Three days.

It had been three days since the Meridian Building consultation, three days since a stranger with obsidian eyes and a dangerous smile had turned my entire world sideways, and I still couldn't get him out of my head.

I hated it.

The memory flash—or hallucination, or psychotic break, or whatever the hell it was—had replayed in my mind approximately eight thousand times. The weight of his hand on my face. The way his thumb had traced my cheekbone like he was memorizing me. That voice, low and achingly familiar, saying my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.

Pathetic.

I stabbed my coffee with more force than necessary, watching the dark liquid ripple in the mug. My office was exactly how I'd left it: organized chaos, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, everything within arm's reach positioned for maximum efficiency. No personal photos. No plants. No evidence that anyone actually lived here.

The way I liked it.

"You're going to break that mug, and then I'll have to listen to you bitch about the mess."

I didn't look up. "Your concern is noted and disregarded."

Marcus Webb leaned against my desk, his cedar-and-vanilla scent mixing with the coffee—a combination that was comforting in a way I'd never admit out loud. He'd been my business partner for five years, my best friend for longer, and the only person on earth who could read my moods like they were written in neon. Which meant I was fucked, because he was staring at me with that look. The you're-being-weird look.

"Okay, serious question," he said, crossing his arms. "Are you having some kind of medical episode? Should I be concerned? Do I need to stage an intervention?"

"I'm fine."

"You're absolutely not fine. You've been distracted all week. You didn't even berate the interns on Monday, and you always berate the interns. Yesterday you wore your left shoe on your right foot."

I glanced down at my feet. Today I'd at least managed matching shoes. "I was testing your observational skills."

"Liar." He moved around my desk and sat on the edge of it, uninvited but not unexpected. Marcus had never respected my personal space in the way most people did. It was one of the things that made him dangerous—not in the way Ezra was dangerous, but in the way a person who actually cared about you was dangerous. They saw the cracks in your armor. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

I should have shut him down. Should have deployed the usual deflection tactics: sarcasm, subject change, maybe a well-placed insult about his dating life. Instead, I found myself staring at my coffee like it held the answers to questions I hadn't figured out how to ask yet.

"Do you ever remember things that didn't happen?" I asked quietly.

Marcus was quiet for a beat. "Like déjà vu?"

"Worse. Like... lived memories. Things you know you've never experienced, but they feel real. More real than real."

He didn't laugh or suggest I was losing it, which was why he was my best friend. "Once," he said slowly. "When I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, I had this dream about drowning. I could feel the water in my lungs. I could taste salt and chlorine. When I woke up, I was convinced it had actually happened. My mom had to show me my birth certificate to prove I'd never been to the ocean."

"Did it ever happen again?"

"No. My therapist said it was probably a combination of a scary movie I'd seen and my overactive imagination." He paused. "Why? Is that what's happening to you?"

I should have said yes. Should have let him think it was stress-induced delusion and moved on with my life. Instead, I found myself describing Ezra. Not all of it—I wasn't that vulnerable—but enough. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he said my name like he'd been waiting his entire life to say it.

The memory that wasn't mine.

Marcus listened without interrupting, which was both his greatest strength and most annoying quality. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

"You're attracted to him," he said finally.

"No."

"Iris."

"Marcus, I've had my entire life turned inside out by one man. I'm not interested in a repeat performance with someone I don't even know."

"That's not what I said." He shifted his weight, and I could smell the cedar on him more strongly—he was nervous. "I said you're attracted to him. That's not a moral failing. That's human."

"I'm not human. I'm a very tall collection of trauma responses and survival instincts shaped into a vaguely humanoid form."

"You're also someone who deserves—"

"Don't." I cut him off with a look sharp enough to draw blood. "Don't do that thing where you try to convince me I'm worth something. I know my value, Marcus. It's in my bank account and my client list and the fact that I've never been caught. That's enough."

He studied me for a moment, and I could see the debate playing out behind his eyes. He wanted to push. I could practically feel it radiating off him. But Marcus had learned a long time ago that pushing me too hard just made me run.

"Okay," he said finally. "But for what it's worth? That guy is going to call."

"How could you possibly—"

"Because he looked at you like you hung the moon and stars, and then you looked at him like you wanted to punch him in the face while simultaneously letting him take you apart. That's not a one-time thing. That's a man who's not done with you."

I opened my mouth to argue, but my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

My heart did something stupid and acrobatic in my chest.

Marcus smiled—that infuriating, knowing smile—and slid off my desk. "I'm going to get coffee. You should probably take that."

"I don't want to take that."

"Yeah, you do." He was already walking toward the door. "You're just terrified of wanting it."

I waited until he was gone before I answered.

"Blackwood." I kept my voice level, professional, like my pulse wasn't suddenly trying to break through my ribs.

"Iris." Just my name, but the way he said it made my skin prickle with awareness. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

"I'm working."

"Of course you are." There was something that might have been amusement in his voice. "I have a proposition for you."

