Page 45 of Psychotic Faith

"I'll start using the cameras I installed in your apartment instead. Better angles, more reliable feed." He's completely serious, not even trying to pretend he's joking.

I should be horrified. Instead, I'm laughing, this broken sound that's half amusement, half despair. "You're impossible."

"And you're mine." He leans across the console, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that tastes like possession and coffee and promises I shouldn't want him to keep. "Say yes to the car, little faith."

Against his lips, I whisper: "Yes."

Two hours later, I'm driving my new modified silver Volvo XC60 home, still processing that Luca just spent $110,000 like it was coffee money. The paperwork is done—all in my name, fully paid, insurance arranged for the next three years. Matthew had handled it with the efficiency of someone used to strange requests from dangerous men.

My phone buzzes as I'm stopped at a red light.

Luca:"I can see you're three blocks from home. Speed limit is 30. You're going 32. Slow down."

I should be creeped out. Instead, I find myself smiling as I ease off the gas, checking my rearview mirror even though I know he's not following me. He's watching through the GPS, probably pulled it up on one of his many monitors the second I left the dealership.

Another text: "Good girl. Also, check the glove compartment when you get home."

The light turns green. I drive exactly 30 mph the rest of the way, hyperaware of his eyes on me through satellites and technology.

At home, I sit in my new car in the parking lot for a full minute before opening the glove compartment.

Inside, I find:

The owner's manual, perfectly organized

A first-aid kit (of course he'd think of that)

Registration and insurance documents in a leather folder

A small black box

My hands shake slightly as I open the box.

A knife. Not just any knife—a beautiful folding knife with a pearl handle, the blade already sharp enough to catch the light. It's perfectly balanced when I test the weight, professional quality, the kind of weapon that costs more than my old monthly car payment.

The note tucked inside reads in his precise handwriting: "Backup weapon. Because I can't always be there in person. But I'll always know where you are. -L"

I sit in my souped-up car, in my apartment parking lot, holding a knife from a psychopath who just spent more money on me than I've spent on myself in five years.

And I feel safer than I ever have in my life.

God help me.