The plane lifted off, and I stared out at the Texas landscape falling away below, each light a family, a home, a place where people were safe. Somewhere in LA, Stephy was locked in her bedroom, terrified and alone, waiting for me. Her security had failed her. Her management had failed her. The entire system meant to protect her had failed her.
But I wouldn't fail her. Not now. Not ever. Even if it already felt like I had for not being there.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ranger Walker, we're at cruising altitude. ETA to LA is four hours, fifty-two minutes."
Four hours and fifty-two minutes. I pulled up the email from Diana, started reading through the police reports. Each detail made my vision go a little redder. The photos taken of her sleeping—at least thirty of them over six months. The underwear stolen from her drawer. The letters describing in graphic detail what he wanted to do to her. The scratched-out faces of any man photographed near her, replaced with violent threats.
And through it all, her team had minimized it. Called it "fan enthusiasm." Suggested she was overreacting. One email from her manager actually suggested the attention was "good for her mystique."
I was going to destroy them all. Legally, professionally, completely. But first, I was going to get Stephy safe.
"I'm coming for you, Steph," I said to the darkness outside the window, to the miles of nothing between us. "Just hold on, sweetheart. I'm coming for you."
The jet carved through the night sky, chasing the sunset toward California. Every minute felt like an hour. Every mile felt like a betrayal. But I was coming. And God help anyone who tried to stop me from getting to her.
God help anyone who'd hurt her.
Because Texas Rangers didn't forgive. And they sure as hell didn't forget.
Chapter 4
Liam
The house looked wrong.
Even from the outside, I could tell something was off. The modern glass and concrete mansion perched in the Hollywood Hills like a predator, all sharp angles and cold surfaces, the kind of place that photographed well for Architectural Digest but had no soul. Floor-to-ceiling windows that should've made it feel open instead made it feel exposed—a fishbowl for the world to peer into.
Six security vehicles in the driveway—three more than usual, according to the intel Diana had sent. Black Escalades with tinted windows, all waxed to a high shine like that would somehow erase their failure. Damage control. They were in full ass-covering mode, trying to look competent after the horse had already bolted from the barn.
I parked the rental—a black SUV I'd grabbed at LAX—and got out slow, controlled. Every movement deliberate. The security team saw me coming, started to cluster near the front door like sheep pretending to be wolves.
The head of security stepped forward. Gary Thompson, according to my research. Ex-LAPD, forced retirement after an excessive force complaint. Six-four, probably two-sixty, the kind of guy who peaked in high school football and never got over it. His suit was Tom Ford, probably eight grand, but he wore it like a uniform he didn't quite fit into. Sweat stains under the arms despite the cool LA night. His face had that bloated look of someone who drank expensive whiskey for breakfast and called it networking.
“This is a private residence,” Gary announced, stepping into my path like he was used to people stopping when he opened his mouth. His voice had that LA varnish—manufactured authority over a hollow core. “You need to leave. Now.”
I didn’t stop. Didn’t even adjust my stride. Just kept walking with that steady, unhurried pace—the one that made smart men step aside and stupid men piss themselves.
“I said—” Gary reached out, placing a hand on my chest to stop me.
A manicured hand. Soft. Damp with nerves under the cologne. The kind of hand that had never thrown a real punch in its life.
I looked at his hand. Then at him. And I let him see it. All of it. The violence coiled low in my gut, the rage shimmering under my skin, the lethal promise that lived in my eyes like a second heartbeat if he didn’t get the hell out of my way.
He flinched. Actually flinched. Took a half step back before he caught himself.
“My name is Liam Walker,” I said quietly, conversationally—because quiet always scared people more. “Texas Rangers. I’m here for Stephanie Wilson.”
“She’s not receiving visitors.” He puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim control, voice tightening around fake authority.“There’s been an incident, sir, and we’re handling the situation?—”
I pulled out my badge. Let the security lights hit the gold star just right. It gleamed like a goddamn warning flare.
“You’re not handling shit,” I said. “You failed. Catastrophically. A man got into this house, past all your cameras, past your team, and put his hands on her. So you’re going to step aside—” I leaned in, lowering my voice to a lethal whisper. “—or I’m going to move you.”
“You have no jurisdiction here,” he shot back, but the bravado cracked halfway through. His pupils dilated. Shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly. He’d realized exactly what kind of man stood in front of him.
“You’re right,” I said, stepping closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his head back to keep eye contact. Close enough to smell his cologne—expensive, citrusy, drowning in fear-sweat.
“I have no jurisdiction.” I smiled then. Slow. Cold. “Which means I’m not here as a Texas Ranger. I’m here as a pissed-off friend.”
