He nods toward my bag. “Show me the photos.”
I hesitate, then yank the strap forward, digging through it with more force than necessary. My fingers close around the print, and I shove it at him.
He takes it, glancing down, and something in his expression shifts. Tightens.
“This wasn’t taken by accident,” he says.
“I figured that much,” I bite out.
His eyes lift to mine.
“Who is he?”
The question hits harder than everything else.
My instinct is immediate. Deflect. Deny.
“I don’t know.”
He steps closer.
“Try again.”
“I don’t know,” I repeat, sharper this time.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. He is watching me like he already knows the answer, like he is waiting for me to catch up to it.
“You do,” he says.
My eyes flare. “You don’t get to?—”
“I get to because you came here,” he cuts in, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel heavier.
That stops me.
I step forward without thinking, closing the last bit of space between us, lifting my chin. “I came here for help, not an interrogation.”
“And I’m helping,” he says evenly. “You just don’t like how.”
My breath brushes his jaw now. I can feel it. I can feel him.
“Maybe I don’t like you,” I fire back.
His smile is slow and dangerous. “That’s not the problem.”
My lips part before I can stop them.
“Then what is?” I ask.
He leans in just enough that I feel it, the shift, the pull, without quite touching me.
“That you’re already here,” he murmurs. “On my land. Asking me to keep you safe.”
My pulse jumps hard enough that I know he sees it.
“And you think that gives you control?” I ask, but my voice is thinner now.
He studies me for a second before answering.
