Cliff's Descent

A loud knock shook her door.

Emma damn near jumped off the sofa. Her neck popped as she jerked her head around to stare at the door with wide eyes. Her heart began to slam against her ribs as fear trickled through her.

Who the hell would be knocking on her door this late at night?

No one she knew would do so without calling first. And deliverymen and -women didn't drop off packages at freaking midnight.

As quickly and quietly as a mouse, she darted into her bedroom and grabbed the 9mm her father had bought her and trained her to use. Flicking off the safety, she returned to the living room and swung by the coffee table to tuck her phone in her pajama pants pockets in case she needed to call 911. Only then did she cautiously approach the door.

Another knock thundered through the house.

Adrenaline spiking, she peered through the door's peephole.

Shock rippled through her. "Oh shit," she whispered. Setting the gun on the coat rack bench beside her, she hastily unlocked the dead bolt, then the knob, and flung open the door.

Cliff stood before her, his big body blocking her view of the yard.

Emma gaped up at him.

He wore the standard blacks of network guards covered with a long black coat similar to that of an Immortal Guardian. His face, neck, and hands were streaked with blood. His clothing glistened with wet patches. And his eyes shone bright amber.

She had never seen them so bright and knew it meant that whatever emotion roiled inside him was intense.

Panic consumed her. "Cliff," she breathed. Stepping onto the porch, she swiftly glanced around, terrified she might see soldiers in black approaching with weapons raised.

When none materialized, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside.

Her hands shook as she closed and bolted the door, her fingers leaving little streaks of blood on the white surface.

Spinning around, she stared up at him. "What happened? Are you hurt?" Her gaze swept over him, noting every wet patch on his clothing, every ruby-red splotch on his skin. Was that his blood or someone else's? "How did you get here? Are you hurt?" Closing the distance between them, she began to run her hands over his chest in search of wounds.

Cliff grabbed her wrists to halt her frantic movements. His glowing eyes dropped to the points at which they touched. He drew his thumbs over her skin as if to confirm she was real. Then he met her gaze. "I need your shower," he said, voice gruff.

Heart pounding, she nodded. As soon as he released her, she pointed. "It's through there."

Without another word, he strode toward it. His heavy boots thudded loudly in the quiet as he entered the short hallway, then turned in to the bathroom. The door closed. Water began to pound tile.

Emma didn't move.

Cliff was here. In her home. What the hell had happened?