Damn it.
His gaze swept the room—cataloging exits, threats, positions—before landing on me. Those flat eyes locked on, and I felt pinned. Measured. Weighed.
"Charlotte Collins?" His voice was deep, rough-edged. The kind of voice that gave orders and expected them followed.
"Charlie," I corrected. Nobody called me Charlotte except Morty when he was mad and my mother when she was pretending I wasn't a disappointment. "And you are?"
"Dominic Knight. Heartline Security." He moved further into the room, somehow making the cramped space feel smaller just by existing in it. "I'll be handling your protection detail."
"I don't need protection."
One dark eyebrow rose. "Someone disagrees. That's why I'm here."
"Then you wasted a trip."
"Charlie," Morty warned.
I ignored him, focusing on Dominic Knight and his insufferable calm. "Look, I appreciate the gesture, but I work alone. I'm a paparazzo. I hide in bushes and climb fire escapes. I can't do that with some muscle-bound shadow scaring off my shots."
"You can't do it dead, either."
"I've been fine so far."
"You've been lucky so far." He crossed his arms, and the movement made his biceps flex under the henley. Distracting. Annoying. "Luck runs out."
"Not mine."
"Everyone's." He took a step closer, and I hated that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Hated how big he was. How solid. How his presence filled the room like gravity. "Someone wants you scared enough to stop working. When that doesn't work, they'll escalate. They already are. Bullets through windows. Near-misses on bridges. How long until they decide close enough isn't good enough?"
"That's my problem."
"It's mine now."
The arrogance in his tone made my teeth clench. I turned to Morty. "I'm not doing this."
"You are." Morty's voice was flat, final. "And before you throw another tantrum, let me remind you: Valentine's week just started. That's your busiest time of year. You make thirtypercent of your annual income in the next seven days. You really want to hide in a bunker and miss all that money?"
He knew exactly where to hit me. Money wasn't everything, but it was freedom. Independence. The ability to tell my family to shove their judgment where the sun didn't shine.
"I need to work," I said.
"Then you need him." Morty gestured at Dominic. "Heartline specializes in high-risk protection. They don't interfere with your job. They keep you alive while you do it."
I looked at Dominic. "You're really going to follow me around while I stalk people?"
"I'm going to keep you from getting killed while you do it." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was solving. "Your methods are reckless. You take unnecessary risks. You operate on instinct instead of strategy. But you're not suicidal. So either you let me help, or whoever's threatening you finishes the job."
"Wow. Inspiring speech. You practice that in the mirror?"
His expression didn't change. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way: you cooperate, follow basic safety protocols, let me do my job. Hard way: I follow you anyway, and you waste energy trying to ditch me instead of focusing on your work."
"There's a third option. I tell you where to shove your protection detail and go about my life."
"Not an option."
"Actually—"
"24/7 protection," Morty interrupted. "That's the deal. He stays with you. At your apartment. Shadowing your assignments. Everywhere."
