Page 57 of Beyond Protection
"Neither can you."
Something flickered across his face. Gone before I could read it.
"This isn't about me."
"You're protecting yourself." The words came out flat. True. "From this. From me."
Silence.
"Mac—"
"They see it too. Whatever's happening between us. That's why they're escalating."
More silence. Heavier.
"So we stop." Eamon's voice came out rough. "We stay professional. We keep you alive. That's what matters."
The space between us suddenly widened. No more accidental touches. No more cider in the market. No more moments where Eamon looked at me like I was a person instead of an assignment.
"Yeah," I said. An icy sensation crept up from my gut. "Professional."
I turned to look at him. Rain streaked the windshield between us and the world.
"And after?"
He didn't answer. Started the car instead.
The engine's rumble filled the space where words should have been.
Chapter eight
Eamon
I'd left Mac standing in his aunt's driveway three hours ago. The look on his face—confused, maybe hurt—stayed with me the entire drive.
Leaving felt wrong. Felt like abandoning my post.
Staying would have been worse.
I couldn't see the threats clearly anymore. Not with Mac looking at me like I was someone worth knowing instead of someone who'd let a stalker get close enough to touch him.
The market kept replaying in my head. The grey coat. The bump. Mac stumbling forward. And me, six feet away, thinking about ceramic shops and spiced cider instead of scanning the crowd properly.
Three years ago, I'd hesitated. My client died.
Today, I'd been distracted. And someone put their hands on Mac.
So I'd called Marcus. Made sure he came armed, protecting his boyhood home. Confirmed the stalker's timeline messages indicated preparation phase, not immediate action. Drove south to Michael's house, where I could spread out surveillance photoson a table instead of trying to work around Ma McCabe's anxiety and Mac's presence.
Where I could think without Mac watching me like I was someone he trusted not to fail again.
Professional distance. That's what I needed.
I'd clenched my hands on the steering wheel for ninety minutes straight. When I flexed them twice before killing the engine, the tendons protested. I'd rented a truck for the drive down to Oregon, one more subtle attempt to throw the stalker off track.
Michael's driveway was gravel under two inches of December mud. Garden tools leaned against the porch rail—a spade crusted with dirt, a pitchfork, and pruning shears hung from a hook. Through curtained windows, amber warmth bled into the wintry mist.
Domestic. Settled. Protected.