"I don't do propositions from strangers."

"We're not strangers." The certainty in his voice made my breath catch. "But I understand your hesitation. That's why I'm calling with a job offer instead of a date request."

Despite my better judgment, I was intrigued. "I'm listening."

"My family's estate requires a comprehensive security overhaul. New systems, threat assessment, personnel evaluation. It's a three-week contract, minimum. The pay is six figures, and you'll have complete autonomy over the project."

It was an insane amount of money for three weeks of work. The kind of contract that would fund my firm for months. The kind of contract that would be impossible to turn down for any rational reason.

Which meant there had to be several irrational reasons to turn it down.

"Why me?" I asked. "There are dozens of security consultants in the city who could do the same work."

"Because you're the best. And because I want you."

The words hung in the space between us, heavy with subtext. My mouth went dry.

"Your family's estate," I said carefully. "Where?"

"Upstate. About two hours from the city. There's a guest house on the property—you'd stay there for the duration of the contract. All expenses covered."

Two hours away. Isolated. Alone with him and whatever this was that kept happening between us.

Absolutely not.

"I'll do it," I heard myself say.

There was a pause, like he was surprised I'd agreed so quickly. "Excellent. I'll send you the details. We can start this weekend."

"Weekend? That's—"

"Tight, I know. But I have a time-sensitive situation that requires immediate attention. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important." His voice dropped, became something more intimate. "Thank you, Iris. For taking a chance on this. On me."

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't. I ended the call and sat in the silence of my office, listening to my own heartbeat.

What the hell had I just agreed to?

---

Marcus returned with two cups of coffee, took one look at my face, and didn't bother with pleasantries.

"You took the job."

"How do you—"

"Because you have that expression. The one you get right before you do something monumentally stupid." He set the coffee on my desk and pulled up a chair. "Where?"

"Upstate. Two hours from the city."

"How long?"

"Three weeks."

"And you're staying there?"

"Guest house on the property." I couldn't look at him. "It's a good contract, Marcus. We need the money for the new system upgrades."

"We have money. What we don't have is you losing your mind over some guy with pretty eyes."

"This has nothing to do with—"

"Iris." He leaned forward, his hazel eyes serious. "I'm going to say this once, and then I'm going to drop it. You've been through hell. You've built something incredible from the ashes of your life, and you did it alone. But you can't keep everyone at arm's length forever. Eventually, someone's going to get close enough to matter, and when they do, you're going to have to decide if you're brave enough to let them stay."

"I don't do relationships, Marcus. You know this."

"I know you think you don't. I also know that you're not made of stone, no matter how much you'd like to believe you are." He stood up, brushed off his pants. "Just... be careful, okay? With this guy. Something about him feels off to me."

"Off how?"

"I don't know. Just... intense. Like he's carrying something heavy." Marcus moved toward the door. "Watch yourself."

When he left, I was alone again with my coffee and my racing thoughts.

I pulled up my email and found a message from an address I didn't recognize. The subject line was simply: Thorne Estate - Contract Details.

The attachment contained everything I'd need: property layout, current security systems, staff roster, historical threat assessments. It was comprehensive and professional, the kind of document prepared by someone who took security seriously.

At the bottom was a handwritten note, scanned and included in the PDF:

Looking forward to seeing you again. —E

I closed the email.

Then I opened it again.

Then I closed my laptop entirely and spent the next hour pretending to work while actually staring out the window at the city sprawling below me like a map of all the places I could run.

Friday evening came too quickly.

I'd packed for the contract with military precision: professional clothes, workout gear, the bare minimum of personal items. No photographs. No mementos. Nothing that would make the guest house feel like anything other than a temporary assignment.

The drive upstate took me through increasingly rural landscape, trees growing denser, civilization thinning out. By the time I turned onto the private drive marked with a discrete bronze plaque reading Thorne, my hands were tight on the steering wheel and my pulse was running a steady panic rhythm.

The estate sprawled across what looked like fifty acres of meticulously maintained grounds. The main house was Victorian Gothic, all dark stone and dramatic architecture, the kind of place that looked like it should be haunted. Mature trees flanked the drive, creating a tunnel of shadow and dappled sunlight.

I'd seen a lot of beautiful things in my life. None of them had prepared me for this.

The guest house was separate from the main residence, a smaller but no less impressive structure tucked into a grove of oak trees. Modern architecture, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, looking like it had been designed by someone who understood that some people needed space and light and the ability to see threats coming.

I pulled around back, parked, and sat in my car for a moment before I made the mistake of getting out.

This was a job. A very well-paying job. The fact that my employer happened to be a man who made my skin crawl with awareness and my brain short-circuit with inexplicable memories was irrelevant.

I was a professional.

I could handle this.

I was halfway to the guest house with my first bag when I heard his voice.

"Let me get that."

