zip. His ears burned with electricity. Goddamn it.

Zip. Zap. Zip.

Panic swelled, colliding with the reaction that had already started. The one that he dreaded. His palms went clammy. This couldn't be happening right now. Seriously. He'd will the insane episode away. Rocco sawed his teeth and ordered his lungs to breathe steadily.

Zip. His sight went fuzzy, and his lungs revolted, doing their spastic best to throw him in Lake Crazy. The glow from the lamps became shining orbs. The pink dress spun itself into a cotton candy frenzy. Fuck. He couldn't stop it and had to bolt. At least he was always a man with a plan and had booked a just-in-case hotel room a few floors down.

He could escape. Trip his ass off. Recover and rebound. It was the only plan he had, but he hadn't planned to use it this soon.

Caterina turned back to him. Her mouth was moving. The words? What was she saying? Something...was he okay? Did he need something? Her arm stretched, and he had to go. Run. Get the hell away from her. Lord only knew what he looked like morphing into crazy-man.

His numb lips moved side to side, feeling the pins and needles. "Change of plans." Did he sound as breathless as he felt? "Gotta run out for a little bit. Just a couple hours."

Not giving her a chance to respond, not that he'd have a clue what she said, Rocco brushed past her. Her intoxicating scent wrapped around him, holding him, telling him it would be okay. Stop it. Smells don't talk. But on this acid trip they did. He busted out the door, knowing he could make it to his hotel room and ride this trip out. The door slammed behind him, echoing like a round of applause. The ornate carpet swirled around his feet. The brightly colored patterns crept up, sliding over his fancy-dancy shoes, stroking his calves. Their touch tickled. The walls began to melt, rushing into a beige river and threatening to drown him in the hallway.

This is all a dream. All a trip. Make it to your room. Make it to your safe zone.

He'd memorized the room number. 521. Rigged the door to stay unlocked without leaving it ajar. All he had to do was make it there.

Five.

Twenty.

One.

So close, just a few floors. He ignored the elevator and hit the stairs. No way could he get into a metal box right now. He'd go insane, claw his way out as the walls caved in. Where was his room?

Say it out loud. You won't forget.

"Five. Twenty. One." With the effort required for a Tough Mudder with a hangover, he did it again. "Five. Twenty. One."

You are stronger than this. Survive this mind melt.

Do it.

Now.

And then his angel was at his side, same as last time. It was about the only saving grace he had, knowing that his hallucinations gave him a protector. With his psychedelic angel guiding him through the warping stairwell and again with the carpet that grew over him like ivy, Rocco relaxed into her care and let her save him more one time.

Yassine rubbed his hands together in the cold rain. Big Ben stood as a cultural icon. Historical. Recognizable. An attack would be respectable. He'd walked the area several times. It'd been harder to see inside the old clock tower. The pain of safety precautions coupled with the fact only native UK residents were allowed to tour had created a research stumbling block. But it was nothing the internet hadn't fixed. Podcasts and videos were posted all over the web. After watching hours of them, he'd felt like he'd walked the three-hundred thirty-four steps himself a thousand times.

Not forgetting the botched bombing a few weeks prior, he knew this was the time to go big. Authorities were scrambling. Newscasts were drooling over themselves, using the name El Mateperros every chance they could on air. Nothing like a panic to up their ratings. And Yassine had plans to up the ratings. For them. For him. For the ACG.

All he needed was for this Daniel Locke to come through with the required supplies. Using a new dealer wasn't ideal, but he'd cut ties with his usual supplier. It'd been messy. There'd been blood. Perhaps too much because his usual backups didn't step forward to fill his order.

But Daniel Locke had. The newcomer. The man who, like himself, seemed to thrive under a veil on anonymity. No confirmed reports on where Locke came from or called home. No photographs. But superior references. Those who had worked with Locke operated as if under some kind of code. They were elite members of a secret club. He wanted in that club the way he soon wanted people to recognize his face. Very badly.

Genius, really. Locke was smart.

Yassine was smart. The two could be good partners.

If Locke was the key to Yassine's successful attack on Big Ben, then they could have many happy years to come. But, if they couldn't strike a deal, or if Locke wasn't what he said he was, couldn't do what the rumor mill promised he could do, then the ACG would move on. Yassine was still working on his old distributors, convincing them future mistakes wouldn't be made and that he was a trustworthy partner. The ACG had a time-sensitive attack looming. He needed a supplier and a backup. Wiping a few raindrops off his cheeks, he embraced the cold rain and savored the feeling of it on his skin. Just a few more weeks before the ACG became a commonplace threat, and El Mateperros was a celebrated terrorist.

