The panic attack hit at 2 AM.
Isla woke gasping, drowning in darkness, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape her chest. The walls pressed in. The shadows moved. Every corner held threats her rational mind knew weren't there but her terror insisted were real.
Cameras. Watching. Always watching. Even here, even now, even in supposed safety. He was watching her lose control, watching her break, adding this moment to his collection of her vulnerabilities.
She couldn't breathe. The air was too thick, her lungs too small, her chest constricting with invisible bands. Her hands shook violently as she fumbled for the lamp, needing light, needing to see the empty room and prove she was alone.
But was she? How could she ever be sure? He'd gotten into her penthouse, into this safe house, into every corner of her life. What if Ryder had missed something? What if right now, at this very moment, a lens was capturing her falling apart?
The thought sent her spiraling deeper. She couldn't get enough air. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. Was this what dying felt like? This crushing, suffocating, inescapable terror?
Her door opened. Ryder stood there in low-slung tactical pants and nothing else, his chest bare and marked with scars that told stories of violence survived. His hair was mussed, his eyes alert despite the hour, weapon already in hand before he'd fully assessed the threat.
'Isla.' One word, sharp and commanding, cutting through the panic spiral.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Could only gasp for air that wouldn't come while her world collapsed inward.
Ryder was across the room in two strides, holstering his weapon and dropping to his knees in front of where she'd curled against the headboard. His hands framed her face, forcing her wild gaze to meet his steady one.
'Look at me. Just me. Nothing else.' His voice was low, controlled, anchoring. 'You're having a panic attack. You're not dying. You're safe. I need you to breathe with me.'
'Can't—' she gasped out.
'You can. Watch.' He took an exaggerated breath, his bare chest expanding. 'In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. With me, Isla. In.'
She tried. Failed. Gasped instead of breathed.
'Again. Don't think. Just follow.' His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, the touch gentle despite his warrior's hands. 'In. Good. Hold. Now out. You're doing it. Stay with me.'
Gradually, impossibly, her breathing started to sync with his. The rigid control in his voice, the solid warmth of his hands, the unwavering focus in his eyes—it all became an anchor in the chaos. Something real and present to hold onto while the panic slowly, reluctantly, released its grip.
'That's it. You've got it.' His voice softened fractionally. 'Keep breathing. The attack will pass. They always do. Your body is just processing trauma. It's normal, natural, nothing to be ashamed of.'
'He's watching,' she whispered when she could finally speak. 'Even here. Even now. I can feel it. The cameras—'
'There are no cameras. I personally swept every inch of this house. Twice. With military-grade detection equipment.' Ryder's voice was absolute, unshakeable. 'You are not being watched. You are not being recorded. You're safe. I promise you that on my life.'
'How can you be sure?' The fear still clawed at her, irrational but overwhelming.
'Because if I'd missed anything, if I'd failed to secure you completely, I wouldn't be able to live with myself.' His gray eyes burned with intensity. 'I don't make promises I can't keep. And I'm promising you—right now, in this moment, you are safe.'
Isla stared at him, this man who'd invaded her life as thoroughly as her stalker but in the opposite way. Where her stalker took, Ryder gave. Where one violated, the other protected. The dichotomy was dizzying.
'I keep seeing the photos,' she admitted, her voice breaking. 'The ones of me sleeping, getting dressed, completely unaware. I feel exposed. Violated. Like my skin isn't my own anymore because he's seen all of it, catalogued all of it.'
'He stole images. He didn't steal you.' Ryder's hands were still on her face, grounding, warm, impossibly gentle for someone so lethal. 'Your body is still yours. Your privacy was violated, but you—the essential you—remains untouched by him. He only has what you didn't know you were giving. Now that you know, he has no power.'
'I'm so tired of being afraid.' The confession escaped on a sob.
'I know.' He shifted closer, and she realized he was kneeling between her legs now, his body a solid barrier between her and the world. 'Fear is exhausting. It's why I need you to give it to me.'
'What?'
'The fear. The worry about security, about surveillance, about the next attack.' His thumbs continued their soothing motion against her skin. 'That's my job. My burden. You carry enough—the company, your father's expectations, your mother's legacy. Let me carry this. Let me be afraid for you so you can rest.'
It was the most intimately protective thing anyone had ever said to her. Tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks to meet his thumbs.
'I don't know how to let go of control,' she whispered.
'Then don't. Keep control of everything else. Just give me this one thing.' His voice dropped lower, rougher. 'Trust me to keep you safe. That's all I'm asking.'