Ezra emerged from the trees like he'd been waiting for me, like he'd known exactly when I'd arrive. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that made his eyes look even darker, and he moved with that same controlled grace I remembered from the Meridian Building.

My body remembered him before my mind caught up, every nerve ending suddenly aware and awake.

"I've got it," I said, gripping the bag tighter.

"I'm sure you do." He took it anyway, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment. That brief contact sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I had to work to keep my expression neutral. "But humor me. I like taking care of things that matter."

The subtext was clear: I like taking care of you.

"Things," I repeated, keeping my voice dry. "You mean luggage."

"Among other things." He smiled, and it was the same smile from the office—knowing and patient and dangerous. "Come on. I'll show you around."

The guest house was even more impressive inside than out. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a private garden. The kitchen was state-of-the-art. The bedroom was larger than my apartment's living room, with a bed that looked like it could fit four people comfortably.

I tried not to think about that.

"There's a security office in the main house where you'll have access to all the systems," Ezra said, setting my bag on the bed. "I've arranged for the current staff to brief you in the morning. Tonight, I thought you might want to settle in."

"That's considerate."

"I'm a considerate person." He was looking at me with those dark eyes, and I could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. "Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need?"

What I needed was for him to stop looking at me like I was something precious. What I needed was for him to stop existing in my general vicinity. What I needed was for my body to stop betraying my mind's carefully constructed defenses.

"I'm fine," I said.

He stepped closer, and I had to force myself not to step back. "You're a terrible liar, Iris. Your pupils dilate slightly when you're nervous. You press your tongue against your teeth. And right now, you're holding your breath."

I released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"You're invading my personal space," I said flatly.

"I know." He didn't move. "I'm sorry. It's difficult to maintain proper distance when every cell in my body is screaming to get closer."

The honesty of it—the complete lack of pretense—made something in my chest crack open.

"You don't know me," I said quietly.

"I know you better than you know yourself." He lifted his hand and traced a line down my cheekbone, his fingertips barely touching my skin. "I know that you've survived things that would break most people. I know that you're terrified of needing anyone. I know that you smell like jasmine and steel, and it's driving me absolutely insane."

My breath caught again, but this time I couldn't blame it on fear.

"This is a mistake," I whispered.

"Probably." His hand dropped to my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. "But we've already made it before. Multiple times. I'm hoping this time we might try something different."

"You're insane."

"Almost certainly." He was close enough that I could smell sandalwood and smoke, that ancient and intoxicating scent that made my brain fuzzy. "But I've been insane for a very long time, and I've learned to live with it."

I should have pushed him away. Should have established boundaries and professional distance. Should have reminded him that I was paying him to work for me, not seduce me.

Instead, I found myself studying his face like I was trying to memorize it. The sharp line of his jaw. The curve of his mouth. The way his eyes burned with an intensity that felt like it could consume me.

"Tell me something," I said. "The truth."

"Always."

"Do you know what happened to me? In the memory I had? Because you acted like you did, and it's been driving me insane."

He was quiet for a long moment, his hand still resting against my jaw.

"Not the details," he said finally. "But I know that you were afraid. I know that I failed to protect you. And I know that I've spent the last hundred and seventy-three years trying to make sure it never happened again."

The words should have sounded insane. Should have made me laugh or pull away or call security.

Instead, they felt true in a way that nothing else in my life had ever felt true.

"That's not possible," I said.

"I know." His thumb stroked my cheekbone. "But neither are you, and yet here you are."

He leaned in slowly, giving me every opportunity to move away. I didn't move. I stood there like I was frozen, like every muscle in my body had decided to betray my mind's insistence on maintaining control.

His lips were almost touching mine when my phone buzzed.

The spell shattered.

I stepped back, pulling out my phone with shaking hands. Unknown number. The same prefix as the call from earlier in the week.

"Sorry," I said, and answered. "Blackwood."

"Hello, darling." The voice was different from Ezra's—smoother, more musical, with an accent I couldn't place. "I hear you've taken a job with my old friend Ezra. How delightful."

My stomach dropped.

"Who is this?"

"Someone who's very interested in your well-being." There was something underneath the smoothness, something sharp and dangerous. "Someone who's been waiting a very long time to see you again."

Ezra's entire body had gone rigid. I could see his jaw clench, could see the way his hands balled into fists.

"I think you have the wrong number," I said carefully.

"Oh no, darling. I have exactly the right number. I have the right everything." The voice was smiling now, and it made my skin crawl. "You should know that Ezra isn't telling you the truth. He's never been good at honesty. It's one of his many charming flaws."

"What do you want?"

"To remind you that some debts don't expire. Some promises don't fade away. Some of us have been waiting for you to remember, and we're not the patient type anymore."

The line went dead.

I stood there in the guest house, phone in hand, and felt the ground shift beneath my feet. Ezra was staring at me with something that looked like fear in his eyes—genuine, raw fear.

"Who was that?" I asked.

"Adrian," he said quietly. "And he just declared war."