The walk to Ezra's house takes eight minutes, not ten. My legs have other ideas about pacing when panic is the fuel.

The main house looms against the twilight sky, all dark wood and sharp angles. I've been inside exactly twice—once when I signed the lease, once when he showed me how to override his security system. Both times I'd been hyperaware of the space, the way it felt like walking into someone's mind. Clean lines. Expensive minimalism. Everything deliberately chosen and precisely placed.

Control, wrapped in cedar and glass.

The front door opens before I can knock.

Ezra fills the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of his ridiculous smart home lighting system. He's still in the same black henley from earlier, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair is a disaster—he's been running his hands through it. A lot.

"You made good time," he says.

"Turns out impending doom is great cardio."

His mouth doesn't smile, but something shifts in his storm-gray eyes. Almost like amusement. Almost.

He steps back, letting me in.

The house smells like him. That cedar-and-coffee combination that I've started associating with safety, which is absolutely fucked up considering I barely know this man. Considering he's a billionaire recluse who definitely has bodies buried somewhere, metaphorically speaking.

Considering I want to climb him like a tree every time he looks at me.

"Your brother hired a PI," Ezra says, closing the door. "Theodore Marsh. Former FBI, now private contractor. Expensive. Very good at his job."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because I'm better at mine."

Right. Tech genius. Built an empire on predicting human behavior and mining data. Sometimes I forget that the man who fixes my hot water heater used to be the kind of person senators called to testify.

"How close is he?" I ask.

"He flew into Denver this morning. Rented a car. Drove to three different mountain towns before this one." Ezra moves toward the living room, expecting me to follow. I do. "He's been showing your photo around. The official one—from before."

Before. When I was Sloane Whitmore, socialite and corporate pawn. When my hair was professionally highlighted and my smile was professionally fake.

"No one will recognize me from that," I say, but my voice wavers.

Ezra glances back at me. "I know."

The living room is exactly as I remember—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, furniture that costs more than most cars, a fireplace that probably has its own app. He's got multiple monitors set up on a desk in the corner, all displaying different feeds.

Security cameras. Data streams. Things I don't understand but recognize as surveillance.

"You're watching him," I say.

"Of course I'm watching him." Ezra pulls up something on one of the screens. "He checked into the Mountain View Inn two hours ago. Had dinner at Mae's diner. Showed her your photo."

My stomach drops. "Fuck."

"Mae told him she'd never seen you. Then she texted me a photo of him and told me to 'handle it.'" The corner of his mouth twitches. "I like Mae."

"What did you tell her?"

"Nothing. She didn't ask." He pulls up another screen. "But she's not stupid. She knows you're running from something. She's just decided she's on your side."

The relief is sharp and unexpected. I've been alone for so long that the idea of someone—anyone—choosing to protect me feels like fiction.

"He'll canvas the whole town," I say. "Show my photo to everyone. Someone will—"

"No one will recognize you." Ezra's voice is flat. Certain. "Because I'm going to make sure he doesn't stay long enough to ask the right questions."

I turn to look at him fully. He's standing with his arms crossed, backlit by his wall of screens, and there's something different in his posture. Something harder.

This is the man who built an empire. The one who walked into boardrooms and made grown men sweat.

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

"Whatever it takes."

The words hang in the air between us, weighted with promise and threat in equal measure.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting another alert from the system Ezra set up.

It's Mae.

PI just left. Heading toward the garage. Thought you should know.

"Shit." I look up at Ezra. "He's going to the garage."

"No, he's not." Ezra is already moving, pulling out his own phone. He makes a call, doesn't wait for a greeting. "It's the black Nissan Altima parked at the Mountain View. Colorado plates. Yes, now." He pauses. "I don't care what violation you cite. Make it stick."

He hangs up.

"What did you just do?"

"Had his rental car towed."

I stare at him. "You can do that?"

"I own the towing company. Among other things." He's already typing something on one of his computers. "He won't get it back until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. By then, he'll be too frustrated to think straight."

"That's—" I don't know what it is. Excessive? Brilliant? Terrifying?

"Necessary," Ezra finishes. He doesn't look up from the screen. "Your brother sent him to find you. I'm going to make sure he fails."

There's something in his voice. Something possessive and dark that I should probably be worried about. That should send me running back to my apartment, packing my shit, preparing for the next town.

Instead, it makes heat pool low in my stomach.

"Why?" The question comes out softer than I intended. "Why are you doing this?"

Now he looks at me. Really looks at me, with those storm-gray eyes that see too much.

"Because you asked me to help you disappear," he says. "And I keep my promises."

That's not the whole truth. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

But I don't push. Because I'm not sure I'm ready for whatever the real answer is.

My phone rings.

Unknown number.

My heart stops.

Ezra's across the room in three strides, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. "Let me see."

I hold out the phone. He looks at the screen, and something dangerous crosses his face.

"It's him," he says. "The investigator."