Trust. The hardest thing to give. The most dangerous vulnerability. But staring into those winter-gray eyes, feeling the steady warmth of his hands, hearing the absolute conviction in his voice—Isla felt something shift inside her.
'Okay,' she breathed.
Something flared in Ryder's eyes. Heat. Hunger. Quickly banked but unmistakable. His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then dragged back up with visible effort.
'You should try to sleep,' he said, his voice strained. 'The panic attack drained your adrenaline. You'll crash soon.'
'I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see the photos. See him watching.' She gripped his wrists without thinking, keeping his hands on her face. 'Please don't leave. I know it's unprofessional and crosses boundaries, but I can't—I need—'
'I'll stay.' He said it immediately, without hesitation. 'As long as you need.'
He shifted to sit beside her against the headboard, his bare shoulder brushing hers. The contact sent electricity skittering across her skin. Isla was acutely aware of his partial undress, the heat radiating from his body, the way his tactical pants rode low on his hips revealing defined muscles and old scars.
'Tell me something,' she said, needing distraction from the dangerous awareness building between them. 'Something real about you that isn't in a background check.'
Ryder was quiet for a long moment. Then: 'I'm afraid of failing you. Of missing something crucial and having you pay the price for my oversight. It's why I don't sleep more than three hours at a time. Why I check the perimeter obsessively. Why I can't let you out of my sight without my pulse spiking.'
The confession was raw, honest, devastating. 'That sounds exhausting.'
'It is. But you're worth it.' He said it simply, like fact rather than compliment.
Isla turned to look at him, finding him already watching her with an intensity that stole her breath for entirely different reasons than the panic attack. They were so close. Close enough that she could see the silver flecks in his gray eyes, count the individual scars marking his body, feel the heat rolling off him in waves.
'Ryder—' she started, not sure how to finish.
'Don't.' His voice was rough, strained. 'Don't say whatever you're about to say. Not when you're vulnerable and I'm half-dressed in your bed at 2 AM. Not when I'm already using every ounce of my control to maintain professional distance.'
'What if I don't want professional distance?' The words escaped before wisdom could stop them.
The air between them ignited. Ryder's jaw clenched, every muscle in his body going rigid. 'You don't know what you're asking.'
'I'm asking you to be honest. About this.' She gestured between them, the charged space crackling with unspoken tension. 'About what I see in your eyes when you look at me. About why your hands shake when you touch me. About why you ran from the kitchen last night when our fingers brushed.'
'Because touching you is dangerous.' His voice was barely above a whisper. 'Because every time I'm near you, I have to remind myself you're a client. That I'm being paid to protect you, not—' He cut himself off, breathing hard.
'Not what?' Her heart hammered.
'Not fall for you.' The admission tore from him like a confession. 'Not imagine what it would be like to kiss you until you forget every man who came before me. Not fantasize about showing you exactly how thoroughly I could protect you in every possible way.'
The explicit honesty sent heat flooding through her body. 'And if I told you I've been having the same thoughts?'
'Then I'd say you're processing trauma through proximity and attraction, and it would be deeply unethical for me to act on it.' But his eyes betrayed him, dark with want.
'Or maybe I'm just attracted to you. Maybe the danger, the fear, the forced proximity just stripped away the usual pretense and let me see clearly.' Isla shifted closer, testing. 'Maybe I want you. And maybe that has nothing to do with Stockholm Syndrome and everything to do with you.'
'Isla.' Her name was a warning and a prayer.
'You promised to be honest with me. About everything.' She held his gaze. 'So tell me honestly—do you want me?'
The silence stretched taut as a wire. Then: 'More than my next breath. More than I've wanted anything in my entire life. Which is exactly why I can't have you.'
'Why not?'
'Because when this is over—when your stalker is caught and you're safe—you'll go back to your life. Your penthouse, your company, your world. And I'll move on to the next client, the next threat, the next mission. That's how this works.' His voice was bleak. 'I don't get to keep you. I only get to keep you alive.'
The words hurt more than they should. 'What if I don't want it to work that way?'
'Then you're not thinking clearly. Which is why I need to be the one thinking for both of us right now.' Ryder stood abruptly, putting physical distance between them. 'Try to sleep. I'll be right outside your door. Nothing will get past me.'
'Ryder—'
'Goodnight, Isla.' He left before she could argue, the door clicking shut with gentle finality.
Isla lay back against the pillows, her body thrumming with adrenaline and unfulfilled desire. The panic attack had faded, replaced by a different kind of tension entirely.
He wanted her. He'd admitted it. And she wanted him with an intensity that terrified her more than any stalker.
This was dangerous. Reckless. Completely inadvisable.
And absolutely inevitable.