She drags in a breath like she’s trying to swallow panic.
“My mom, she’s a model,” she says, and the words come out harried. “Retired now, but people notice her. Cameras follow her. She makes appearances with my dad all the time. If anything happened to either of them, the world would be all over it. It would be huge news. Hell, if anything happened to me, my parents would make sure it was big news, too.”
It clicks into place so hard my brain stalls for a beat.
Of course.
My gaze flicks over Elsa’s face—those bones, that symmetry—and the resemblance, especially now that she’s bare-faced, is like a quick jab in the gut.
Lajla Floren.
A face you can’t escape seeing, even now, on TV, in magazines, all over the internet. The kind of woman who walks into a room and owns it.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then they won’t touch them like that.”
Her shoulders are still tight. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. “So what will they do?”
I exhale, controlled, because I hate saying it out loud.
“They don’t need you to go missing,” I tell her. “They need you to feel watched. They need you to feel unsafe. They need youto start making decisions with your nerves instead of your ethics.”
Her eyes narrow, swallowing hard. “And you think they can do that to me?”
“Yes,” I say, and my voice stays gentle even as the word is a harsh reality. “It’s what they do. I think you’re smart enough to recognize pressure, but not immune to it.”
I don’t move closer. I keep my hands open at my sides. Harmless.
“You’re not overreacting,” I add. “You’re under-informed. That’s fixable.”
Her laugh is short and thin, like it hurts her throat to make it.
“Fixable,” she repeats, and her eyes cut back to mine. “How? You’re going to… what? Post men in my hallway?”
“No,” I say immediately. “Not where you can see them. Not wheretheycan see them.”
She shifts her weight, restless.
“What does that even mean?” she demands. “Because if you think I’m going to accept some shadowy protection detail from a man I barely—” She stops, jaw tight.
“I’m not asking you to accept anything,” I cut in, keeping my tone low. “I’m telling you what’s already happening.”
She stares at me, chest rising and falling too fast.
“It’ll go a lot easier with your cooperation,” I say.
“So you’re going to do it whether I want it or not,” she asks, voice shaky.
“Yes,” I say.
“Because you don’t want the Bellandis in your terri—”
I brush my fingers softly over her cheek.
“Because I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you,” I say softly. “If, after all of this is over, you never want to see me again, I understand.” My heart aches at the thought. “But, please, let me make sure nothing happens to you.”
Her eyes drop. I want to lean in and brush my lips to hers.
“What does that entail?” she asks.