He walked by a magazine stand. The tabloids and magazines beckoned to him, and a selfish hunger urged him onward. Some organizations pushed for renewal in faith of the almighty Allah. Some strived for governmental power. Maybe a decade or two ago, that was the case for him, but then he got a taste of power and fear. When he'd earned the name El Mateperros on the banks of the Spanish coast, all had changed. Yassine Harhour was meant for greatness. Born to be famous. On tabloid covers and the lead story on nightly news segments. With the Big Ben bombing, Yassine would come out from behind his closely guarded identity and take ranks as the most sought after terrorist in the world.

And surely Allah could not fault him that.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Jared sat at his desk, his bulldog at his feet and his wife in his lap. Thelma the Bulldog chewed on a three foot rawhide that Sugar had dropped to the floor when she'd popped in. She smelled like gunpowder and perfume, a mixture he would never get tired of.

"So what are you going to do?"

It was the second time she'd asked and the second time he didn't have an answer. Doc Tuska had called him again, but not just with bad news. It'd been shit-on-the-bottom-of-your-shoes bad news. After Rocco's poisoning in New York City, he'd been hospitalized and detoxed from a mystery hallucinogen. The hospital sent it off for testing. It turned out that poison was a government-sponsored experimental drug gone wrong.

Clinical trials were brought to an abrupt halt when what was supposed to be a truth serum presented as an acid trip. But the kicker was, weeks later, almost every test subject reported full blown and random hallucinations. Some tests subjects had no recollection of what happened when they tripped, and others had varying lengths of time between episodes before it appeared to clear out of their system.

Jared played with Sugar's hair and considered whether Rocco had either not told him or didn't know. Jared had to act fast before dude got himself killed. Sugar readjusted on his leg. The little minx probably did it just to draw attention to her leather-clad legs and those spiked heels she trounced around in.

"You can't just pull him out." She popped a piece of bubble gum.

"I know that."

"But you can't let him run all over England tripping his ass off if he doesn't know."

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and into his hair. "Agreed."

"So you need to tell Caterina."

He stopped rubbing his hair, hand frozen on his scalp. It was a possibility, but how much did he know about Caterina? Enough that he could trust her with one of his men's greatest weaknesses? "That's an option."

"An option?"

"I trust the girl to a point, but giving her that kind of intel? That's a nuclear option. Last resort."

"She's trustworthy."

Jared chuckled. "Oh she is, is she? Cut this BS, Baby Cakes. How do you know that?"

"I can read people. We had a good conversation."

"And I've known her the better part of her life."

"Trust her, Jared." Sugar kissed his lips and tasted bubble gum. "Feel Rocco out, then reach out to her."

"Eh...we'll see."

She pecked him once more on the kisser and jumped off his lap. Thelma stood, ready to follow her newish mistress out the door.

"Traitor." He rubbed the dog's wrinkly head. "A few dog bones, and your loyalty waivers."

Jared picked up the phone to call Caterina. First try. Second and third tries. No answer.

Guts churning, he hung up his phone. Sooner or later, Rocco would check in, and he'd feel him out.

But just in case everything was going wrong, he picked up his phone. "Roman. Get in here."

It was happening. Caterina didn't know exactly what it was, but Rocco going from normal to nuts before she could turn around was unnerving. He'd run out the door, and she wouldn't let him get too far. She grabbed her key card then went to the door, slowly opening it and sneaking a glance down the hall. If she hadn't known better, he could've been any man hurrying through the hallway. He wasn't falling all over himself or licking the wall. But he was off, acting drugged, looking at his feet, staring at the wall, dragging himself down the corridor.

It only took her seconds to get to him, and Rocco was slowing down, clearly in another place. His eyes weren't focusing on her. His words didn't make sense. Babble, babble, some numbers, and more babbling.

"Rocco." She sidled up to him, not wanting to surprise him. Not that he would hurt her...but it seemed prudent not to sneak up on a man of his size and stature. "Roc, babe."

His head lulled in her direction. Power ticked in his jaw. Shadows danced in his eyes, but there was no recognition. The man she'd known for a short while was gone.

