A calm stare that waited, so patiently.

Ah, damn. “My-my mom had cancer. I was ten when she was brought to St. Vincent’s. I didn’t know what was happening. She went from being this warm, laughing woman to this person who was so pale and thin that-that”—and this was one of the parts that pained her the most—“I was afraid to touch her, afraid that I would hurt her even more than she was already hurting.” And her mom had been hurting, so very badly.

She could still remember when Dr. Bradley had come to tell her that her mother had passed away. His face had been blank, his eyes watchful. He hadn’t softened the words, just said, “Your mother passed, Miranda. Someone will be coming to pick you up soon.”

And she hadn’t understood. Not a word he’d said. Where had she passed to? Why hadn’t her mother taken Miranda with her?

She’d begged to see her mother, but Dr. Bradley had refused.

Since then, well, she’d pretty much hated hospitals, and she hadn’t exactly been filled with wild love for the doctors.

“She died?”

His rough voice pulled her back to the present, partially. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” And he sounded like he truly meant those words.

“Thanks.” Her fingers were toying with the sheet. Pulling out a piece of thread. “I just . . . don’t like these places much, okay?” Intellectually, she knew the hospital hadn’t caused her mother’s death. She knew hospitals saved thousands of lives every day.

But they smelled of death.

And she wanted out of there.

“Did your father raise you, then?”

Her gaze jerked to his face, and for a moment, she almost forgot about hating the hospital. “What? Are you kidding me? He ran off when he found out that my mom was pregnant.” She shook her head. “No, I’ve never met the guy and probably never will.” She was fine with that. Had been for years.

“Then who—”

“Grandma Belle.” Not her real grandmother. “My foster mom. The sweetest lady in the county. She took me in, me and Sam. Raised us both.” And gave them a good home when they so desperately needed one.

Sam. The first time she’d seen him, he’d been a thin boy with bruises all over him. She’d never asked about the bruises and he’d never talked about them. But he’d become close to her. So close.

Even though he often annoyed the hell out of her.

Yeah, they were just like a real family.

She exhaled heavily. “So, now you know all about me. My weird fears, my past—”

“And you learned more last night than you probably ever hoped to know about me.” His hand fell away.

No. Her fingers reached out, caught his.

Cain stilled. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Buthe’d been beautiful. Ferocious. Strong. Deadly.

Absolutely terrifying.

But the most amazing creature she’d ever seen. “I wanted to see. All of you.” She wasn’t going to turn away from him because of what she’d seen. He needed to know that.

She’d made love with Cain because she wanted him. Every bit of him. Good and bad.

“Miranda . . .”

The door flew open and Sam sauntered in, pushing a wheelchair. “All right, cuz, I know you’ve got to be going nuts in here, so it’s time you got sprung—” He caught sight of Cain and his brows jerked up. “Hell. Are you still here?”

Cain’s face tightened and he stood. “I’m here for Miranda. Got a problem with that?”

“Look, Lawson, this shit with the killer might be all fun and games to you FBI guys—”

“I’m ex-FBI.”

“Bull. You’re running the case; that means you’re active. And this blood-and-guts crap is all in a day’s work to you, but it is not Miranda’s life.” He moved to the bed, standing protectively over her. “Is it, cuz?”

Cuz. He’d started calling her that on her thirteenth birthday. Told her then it connected them. Made them a real family.

Their last names were different, so folks knew they weren’t real brother and sister. So they’d pretended to be cousins. Pretended to be family, and, well, they’d become family.

“I checked up on you,” Sam said, directing his words to Cain before Miranda could answer him.

“Good.” Cain didn’t budge from his position beside her bed. The men were less than two feet apart.

“Called Atlanta. Wanted to talk to some folks other than those Bureau assholes.”

Sam had always had a thing against the suits, as he called them. She didn’t really know why. He’d just told her, after working a few cases with them, that the Bureau boys “didn’t like to get their hands dirty.”

“Um.” Cain didn’t seem particularly concerned with Sam’s dislike of the FBI. “And did Santiago tell you to call the Atlanta PD?”

“Yeah, he told me you walked the beat there when you were first in uniform. Got your street cred before you joined the FBI.”

A slow nod.

Sam’s lips pursed, then he admitted. “I talked to Captain Danny McNeal.”

Cain raised a brow. “And what did McNeal have to say?”

“That you were a tough bastard who wouldn’t stop until you brought your man down.”

Yes, that sounded about right.

“I don’t.” Simple. Direct.

“Miranda’s not like that,” Sam growled. “She’s not used to this crap, she—”