The SUV turns abruptly, tires humming low, and the streets blur by—familiar streets. Too familiar.
And then we’re pulling up outsidemy building.
My building.
I freeze, staring out the window at the brick facade, at the crooked number above the door, at the same shitty streetlight that flickers at night.
My chest seizes. Slowly, mechanically, I turn to look at him.
“…How the fuck do you know where I live?”
His eyes don’t leave the road. His hand doesn’t leave my curls. He just shifts the SUV into park with terrifying calm, the engine still rumbling like a growl under us.
My mouth goes dry, blood roaring hot.
Because I never told him.
And he’s never been here.
Not once.
But here we are.
Finally, finally, his eyes cut to me. My stomach drops like the plane all over again.
“I know your goddamn blood type, Mercer,” Damian says. “Of course I know where you live.”
…What.
My brain bluescreens. I gape at him, lips parting, sound stuttering in my throat. “I—what the—why the fuck do you—how thefuckdo you—”
He almost smirks. Almost. Just the faintest curl at the scar on his lip, like he’s watching me short-circuit and enjoying every second.
“It’s my job,” he says simply, final as a hammer dropping. “You’re mine to look after. My team. My responsibility. That means I know the things that matter.”
My lungs forget how to work. I’m glitching like some busted video game.
Blood type.
Address.
Probably my goddamn middle name, which I never tell anyone.
Holyshit.
I scrub both hands down my face,skin burning hot. “Jesus Christ. You’re like…you’re like a mob boss mixed with a stalker—what thefuck,sir—”
The grip in my curls tightens. My rant cuts off in a strangled squeak.
And he just looks at me.
“My responsibility,” he repeats, like that’s all there is to it.
And the worst part?
The part that makes me want to slam my head against the dash?
That word—that weight—doesn’t scare me.
