She’s more than I could have imagined.
Sable turned my head last night—any man with working eyeballs could see her beauty. But up close, in my space, she’s simultaneously sharp and controlled, yet not. There’s somethingbeneath the surface, something I want to pull out piece by piece until I see every last bit of who she is.
She’s so fucking different.
And the blonde is bothering her.
She hasn’t said it outright—not yet—but I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the way she’s testing my reaction before she says too much.
I exhale slowly and tilt my head. “You gonna tell me what’s got you looking like you don’t know if you should be here or not?”
Sable worries her bottom lip and lets out a noise that is something caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Idon’tknow if I should be here.”
My jaw ticks, but I keep my voice even. “But you are.”
She looks down for a second, fiddling with the hem of her jeans before glancing back up. “I just… I didn’t want you to think I meant any of it. Last night. The messages.”
My fingers drum against the counter. She’s nervous, shifting slightly in her seat, the kind of restless movement that says coming here might be making things worse.
“I didn’t,” I say simply.
Her shoulders relax a fraction. “Good.”
“But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a problem.”
Her fingers grip tight, just for a second, and she swallows.
Bingo.
I don’t know the details… yet. But I know one thing with absolute certainty: Sable Hawthorne doesn’t deserve a single ounce of bad in her life. Not from what I can see. Not from what I’ve learned.
When our conversation faded into silence last night—early this morning, really—I did what any rational man with a particular set of skills would do. I looked into her. Lightly. Casually. I didn’t have to dig deep to confirm what I already suspected—Sable is a fucking force. Graduated top of her class with a Master’s inMarketing and Communication. Built her own marketing agency from the ground up, then sold it for what I assume turned out to be a substantial payout. Now, she runs a décor shop that restores furniture. A passion project stemming from an extensive home renovation she documented on a blog for Thorne Revival.
The information existed in plain sight, readily available to anyone who cared enough to look. And if I needed to go deeper, I could. But nothing about her raised a single red flag.
The blonde, though? That’s another story. I need the full dossier on her. Who the hell is she, why does she think she can mess with Sable, and what's the best way to make her vanish if she steps out of line.
“I can help you.”
Sable startles. “I don’t want to kill her. I mean clearly, she is mentally unstable—”
“I wouldn’t kill her.” I push off the counter and lean back against the cabinets, letting out a small chuckle. “We just met.”
Her chin drops at the implication of what I might mean. ThatI could. The raised leg drops next to stabilize herself on the floor and arched brows pull together. “So… what exactly does helping me look like?”
I prop my hands against the counter behind me, watching her. “We break the stalker.”
She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Break her. Right. Not ominous at all.”
I shrug. “You take away the thing she wants—control, fear, your attention—and she’s got nothing. She loses.”
Sable exhales, rubbing her temples. “Okay, so what? I just… ignore her?”
I tilt my head. “Ignoring her hasn’t worked so far, has it?”
Her silence is my answer.
“She needs to believe she’s already lost,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And the best way to do that is stop looking like a target.”
