"Let me guess," he says. "Harper sent you."
"Nobody sent me."
"No?" He tilts his head. "So you're just... what, the local welcoming committee? Bit late for that, don't you think?"
I don't answer. I just look at him, the way I used to look at targets before a breach—cataloguing weaknesses, measuring threat level. Fit but not trained. Confident but not careful. The kind of man who's never had to fight because money solved things first.
That changes tonight.
"You called her," I say.
"I called my girlfriend, yes." He says it deliberately. Girlfriend. Staking a claim. "We had a misunderstanding. I'm here to clear it up."
"She's not your girlfriend."
"Four years says otherwise."
"Fourteen months says you're done."
His smile tightens. Just slightly. The crack in the smooth surface.
"Look," he says, straightening up slightly, "I don't know what Harper's told you, but you're getting a very one-sided version of events. She has a tendency to... overreact. To dramatize things."
"She doesn't dramatize," I say flatly. "She left. That's not drama. That's a decision."
"A decision she made emotionally. Without thinking it through." His voice takes on that reasonable tone, the one men like him use when they're rewriting history. "We had a fight. It got heated. These things happen in relationships."
"You put your hands on her."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't deny it. Just adjusts.
"Like I said, things got heated. But that's between Harper and me. It's private."
"Not anymore."
We look at each other for a long moment. The walkway is quiet. Below us, the parking lot is empty except for his Mercedes and the distant sound of the highway.
"This is none of your business," Derek says finally. His voice has lost some of the smoothness. "Whatever Harper told you, whatever sob story she spun, this is between her and me. So I suggest you turn around and walk away before this becomes a problem."
"It's already a problem," I say. "The question is whether it stays a small problem or becomes a big one."
He laughs. Actually laughs. "Are you threatening me?"
"I'm informing you."
"Of what, exactly?"
I step closer. Not aggressive. Just closing distance. Eliminating the space that lets him feel safe.
"Harper Collins is under Iron Havoc protection," I say. Low. Even. Every word deliberate. "That means she doesn't get bothered. She doesn't get followed. She doesn't get phone calls from ex-boyfriends who don't understand that no means no." I hold his gaze. "You're going to check out of this lodge. You're going to get in your Mercedes. And you're going to drive back to California and stay there."
He stares at me. Then he smiles again, and this time there's something uglier underneath it.
"Or what?" he asks. "You'll hurt me? You'll make me leave?" He shakes his head. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to? My family has lawyers who eat small-town thugs like you for breakfast. You touch me, you so much as breathe on me wrong, and I will bury you and your little motorcycle club so deep you'll—"
I move.
One step forward. Fast. Inside his reach before he's finished the sentence.