"How would he have my number?"

"He doesn't. He's calling every number associated with the garage. Fishing." Ezra hands the phone back. "Don't answer."

I wasn't planning to. But my hands are shaking.

The call goes to voicemail. We wait in silence, Ezra standing close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath, the cedar that clings to his skin.

The voicemail notification pops up.

I play it on speaker.

"Hello, this is Theodore Marsh calling from Marsh Investigations. I'm trying to reach the owner or employees of Prospect Auto Repair regarding a private matter. If you could return my call at your earliest convenience, I'd appreciate it. Thank you."

Professional. Polite. Absolutely relentless.

"He'll call back," I say.

"Let him." Ezra takes the phone from my hand, does something to it. "I just routed all calls from his number to a dead line. He'll think there's a service issue."

"You can do that?"

"I can do a lot of things." He hands the phone back, and our fingers brush. The contact is electric. "Most of them questionable."

I should step back. Put distance between us. But I'm frozen, caught in the gravity of him.

"How long before he figures out I'm here?" I ask.

"He won't."

"You can't know that."

"Yes, I can." His voice drops, goes rough. "Because I'm not going to let him anywhere near you."

The words hit like a physical thing. Possessive and protective and completely insane.

"Ezra—"

"I need you to trust me." He's closer now, or maybe I've moved toward him. "Can you do that?"

Trust. Such a simple word for something I haven't done in years.

But standing here, in his house, surrounded by his screens and his certainty and the smell of cedar and dark roast, I realize I already do.

"Yes," I whisper.

Something flashes in his eyes. Triumph, maybe. Or relief.

He steps back, breaking the moment. "Good. Then let me work."

---

I watch him for the next two hours.

It's like witnessing a symphony conducted by someone who invented the instruments. Ezra moves between screens, fingers flying over keyboards, making calls in that low, authoritative voice that brooks no argument.

The towing company confirms the car is impounded. Parking violation. Expired meter.

The inn's Wi-Fi mysteriously slows to a crawl. "Technical difficulties," according to the manager Ezra calls. "Should be fixed by tomorrow. Maybe."

Every business in Prospect gets a text from a number I don't recognize. I catch a glimpse of one screen:

PI asking questions about new residents. Name is Theodore Marsh. Don't know anything. Don't remember anything. Weather's been bad for memory.

Mae responds first: Already handled. Boy needs better manners.

Then the hardware store owner: Noted.

The gas station attendant: Who?

One by one, Ezra locks down the entire town.

"You're terrifying," I say.

He doesn't look up from his screen. "I'm efficient."

"You're orchestrating a conspiracy."

"I'm protecting my investment." His fingers pause on the keyboard. "The town. My property. My—" He stops himself.

My what?

The question burns on my tongue, but I swallow it.

He pulls up another screen. "Marsh is searching for information online. Looking for recent hires at local businesses, new utility accounts, DMV records."

"Can he find—"

"No. Your identity is clean. I made sure of it." He's typing again, that focused intensity that makes him look like a predator locked on prey. "But I'm going to make it cleaner."

"How?"

"By giving him something else to chase."

I watch as he pulls up what looks like a database. Starts entering information. Creating... something.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure that if he searches for women matching your description in Colorado, he finds twelve other possibilities. All with verifiable backgrounds. All more interesting than a mechanic in a nowhere town."

"You're creating fake people?"

"I'm creating reasonable doubt." He glances at me, and there's something almost feral in his expression. "Your brother wants you found. I'm going to make sure the search leads everywhere except here."

This is the man who built algorithms that predicted human behavior. Who created systems that made billions by knowing what people wanted before they did.

Watching him weaponize those skills for me is the most dangerous kind of foreplay.

"He'll send someone else when this guy fails," I say.

"Then I'll handle them too."

"You can't fight my entire family."

"Watch me."

The words are simple. Absolute. Completely unhinged.

I should be terrified. Should be running. Should be putting distance between myself and this man who's decided I'm worth declaring war over.

Instead, I'm moving closer.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask again.

He finally stops typing. Turns to face me fully. "You know why."

"Say it."

"Sloane—"

"Say it, Ezra."

The air between us could catch fire. His jaw works, muscles tensing like he's physically restraining himself.

"Because the thought of him taking you back makes me want to burn the world down," he says finally. "Because you're the first real thing I've let myself want in five years. Because I see you trying to disappear, and every instinct I have is screaming to make you stay."

Oh.

Oh fuck.

"That's not—" I can't finish the sentence. Don't know what I'm trying to say.

"I know." He turns back to his screens, but his hands are shaking. "I know it's not smart. I know we agreed this can't happen. I know you need to be able to run, and I'm a fucking anchor. But I can't—" He stops. Breathes. "I can't watch someone hunt you and do nothing."

The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in my chest.

I move before I can think better of it. Cross the space between us. Put my hand on his arm.

