Page 80 of Beyond Protection
She wanted us to know she'd been there.
"She was here." Mac's breathing had gone shallow. "During dinner. During everything. And now—"
His phone buzzed.
We both stared at it.
Mac pulled it out with hands that weren't quite steady. Read the screen. Went pale.
"What?"
He turned it so I could see.
A photograph. Taken tonight. Through the dining room window.
She hadn't just photographed him. She'd photographed the exact moment his armor dropped. Had caught him looking at me the way he'd never let himself look at anyone in public. She'd stolen intimacy. Documented the one thing Mac never performed.
Below the image:
He can't keep you safe. No one can. But I can. I've prepared everything. The restoration protocol is ready. No more waiting. —V.K.
"Fuck," Mac breathed.
"She's not just watching you anymore." My voice came out cold. "She's watching us."
She'd been documenting more than his condition. She'd been documenting what was happening between us. Had seen what I'd been trying not to admit we were.
"She's escalating," I said. The tactical assessment ran ice-cold now. "Voice contact, physical surveillance, direct threats. This isn't fixation. This is proceeding on her timeline."
"She's got a cabin. A protocol." Mac's voice was hollow. "She's not just planning anymore."
I took the phone. "I'm calling Michael. And the police. No argument."
For once, Mac didn't fight me.
But as I dialed, I felt it—the shift. It was the moment when the threat stopped being theoretical and became immediate. When my client became someone I cared about too much to trust my own judgment.
When proximity stopped being a variable to manage and became the problem I didn't know how to solve.
She was right about one thing.
Every scenario I'd run, every threat I'd assessed—I'd been calculating how to protect Mac from her.
I'd never calculated how to protect him from me.
I pulled up Michael's number and made the call I should have made hours ago.
Outside, rain kept falling.
Across the street, in the dark between streetlights, a car door closed. Softly. Too softly to be accidental.
Chapter eleven
Mac
Ishould've wanted to be here.
The ferry terminal smelled like diesel and Christmas gingerbread—garland stapled over everything, brass ensemble warming up below deck, and families already drunk on holiday spirit. It was the kind of scene that looked like magic from far away.
