We’ll be together soon, Angel.
What. The. Absolute. Fuck?
“Who is sending that shit to you?” I snapped, instantly regretting it when she flinched.
“It’s a long story,” she sighed.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’ve got time.”
She stared at me for the longest time, then sighed, knowing damn well I wasn’t going to let this go.
“Fine.” Reaching for my t-shirt, she slid it over her head and even with rage boiling in my veins, seeing her in my shirt had my cock thickening.
Mine.
“It’s exactly what Sondra told you earlier,” she said, hopping down off the workbench. “It started out as harmless emails. Stuff about how much he liked my show, or a new song I released. Fan mail. I get thousands of letters like that, so nobody thought anything of it.”
“And then?”
“Then it was letters to my house in Texas.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “My address is supposed to be private. Like, seriously private. So how he got his hands on that, I have no clue. Then it escalated to notes in my dressing room after my shows. Inside my dressing room, Weston. Past all my security.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Now he’s got my phone number—which I’ve had to change a dozen times already. But somehow, he keeps finding the new one. My number now?” She wiggled the phone in the air. “It’s under Sondra’s account. It’s not even in my name. How the hell would he know that?”
I stood there, letting all of it sink in.
Some sick sonofabitch was stalking my woman.
He knew where she lived.
He knew her phone number.
He’d been inside her dressing room while she was on stage, close enough to touch her things.
Close enough to hurt her.
“The cops are handling it?” I snorted.
Right.
The cops had to play by the rules. Rules that didn’t make a lot of fucking sense when someone’s life was in danger.
Well fuck that. I had Cyber, who could trace a text message back to the phone it came from. I had Tracer, who could track this fucker down and end his miserable life.
Nobody fucked with the Kings.
“Get dressed,” I grumbled, snatching my jeans off the floor. “You’re coming with me to my place.”
Her brows shot up. “That’s not necessary, Weston. I told you. The police are handling?—”
I closed the distance between us, wrapping my arm around her waist and hauling her flush against my body. Her breath hitched, those big blue eyes going wide as she stared up at me.
“I’m handling it now,” I said, leaving no room for argument.
She opened her mouth like she was going to fight me on it, then something in her expression softened.
“Okay,” she whispered.