He goes absolutely still.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He looks down at my hand on his arm, then up at me. The intensity in his eyes could level cities.

"Don't thank me yet," he says. "I'm just getting started."

---

At midnight, Ezra's phone rings.

He answers without checking the caller ID. "What."

I can't hear the other side of the conversation, but I watch his expression shift from neutral to satisfied.

"Good," he says. "Make sure he knows the part about the ordinance. Twenty-four hour minimum." A pause. "No, I don't care if he offers to pay the fine tonight. Rules are rules."

He hangs up.

"Marsh tried to get his car back," he explains. "Offered the impound lot three times the fine to release it early. They refused."

"Because you told them to."

"Because there's an ordinance. Very official. I should know—I had it written last year."

I laugh. Can't help it. "You created a law just to fuck with people?"

"I created a law to have options." He's smiling now, just slightly. "Fucking with people is a bonus."

My phone buzzes.

Another text from Mae: PI is at the bar. Three whiskeys deep and complaining about small-town bullshit. Tom's keeping him talking. Thought you'd want to know.

Tom owns the bar. Which means Ezra got to him too.

"How many people in this town are you controlling right now?" I ask.

"All of them." No hesitation. "I bought Prospect because I needed to disappear. Turns out owning a town has other advantages."

"Like orchestrating a cover-up."

"Like protecting what's mine."

The words hang between us, heavy with implication.

I should correct him. Tell him I'm not his. That I can't be anyone's, not when I'm one PI away from being dragged back to the life I died to escape.

But I don't.

Because standing here, watching him dismantle my brother's investigation with the precision of a surgeon and the ruthlessness of a warlord, I've never felt more protected.

More wanted.

More terrified of how much I'm starting to need this.

"He'll leave tomorrow," Ezra says, pulling up another screen. "I'm making sure of it."

"How?"

"I'm feeding false information into the databases he's using. Creating a trail that leads to Wyoming. By morning, he'll have three credible leads in Cheyenne and nothing here but dead ends and parking tickets."

"You're framing someone else?"

"I'm creating noise. Reasonable possibilities. Your brother's looking for you—I'm making sure he looks everywhere except where you actually are." He glances at me. "Unless you want me to stop."

Do I?

The smart answer is yes. The safe answer is to grab my shit and run before this gets more complicated.

But I'm so tired of running.

"No," I say. "Don't stop."

His expression shifts. Goes dark and hungry and barely controlled.

"Sloane." My name sounds like a warning. Like a prayer.

"What?"

"You need to go back to your apartment."

"Why?"

"Because if you stay here, looking at me like that, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."

The heat in his voice makes my breath catch.

I should listen. Should walk out the door and put walls between us and pretend my heart isn't racing.

Should remember that people like us don't get normal things.

"What if I don't want to go?" The words come out before I can stop them.

Ezra's hands curl into fists on the desk. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't tempt me." His voice is rough. Strained. "I'm trying to be good here."

"Since when do you do what you're supposed to?"

He turns to face me fully, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak.

"Since I realized that wanting you is the most dangerous thing I've done in five years," he says. "And I've done some monumentally stupid shit."

We're standing too close. When did we get this close?

I can feel the heat of him. Smell the cedar and coffee and something darker underneath. Want and restraint and the kind of tension that makes the air feel thick.

"Ezra—"

"Go, Sloane." It sounds like it costs him everything to say it. "Please."

The please breaks me.

I step back. Put distance between us before I do something catastrophic like close it.

"Okay," I whisper.

He nods. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

I make it to the door before I turn back.

"Ezra?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow, when he leaves—" I don't know how to finish. Don't know what I'm asking for.

"I'll let you know the second he's gone," he says. "I promise."

I nod. Open the door. Step out into the cold mountain air.

My hands are shaking.

My heart is racing.

And somewhere behind me, in that house full of screens and secrets, a man who once controlled empires is using every weapon in his arsenal to keep me safe.

It should terrify me.

Instead, it feels like the first time in my life someone's fighting for me instead of over me.

I make it halfway back to my apartment before I realize the truth:

I'm not falling for Ezra Holt.

I've already fallen.

And when Garrett finally comes—because he will come, investigators are just the beginning—I'm not sure I'll be able to run.

Not anymore.

Not when staying means I might actually get to keep this.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Ezra: Lock your door. I'm watching the cameras. You're safe.

I look up. Find the security camera mounted on the garage.

Wave.

My phone buzzes again.

Ezra: Don't do that. I'm trying to be a gentleman.

Me: How's that working out?

Ezra: Terribly. Go inside, Sloane.

I smile despite everything. Despite the investigator sleeping two miles away. Despite my brother's resources and reach. Despite the fact that this thing between us is impossible and dangerous and probably doomed.

I go inside.

Lock the door.

And lie awake until dawn, wondering what it means that the most dangerous man I've ever met is the first one who's made me feel safe.