I swore this house would be mine to protect, no matter what my fractured past whispered about needing someone to hold the line. James Mercer arrived with his broad shoulders and measured commands, turning every argument over the probate papers into something heavier that settled low in my stomach.

The attic narrows around us when he pulls me close, his hand finding my hip with the certainty of someone who knows I won't pull away. His fingers slide beneath my waistband, and the held breath before anything more makes the external threats feel distant. I should step back before the first strike lands, but the promise of his discipline is the only stability I can admit I want.