“That's not happening,” I say.
“Try again,” he says.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I grind out.
He looks at me then in a way that makes it feel like he’s looking through me, not at me—past the sarcasm, past the hoodie, past the donut clutched in my fingers.
“You had a serial killer at your window last night,” he says, voice low. “Men like that don’t knock once and leave forever. You know that. Better than most.”
My breath stutters.
“I’m not…” My throat closes around the word afraid. “I’m not helpless.”
“I never said you were,” he replies. “I’m saying you’re outmatched in a very specific arena. He has weight and reach and a head start. I have those, too. That’s the point.”
I hate that everything he’s saying is reasonable.
I hate that my palms are sweating.
Jack steps in. “Look, Twiggy. This isn’t punishment. It’s coverage. You focus on what you do best—digging, tracking, finding the pattern. Let us focus on the doors and windows.”
My heart thumps hard against my ribs. My brain, unhelpfully, conjures an image of Bran literally filling my doorway, blocking it with his body.
Something in my chest flips.
“This is temporary?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Until Thurston’s either in custody, confirmed gone, or dead.”
“Optimistic,” I mutter.
“I like to give myself options,” he says.
I look at Bran again. He’s standing easy but ready, weight balanced, hands loose at his sides. He doesn’t seem impatient. Just…there. Solid.
This is happening whether I like it or not.
My choice is whether I make it harder on myself in the process.
I blow out a breath. “Fine.”
Jack’s brows go up. “Fine?”
“For now,” I add. “On a trial basis. One day. Maybe two. After that, if I decide I’d rather take my chances, you both have to go along with it.”
“Not how that works,” Jack says.
“I know,” I say. “But it makes me feel better to pretend.”
Bran’s mouth actually twitches. It might be the most expression I’ve ever seen on his face.
“I’ll do a sweep of the building,” he says. “Then we’ll go over your schedule for the next few days. Work, errands, any events. You don’t go anywhere alone. Not even downstairs for your mail.”
“I don’t get mail,” I say automatically.
He gives me a look. “You get something.”
“Mostly spam and pizza coupons,” I say. “But sure. Let’s protect the sanctity of my junk mail.”
