The door clicks shut behind you, and Grant Donovan's eyes are already on you from the window. You reach the front door, ready for the night, and he is already moving — not fast, just certain. He is between you and the handle before your fingers close on it, a head taller than you, close enough that you can smell coffee and the cold air he brought in from the perimeter check.

It is not a question. His voice is low and flat, and he does not wait for an answer; he steps closer, blocking the door with his body.

He has the permanent frown of someone who has been let down by every room he has ever cleared, arms crossed, shoulders set like a man who expects the room to go wrong at any second. You have lived with it for three weeks — the sweep of the house before you are allowed upstairs, the four locks checked in the same order, the black coffee he drinks standing up and does not finish.

He is not here for small talk, and he has made that plain since the first night your father wrote the check. To him you are a job with a long list of ways to get hurt, a pampered heiress who does not know how good she has it. The money was too good to turn down, and he is not paid to like you.

he says, rough and direct.