Delila inhaled on a gasp, barely awake before she shot up in bed and shoved the covers halfway off her legs, struggling to kick them off. Nightmares were real. She'd learned that being conscious didn't mean the tormentor couldn't get close, that daylight didn't keep away the evil.

She fumbled for the tire iron she kept under her bed.

Even against the howl of the crisp wind from off the bay, the rattle of the doorknob shot through her bones.

She snatched her phone off the side table, nearly dropping it. One jagged exhale and she forced both her feet onto the bitter cold floorboards. There was barely enough moonlight for her to find her way across the room. Let alone enough to take aim and hurt someone trespassing on her turf-and yet she choked up on the tire iron until her knuckles were numb willing to take a risk with the darkness.

Three quick steps into the hallway and inky blackness pressed against her flesh as if she were surrounded. Until she was almost claustrophobic, pressing forward with each trembling step. Whoever had been screwing with her for the past week, they were going to get what was coming to them. So long as she could keep her wits.

Delila swallowed past the ache in her throat and her nostrils flared with her choppy breaths. Afraid the intruder would hear her, she almost stopped breathing altogether. Almost there, a few feet away from the person who could be making her life a walking horror show.

She cursed the ancient farmhouse floorboards as they creaked beneath her barefoot shuffle steps. A volley of attack strategies fought for position in her thoughts. The rest of her was numb, fingers trembling, teeth chattering while her weak knees guided her along the narrow, steep staircase without the use of her sight.

Almost there. No chance of turning back. She was almost relieved at the excuse to hit something, anything to erase the painful shadows of her past. No more menacing notes or possible stalkers. No threats over her head as the seconds ticked by, one less minute until her whole world came crashing down again.

A shiver bowed Delila's spine. Her foot slipped off the second to last step, making a harsh squeak that made her wince and narrow her eyes in the inky blackness.

When she swallowed, she was grounded by the tart tang of nervousness as she felt her way down the rest of the staircase with her foot. The tire iron vibrated in her grip and she only hoped her coordination was good enough to hit whatever was coming through her front door.

One more step and she'd be in front of the rattling doorknob. Without hesitation, she took a large leap and backed against the shadows of the corner wall for a buffer. A great view of her intruder and enough room to give him one hell of a surprise.

"Here trespasser, trespasser. Come to Mama," she teased under her breath, all too well aware that there was no use in calling the cops because the closest station was thirty miles in the opposite direction.

When she'd reported the anonymous harassment over the past week, the sheriff had merely shot her a look that made her feel like a fly. Because privileged, rich women who ran shelters for abused women and children should expect and be used to that sort of thing. Probably an ex-husband or boyfriend trying to get even. A hazard of the profession, the sheriff had said like the know-it-all he was purported to be around town.

Well now her "hazard of the job" might be coming face to face with her weapon. So she fought not to make any noise.

The lock disengaged in a squeaky click.

One second the door slid open and the next Delila was a flurry of motion when she lunged forward hitting at whatever she could connect with in the blackness. The intruder ducked, weaved, and cried out a few unsavory words.

Male, he was male. That was information she could use.

Delila heaved upward with all the force of someone terrified for her life, each muscle an aching bruise. But instead of reaching a key piece of male anatomy, the crowbar connected with a sharp smack and her assailant plowed down into the floorboards with a groan. A rush of adrenaline made her lightheaded, heaving the tire iron above her head.

Whatever she'd hit, it'd been right on the money.

"I don't care what you think you're doing. Or what the hell you want, but if you don't crawl out of my house and run away as fast as your legs can take you before I count to ten, I'm going to need to refinish my floors because of your brain bits."

None of his low, gravely protests registered as anything but white noise. She sunk into a defensive crouch, ready to strike above him while her pulse echoed against her temples. All she could make out was his large hand in front of his face. But self-defensive wasn't going to do a thing, not unless he knew what was good for him and he started running.

Another step closer. In case he called her bluff, she needed a firm ID to press charges. Adrenaline coated the back of her tongue and eased down her throat as if she'd swallowed a handful of pennies.

Moonlight trickled across his sharp jawline casting shadows along all the important features.

Delila squinted while the stranger flailed his arm in front of his face, scrambling backward, and doing a poor job of making any kind of escape. His head bashed against the back of the antique, hand carved wooden door and he grunted muttering another oath.

