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I want to gather her in my arms, to let her know that she's safe with me. But I can't act on that impulse, not yet. First, I need answers.
"Tell me everything," I say, my voice a low rumble. "Who is this person? How long has this been going on?"
Andrea worries her bottom lip, her gaze flitting away from mine. I can see the internal struggle playing out across her delicate features as she debates how much to reveal.
"Andrea." I reach out, my fingers grazing her chin, gently coaxing her to meet my eyes again. "You can trust me."
A shuddering breath escapes her lips, and she nods almost imperceptibly. "It started a few months ago. Little things at first – flowers arriving with no card, gifts left in my dressing room. I thought it was just an overzealous fan."
Her hands twist in the fabric of her shirt, betraying her agitation. "But then the notes came. Creepy, obsessive ramblings about how we were meant to be together. How I belonged to him."
A muscle ticks in my jaw as white-hot fury courses through me. The thought of someone tormenting her, violating her sense of safety, is like gasoline on the flames of my protective instinct.
"Did you report it?" I ask, struggling to keep my tone even.
Andrea shakes her head, her gaze dropping once more. "Brandon said it would only encourage the guy. That we should ignore it and it would blow over."
Of course, that snake would try to downplay this. Can't risk anything jeopardizing his cash cow.
I curl my fingers into fists, my nails biting into my palms as I fight back the urge to hunt Brandon down and make him pay for his negligence.
"Hey." Andrea's hand covers mine, her touch like a balm against the roiling storm inside me. "It's not your fault."
Our eyes lock, and in that moment, it's as if she can see straight into the depths of my soul. I'm captivated, utterly disarmed by the raw compassion in her gaze.
"You don't have to protect me," she murmurs, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Not from this."
But I do, Andrea. God help me, I do.
The realization crashes over me like a tidal wave, stealing my breath. These fierce, consuming feelings I've been grappling with for days – they're more than just attraction or fleeting infatuation.
I'm falling for her, this remarkable woman who has awakened parts of me I thought were long dead. And the very idea of anyone threatening her, of that light being extinguished, is viscerally abhorrent to me.
I turn my hand over, entwining our fingers as I hold her gaze with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.
"I will find this son of a bitch," I vow, my voice a low rumble. "And I will make damn sure he never comes near you again."
Andrea's eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, I think I've overstepped. But then her lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, and she gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.
In that moment, a profound sense of connection washes over me. It's more than just gratitude or relief in her eyes – it's trust.
A fragile, tentative thing, but real nonetheless.
"Whatever happened at the club, I'm going to find out. I have my men working to find out who this man is and what his intentions are with you."
"It's obvious what he wants from me," she replies in a slightly husky voice. "It's not the first time I've had a stalker."
Her eyes wander around the kitchen, then she breaks away from me.
She goes straight to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine. She pours two glasses. She drinks hers in one gulp.
A sour pout comes over her face, and she shakes her head. "I don't even like wine," she says with glassy eyes.
“What do you like then?” I ask, trying to distract her a little.
She falls silent, thinking about it.
