Ariana stared at him, the man who had haunted her thoughts for weeks—flesh and blood and terrifyingly real. He stood mere inches away now, but his presence felt all-encompassing. Too close. Too consuming.
His eyes didn't blink. His body didn't sway like normal people. He was still. Controlled. Caged, as though if he moved too quickly, something inside him might shatter free.
"Everything?" she repeated, the word catching in her throat. "You're out of your mind."
A flicker of amusement passed over his face, like she had just confirmed something he already knew.
"Maybe," he said. "But I never lie."
She turned to walk away, but his voice came again, low and even.
"Ariana. If you walk away now, I can't protect you tonight."
She stopped.
Her heart beat in her ears. She hated the way his voice made her stomach tighten. Hated that part of her was tempted to turn around and ask, From what?
Instead, she forced her voice to sound firm. "Why do I even need protection?"
"Because someone besides me has started watching you."
Silence.
She turned slowly.
His eyes didn't move from her face. "Last night. After I left the envelope. I found another set of prints on your fire escape."
Her blood went cold.
He wasn't bluffing. She could see it in the steel of his gaze, the quiet rage simmering beneath the surface.
"I erased them. But if I hadn't…" He let the rest hang, dark and unfinished.
"Why would anyone else be watching me?" she asked, voice small.
He took a step closer, his voice dropping.
"Because you're not as invisible as you think, sweetheart. You're connected to people who have enemies. You have no idea what kind of danger you're in."
She took a shaky step back. "So what? You just decided to appoint yourself my guardian?"
"No," Brandon said. "I decided to make you mine."
Her breath caught. "You don't even know me."
"I've known you longer than you realize."
"Then tell me who the hell you are."
He hesitated for the first time. A flicker of something—regret, maybe—crossed his features.
"Brandon."
She waited, arms crossed. "And?"
"That's all you need for now."
She let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "You think I'm going to follow some nameless stalker just because he shows up like a shadow and says I'm in danger?"
He stepped closer again, and this time she didn't back away. "No. I think you already know you don't have another choice."
Her silence confirmed it.
"Come with me," he said quietly.
"To where?"
"Somewhere safe."
"I'm not getting into a car with you."
"I didn't ask."
His voice wasn't cruel. But it was final.
Ariana looked around. People moved past them, eyes on phones, lives too busy to notice that she was standing on a public sidewalk negotiating with a man who had clearly studied her, tracked her, and possibly saved her life.
Her instincts screamed for her to run.
But logic whispered something else.
He had been right about the subway. About the photo. About the envelope.
And now he was warning her again.
Against everything she believed in, Ariana nodded once. "One hour. You answer every question I ask. Then I walk away."
Brandon's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened.
"Deal."
---
The drive was quiet.
Ariana sat in the passenger seat of his matte black Range Rover, arms folded tightly, eyes flicking to the city lights outside.
Brandon drove like he did everything else—with precision. No wasted movements. No hesitation.
"This is kidnapping," she muttered.
"No," he replied calmly. "This is safety."
"Does your version of safety include stalking and psychological warfare?"
He smirked, not taking his eyes off the road. "Only for the ones I care about."
"Care," she repeated bitterly. "You don't know me well enough to care."
"I disagree."
They exited the city limits and pulled into a long driveway flanked by iron gates. The house at the end was old stone and glass—isolated, elegant, and intimidating.
He parked without a word.
Ariana hesitated before getting out. Her phone had no signal. Of course it didn't.
The interior of the house was as cold and calculated as the man who owned it—clean lines, dark furniture, minimal decoration. Every inch looked curated.
Controlled.
Just like him.
"You said I could ask questions," she said, following him into what looked like a study.
He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. "Start."
She eyed the drink warily, then took it without sipping. "Who are you really?"
He looked at her then. Really looked. "I'm someone who's done terrible things. Someone who's paid the price for every one of them."
"Why me?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Because the first time I saw you, you were standing outside a bookstore in the rain with no umbrella, giving yours to a homeless woman. You didn't even think twice."
Ariana blinked. "That was over a year ago."
"I know."
"You've been watching me for a year?"
"Yes."
She stood abruptly. "That's not protection, that's obsession."
He followed her movement with calm eyes. "Maybe it's both."
Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. "What do you want from me?"
He stood too, towering over her, but never touching. "I want you to be safe. And I want to be the one who keeps you that way."
Ariana opened her mouth—then closed it again.
She had no words.
Brandon stepped back. "You can leave. I'll have someone drive you back. But if you walk away now, I won't be able to guarantee what happens next."
She studied him. The threat wasn't in his voice—it was in the truth beneath it.
Someone else was out there.
Someone worse than him.
And somehow, he was her safest option.