For a beat she processed her burglar's ranting-and that he was waving around a heavy set of keys that jangled together enough to wake the dead. As if the action would solidify whatever story he'd built up to save his sorry ass from the sharp edge of metal in her fingers. A harsh breeze slapped her in the face flicking bits of her loose brunette hair across her cheeks and she fought to keep her vision clear.

"Seriously, stop talking! I need to think."

Moonlight shifted through the jamb as if found a way around the copious trees that surrounded the property. The open door batted against the wall in a tense rhythm that trailed goose bumps along every bit of her skin even through her flannel pajamas. The stranger's profile lit up like a Christmas tree from the infusion of moonlight.

With the fight limping out of her, Delila lowered the crowbar. A tight frown tipped down both sides of her mouth until she worried she'd be permanently fixed that way.

But recognition flitted across the corners of her mind making her head hurt. No...not possible. It didn't make any sense. Her would-be intruder wore a chagrined expression and his ice blue eyes held hers without a single blink. He tilted his face up toward the moonlight with steel defiance threaded through his taut muscles.

"Finn...Finn Cort? What the..."

His shaggy hair was curly and slightly windswept, his jawbone a smooth line of steel with the steady, angry clench of his mouth. While his blue eyes radiated a million different emotions beneath the ice crystals of his stare, Delila tried to come to terms with her past staring her straight in the face. Could he have been the one...?

When he licked his full lips and scratched at his cheek stubble her stomach bottomed out. He cleared his throat and the timbre of his voice stood all the small hairs on the back her neck on end. How-why? There was not a good enough explanation in the world for him to be on her front porch. But he could start talking anytime.

"Hi, honey. I'm home." Finn gave a limp fingered beauty pageant wave and eased his head back against the door with his eyes half-closed. "If you would have listened over the course of the past five minutes, I swear you wouldn't be shocked. But as it is, I'm not responsible. I had it under strictest confidence that you were staying in the outbuilding doing your non-profit thing, not in the main house."

A streak of stubbornness she hadn't felt since high school when she'd last seen Finn made her raise her arm with the crowbar in hand, despite the big reveal of her prowler's identity. If she dropped it down on his head now, it could be claimed as an accident. Maybe.

The glitter of mistrust shining in Finn's eyes only grew worse when he narrowed them. Still sharp as a tack, he raised his brows in a silent challenge and ran a hand through his thick hair with a heavy sigh.

"Had I known my homecoming was going to be so adventurous...I wouldn't have come at all. Though I wasn't given much choice in the matter." She nearly missed his gaze sweeping past her feet to the wooden cane sprawled out on the hardwood floor. She dropped the crowbar clattering it to the historical floorboards with only the teeniest bit of guilt.

"Wait, what? How do you even know where I live? Why are you here in the middle of the night, you...you...creepy stalker!"

"Delila, I own the buildings and the land around it. This is my home, at least for the next week or so until I figure out my next course in life."

Was there anything she could say after that revelation shot down her spine?

"So, you'll be staying? Here?"

"Would you like me to ask permission? I know it's been...a while...but go about your business as usual and pretend I'm not here at all. Or, if you'd like, we can rehash all the bitter memories you'd like to lash me with until I'm even more crippled? Which option sounds more appealing, Lila? The last thing I want to do is cause you any more discomfort, but my hands are a little bit tied given my recent honorable discharge and lack of a financial plan."

She made a small noise. A half-whimper, half swallowed scream.

"Welcome home, Finn. Since I'm up, why don't you come inside?"

"Will you hit me?"

"Depends."

"Fair enough. But I'm wounded and I fought for your country, so be gentle."

"Let's hope the past doesn't repeat itself."

"No, we wouldn't want that." The brittle iciness of his voice broke something inside her that she'd tried desperately to mend since Finn had left her on the hot blacktop in high school with only half an explanation.

Back then they'd all had dreams, bright eyed with the world at their feet. Not knowing that with the hope for the future came the fractures from the past destroying everything.

He'd left with his noble reasons and she couldn't really hate him for it. But she was haunted by the constant comfort he'd brought with him, right when she'd needed it most, when she'd walked home to witness the crime scene at her parent's house.

While Finn had been on a bus or airplane to basic training, Delila had her first dose of death with no chance of ever recovering-and she could never really forgive him for leaving her the second she needed him most above anything else. That year they had sparkled together, until it all broke.

And now every day she was condemned to pick up the pieces.

But the man who stumbled up from the foyer floor wasn't the man of her dreams or the instigator of her nightmares.

Though still just as breathtaking, Finn was broken too.