Chapter One #2
"Great. Write that on your tombstone." He pointed at me. "You're getting protection whether you like it or not. I already hired them."
My stomach dropped. "Hired who?"
"Heartline Security Group."
I'd heard of them. Everyone had. Heartline was the security company in Cupid City—the kind rich people hired to make problems disappear quietly. Politicians, CEOs, witnesses who knew too much. They didn't advertise. Didn't need to. If you had Heartline, you had the best.
Which also meant they were expensive as hell.
"Morty, I can't afford—"
"I'm paying. Consider it a business expense.
You die, my site traffic tanks." He said it like he was doing me a favor, but his eyes were worried.
Morty hid his heart under forty layers of cynicism, but it was there.
Somewhere. "They're sending their best guy.
Former Marine. Eight years active duty. He doesn't lose clients. "
"Tonight?"
"You think I'm waiting until someone actually succeeds in killing you?"
"I don't need—"
The door opened behind me.
I turned.
And immediately understood why Morty hadn't asked my opinion.
The man who walked into the office was a problem.
Six-three, solid muscle, intimidating as hell.
Broad shoulders that filled the doorway.
Dark hair cut military-short, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and eyes the color of gunmetal.
He moved like a predator—quiet, controlled, every step deliberate.
Black tactical pants. Dark henley that hugged his chest. Leather jacket that probably concealed more weapons than I wanted to know about.
He looked like he could kill someone with his pinky and then file the paperwork without blinking.
Also: unfairly hot.
Damn it.
His gaze swept the room—cataloging exits, threats, positions—before landing on me. Those flat eyes locked on, and I felt pinned. Measured. Weighed.
"Charlotte Collins?" His voice was deep, rough-edged. The kind of voice that gave orders and expected them followed.
"Charlie," I corrected. Nobody called me Charlotte except Morty when he was mad and my mother when she was pretending I wasn't a disappointment. "And you are?"
"Dominic Knight. Heartline Security." He moved further into the room, somehow making the cramped space feel smaller just by existing in it. "I'll be handling your protection detail."
"I don't need protection."
One dark eyebrow rose. "Someone disagrees. That's why I'm here."
"Then you wasted a trip."
"Charlie," Morty warned.
I ignored him, focusing on Dominic Knight and his insufferable calm. "Look, I appreciate the gesture, but I work alone. I'm a paparazzo. I hide in bushes and climb fire escapes. I can't do that with some muscle-bound shadow scaring off my shots."
"You can't do it dead, either."
"I've been fine so far."
"You've been lucky so far." He crossed his arms, and the movement made his biceps flex under the henley. Distracting. Annoying. "Luck runs out."
"Not mine."
"Everyone's." He took a step closer, and I hated that I had to tilt my head back to look at him.
Hated how big he was. How solid. How his presence filled the room like gravity.
"Someone wants you scared enough to stop working.
When that doesn't work, they'll escalate.
They already are. Bullets through windows.
Near-misses on bridges. How long until they decide close enough isn't good enough? "
"That's my problem."
"It's mine now."
The arrogance in his tone made my teeth clench. I turned to Morty. "I'm not doing this."
"You are." Morty's voice was flat, final. "And before you throw another tantrum, let me remind you: Valentine's week just started. That's your busiest time of year. You make thirty percent of your annual income in the next seven days. You really want to hide in a bunker and miss all that money?"
He knew exactly where to hit me. Money wasn't everything, but it was freedom. Independence. The ability to tell my family to shove their judgment where the sun didn't shine.
"I need to work," I said.
"Then you need him." Morty gestured at Dominic. "Heartline specializes in high-risk protection. They don't interfere with your job. They keep you alive while you do it."
I looked at Dominic. "You're really going to follow me around while I stalk people?"
"I'm going to keep you from getting killed while you do it.
" He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was solving.
"Your methods are reckless. You take unnecessary risks.
You operate on instinct instead of strategy.
But you're not suicidal. So either you let me help, or whoever's threatening you finishes the job. "
"Wow. Inspiring speech. You practice that in the mirror?"
His expression didn't change. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way: you cooperate, follow basic safety protocols, let me do my job. Hard way: I follow you anyway, and you waste energy trying to ditch me instead of focusing on your work."
"There's a third option. I tell you where to shove your protection detail and go about my life."
"Not an option."
"Actually—"
"24/7 protection," Morty interrupted. "That's the deal. He stays with you. At your apartment. Shadowing your assignments. Everywhere."
My brain screeched to a halt. "He's staying at my apartment?"
"You got shot at two days ago. Someone's watching you. They know where you live." Morty's voice softened slightly. "Charlie, come on. Be smart. For once in your life, be smart instead of stubborn."
I hated this. Hated that he was right. Hated that I'd been looking over my shoulder for three weeks, jumping at shadows, sleeping with a baseball bat next to my bed. Hated that someone had made me feel afraid in my own home.
But I hated the idea of a babysitter more.
I looked at Dominic Knight—former-Marine intensity packed into tactical gear and judgment.
"If you blow my covers or scare off my sources, I'm firing you."
"You didn't hire me. You can't fire me."
"Then I'll make your life so miserable you'll quit."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Close enough to be infuriating. "Looking forward to it."
MY APARTMENT FELT SMALLER with him in it.
He'd followed me home in a black SUV that screamed federal agent or mob boss—I wasn't sure which. I'd unlocked the door, half-hoping the sight of my disaster-zone studio would make him reconsider.
No such luck.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and locked both deadbolts without comment. Then he moved through the space like he was conducting a search, checking the windows, the closet, the bathroom. Checking. Scanning. Never still.
"Do you mind?" I tossed my bag on the couch, suddenly aware of how exposed everything was. My unmade bed in the corner. The wall of disguises that made me look like I had a personality disorder. The empty takeout containers I hadn't thrown away. "I already cleaned up the crime scene, thanks."
"Your locks are decent. Windows are a weak point. Fire escape access is a problem." He moved to the window with the new glass—the one that had caught a bullet two days ago—and tested the latch. "You need sensors. Cameras. Better lighting in the alley."
"I'll add it to my list of things I can't afford."
He turned to face me, expression giving nothing away. "Heartline will cover security upgrades. That's included."
"How generous."
"It's practical. Can't protect a client in a space that's already compromised."
Client. Right. That's what I was. Not a person. A job.
I grabbed a blanket from the closet and threw it at him. "Couch is yours. Bathroom's there. Don't touch my stuff."
He caught the blanket without flinching. "I'll need access to your files. Case details. List of people who might want you dead."
"That'll take a while."
"Then we'll start tomorrow."
"Great. Can't wait." I headed for my bed, then stopped and turned back. He was still standing there, watching me with those cool gray eyes. "One rule."
"What's that?"
"Try to keep up, Marine."
This time, he definitely smiled. Small. Dangerous. The kind of smile that made my stomach do something stupid.
"Yes, ma'am."
I crawled into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and tried not to think about the fact that a man who looked like walking danger was sleeping fifteen feet away.
Or that some part of me—the reckless, self-destructive part I usually ignored—was already wondering what it would feel like if those hands pinned me somewhere other than against a wall in a dark alley.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
I was already in enough trouble.