Chapter 3 #2
His words were like tiny missile strikes on my brain. "And I know you made a joke about knights because you don't know how to interact with someone who's here to protect you instead of using you."
I tried to speak. "That's—"
"True. And it's okay. You think your value is what you do with a ball and a glove. The stalker thinks your value is something that can be preserved in photographs. You're both wrong, but the stalker is the only one trying to cage you."
He'd thrown the perfect curveball.
"You're saying I'm doing this to myself."
"I'm saying you've been performing for so long you've forgotten the difference between being wanted and being used." He leaned forward. "I need you to remember."
Michael set down his coffee. "I'm going to check the perimeter with you," he told Eamon. "Mac, stay inside."
They moved toward the mudroom, pulling on jackets and boots. I watched them as they circled the house—Michael pointing out sight lines, Eamon photographing everything with systematic precision.
I stood at the window, watching Eamon work.
When he crouched to examine something near the back fence, his jeans pulled tight across his thighs. Muscle flexed under denim.
He stood and said something to Michael. They started back toward the house.
"Gray sedan's gone," Eamon said, "but there's a blue Camry two blocks north. Oregon plates."
My stomach clenched. "You think that's them?"
"Could be. I photographed it." He pulled out his phone, thumb moving across the screen. "They're smart enough to rotate vehicles. This could be misdirection, too."
His sweater was damp from morning mist. It clung to his chest and shoulders, outlining every muscle. Raindrops ran down his face, catching in his beard. Wet, he looked different. Less controlled. More human.
Ma materialized with towels while they dripped on her floor.
"Soaked like drowned cats." She thrust a towel at Eamon. "Can't think clearly when you're cold and wet."
He took it. Started to dry his hair.
Ma snatched it back. "You're doing it wrong." She reached up and scrubbed at his hair with maternal efficiency. "There. Now your neck."
"I'm fine, ma'am."
"You're stubborn. And polite. That's a dangerous combination." She moved the towel to his neck, then stepped back to examine her work. "Better. Now—toast and eggs?"
"Ma," Michael protested. "Leave him alone."
"Toast and eggs," she repeated. "You pick which comes first."
Eamon looked at me.
I shrugged. You might as well surrender now.
"Toast," he said.
"Toast and eggs it is." She was already at the stove.
I refilled my coffee, and Eamon watched me.
"You always this serious?" I asked.
"Only when people are planning to abduct someone I'm supposed to protect."
"Comforting."
I leaned against the counter. Close enough to smell him. Close enough to notice that his breathing had changed.
"Find anything besides the Camry?"
"Neighbor has a Ring camera. I'll get footage from the last week. Sight lines from the house across the street are clear to your bedroom window. Anyone with a telephoto lens could document you from there without being detected."
My stomach tightened. "You think they have?"
"I think we should assume they have. 847 documented images means they've been very thorough."
847 documented images.
"They haven't been in the house. All documentation appears to be external. That's important."
"Why?"
"Because it means they're following rules. Their own rules, but rules nonetheless. They're documenting, not touching. They're building a case, not acting on impulse." He drained his coffee and set the mug down carefully. "It gives us time."
"Three weeks."
"Yeah."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"Why'd you take this job? You drove up from Portland in the middle of the night. You could've said no."
A muscle in his jaw contracted. He looked toward the window where rain still ran down the glass.
"Michael's a friend. When he asks for help, I show up."
"That's not a reason. That's an excuse."
He turned back toward me.
"I work alone. I don't take jobs that involve—" He stopped—started again. "I take solo contracts. Clean situations. That's how I operate."
"Why?"
"No variables I can't control. No one depending on me except the client." His voice softened. "And clients are easier to protect when you don't—"
"When you don't what?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, the tone was barely above a whisper.
"The last time I trusted backup, they buried my client three days before her wedding.
Her name was Kyra. She was a journalist testifying against a trafficking ring.
" He looked at his hands. "Someone I trusted gave them her route to the courthouse.
I spent three years thinking it was my fault for not seeing the threat.
Turns out the threat was standing right next to me. "
A chill ran up my forearms.
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault. But it's why I work alone. Why I don't—" He stopped again.
"Don't what?"
He stared into my eyes.
"Don't get involved. Don't let clients become anything more than assignments. Don't let myself feel responsible for anything more than keeping them breathing."
"And yet here you are."
"Yeah. Here I am."
My phone buzzed.
Both of us froze.
I pulled it out—unknown number.
My hands started shaking before I opened it.
The man you were photographed with today—his proximity causes you visible stress. I documented elevated tension patterns, increased cortisol markers evident in facial micro-expressions. Removing damaging elements is part of the preservation protocol.
"Fuck." I showed him the screen.
A second message arrived while he was reading.
He touches you like you're ordinary. You're not. You're irreplaceable. I won't let him damage you further.
Eamon's jaw locked. "They saw us this morning."
"They think you're the threat."
He was already moving, checking windows and locks. "Which means they'll try to eliminate me."
"Eamon—"
"Not now. Right now, I need to make sure they can't get close enough to implement their preservation protocol." He stopped. Looked at me. "You stay inside. You don't go near windows. You don't open the door for anyone except family. Understood?"
"They're going to come after you."
"I know."
"Because of me."
He moved closer. "And I'm staying anyway. That's what protection means. Not keeping you from danger. Keeping you company through it."
He put his hands on my shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Steadying. "Mac. Listen to me. This is what they do. They identify threats to their narrative and try to eliminate them. I knew taking this job meant making myself a target. I did the proper preparations for that."
"You can't prepare for someone who's been watching me for eighteen months."
"Yes, I can. Because that's my job." His hands tightened on my shoulders. "But I need you to trust me. Please follow my instructions. Because if something happens—if they move against either of us—I can't protect you and fight you at the same time."
His eyes were steady and sure.
My mouth opened, ready to deflect with a joke. Or perform gratitude with the right amount of self-deprecation.
His thumbs moved slightly—a small circle of pressure against my collarbone through the hoodie.
Not strategic or tactical.
Comfort. Freely given.
My breath caught.
He wasn't asking for anything. Wasn't waiting for me to reciprocate or reassure him or act out stability so he'd feel better about protecting me. He was giving—this small gesture of warmth and steadiness.
I didn't know what to do with it.
My instinct was to pull back and break the contact before the weight of being cared for without earning it crushed something in my chest.
But I didn't move.
I let his hands stay. Let the warmth seep through my hoodie into my skin. Let myself be the one receiving comfort instead of the one providing it.
I sensed danger. More dangerous than any stalker.
If I let myself need this—need him—what happened when he left? When the job ended and he went back to Portland, and I went back to performing for strangers who'd never touch me like this?
His hands tightened, just for a second. Then he stepped back. He looked at me like I was worth dying for.
"Okay," I said. "I trust you."
"Good." He pulled out his phone and called Michael, who'd disappeared somewhere in the house. "Yeah, new messages. Run those Camry plates."
He moved to the window. Assessing angles and approaches with tactical precision.
Somewhere in Seattle, a stalker was watching. Planning. Deciding how to remove the damaging element that dared to touch their perfect specimen.
And the man in Ma's kitchen—copper hair and winter-gray eyes and hands that had saved lives and mourned the one he couldn't save—was about to become a target because I needed protection.
I looked at him. Still on the phone, still planning, still working to keep me safe.
I wanted him safe.
I wanted him close.
I wanted him.