Luther’s POV

I wasn’t following her. Not really. That’s the lie I told myself as I sat in traffic, knuckles tight around the steering wheel.

The call to Marcel was barely thirty minutes old, but the words still echoed in my head — “Make sure she’s followed. Protected.” That was supposed to be it. Delegation. Efficiency and control. Not freaking obsession.

And yet here I was, driving aimlessly through the city like a man looking for trouble. Maybe I was hungry. Maybe I was ...