By others,” he corrects. “Men who want to know who cares enough about you to risk my displeasure. People listen to his calls, Luna. People follow him. Every time you go near him without a proper shield, you paint a target on both your backs.”
“So your solution is to rip the phone out of my hand?” I demand. “Great. Threats outside, tyrant inside. I’m really spoiled for choice.”
“If that’s what it takes to keep you alive, yes,” he says without apology.
I stare at him. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I hear the girl who used to play half‑empty clubs alone at two in the morning,” he says quietly, “complaining because someone is finally willing to take a bullet for her.”
“No one asked you to,” I say, but the words come out softer than I intend.
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, hands clas