More babble about numbers and he threw the door open, nearly knocking it off the hinges. One hundred percent of his power twitched in his muscles. They contracted and released. His hands flexed into fists, and then his fingers splayed. Daring against danger, Caterina hesitantly touched his forearm.

"Angel," he mumbled.

She didn't completely understand his gibberish, but his eyes held her, pleading and screaming for help. How could she possibly walk away from the kind of vulnerability?

He blinked hard, scrunching his face, mumbling again. He didn't say Angel. But whatever it was, it was on repeat. He took off, several stairs at a time, and she clung to his arm, determined to stay with him. Shoot, she needed to get him back to their room. He wasn't in any kind of shape to be out.

Rocco paused on a landing. Caterina rested her hand on his shoulder, sliding it down to his elbow. Stepping forward, he moved so disjointedly that it was easy enough to pull him back to a standstill. "Hi. Can you hear me?"

His eyes focused on her, glancing at the lights and the wall behind her, then back to her face again. Sweat beaded on his forehead and temples. Relief washed across his face. The tension melted from his muscled arm.

"You're back." Raw and harsh, his words were painted in a tornado of agony and relief.

She had no idea what he meant. She'd never left, but it was a good thing, and she'd take it.

"Come on, babe. Back to our room." Tugging six-foot-something of two hundred pounds of brawny man was impossible. "Please, Rocco. You're scaring me."

Too many things could happen. El Mateperros's people could be staking them out. There was a laundry list of people who wanted to kill her. Him probably, too. To be out like this, in the open and out of control, was dangerous, and heaven help her, she wouldn't let anything happen to either one of them right now.

Rocco's forehead wrinkled in deep concentration. "Five. Twenty. One."

He watched like she should know what that meant.

"Que?"

Vapid stare in return.

"Rocco, what are you telling me?"

His hands found hers, bringing her alongside him. Fingers interlacing. Palms kissing. It was a handhold. A death grip. Life support. And everything in between.

He flinched at the lights, studying his feet as he walked. At the landing for the fifth floor, they stood by the door. Rocco watched the number five. Five? Five twenty-one?

"Five twenty-one?" she asked.

His head rolled down and up like he couldn't hold it up, but he nodded. Sort of. She opened the door, and he plodded forward, watching the numbers on each door, leaning back and growling at the wall.

He had to be hallucinating.

Finally, they stood in front of room five twenty-one. The do not disturb sign hung on the door handle. What now? They were going to scare the bejesus out of whoever- He pushed the door, and it opened. The lock hadn't been engaged. No one screamed as he barged inside. Hulking toward the bed, Rocco got there in three long strides, tearing off his shirt, and collapsed onto the bed. She stood by the door, taking in the drastically smaller room. One bed, two windows. No baggage, luggage, or personal effects. A few bottles of water were on the nightstand.

Rocco had another room? Because of this? This, this, whatever this was. Whatever was happening to him...

Her heart sank, and her arms ached to hold up a man who easily doubled her in weight. He was too proud, too strong, too... just too much of everything to be brought down like this. So vulnerable. It killed her.

"Rocco." She stepped in, and the door shut behind her. "Is it okay that I'm with you?"

Unburying his face from the pillow, he looked up. No response. Just a look that acknowledged she'd said something. The whites of his eyes were red. The pupils fought dilation. The corners and his lashes twitched. She knew that look better than anybody. This was man under siege and out of control. Completely tortured.

She sat on the edge of the bed and cracked open a water. "Take a sip."

He did, still silent, and barely picked his head up off the bed. Power idled in his bare shoulders. The column of his neck was defined in corded strength, feeding into his shoulder blades and sculpted back. Tattoos covered each shoulder. Military. The kind that said he lived for something. He watched over others, a watcher, protector, savior, defender. Tears blurred her eyes. The tattoos spoke to her, and she couldn't even see them clearly through the burning mist welling in her eyes.

Rocco flinched. He stared at the alarm clock, then stopped, angry, apparently losing a standoff with it.

"Are you-"

He roared forward and slammed the clock off the nightstand. When it hit the floor, he growled. Deep. Guttural.

Long seconds passed as he perched on the edge of the bed. Old scars marred his perfectly carved chest. A more pronounced, fading pink scar stood out. She wanted to stare, but he dropped back toward his cocoon of bedding and pillows. He settled down, and she inched closer, testing their boundaries with a careful touch, just enough to let him know she was there, then withdrew her hand, careful not to startle him. "I don't know what to do. Tell me. Please."