My hands shake at my sides. "You're insane."
"Probably."
"You think any of that justifies—"
"I do not need justification." He takes a step closer, and I hold my ground this time, refusing to retreat again. "I need you alive. Everything else is negotiable."
"My privacy isn't negotiable."
"It is when someone might be threatening you."
We stare at each other. My chest heaves. His breathing is perfectly controlled, and somehow that makes me want to hit him again just to see if I can crack him.
Stop it. Stop thinking about hitting him.
"I want you out of my house."
"No."
"This isn't a negotiation—"
"You are right. It is not." He crosses his arms, feet planted like he's prepared to stand there until sunrise. "I am not leaving you unprotected because you are angry I kept you safe."
"Safe?" The word comes out strangled. "You violated my privacy for seven years and you call that keeping me safe?"
"Yes."
Just that. Again, no justification. No excuse.
The honesty of it, the complete lack of shame, sends something dark and hot crawling through me. Makes me want to scream. Makes me want to cry.
Makes me want to hit him again until he shows some fucking remorse.
Makes me want to hit him again just to see if he'll smile like that.
What is wrong with me?
"You're a stalker." My voice comes out rough. "You're a psychopath."
"Yes." No hesitation. "And yes."
He admits it like it costs him nothing. Like he's long since accepted what he is and decided the price was worth paying.
I'm too exhausted for this. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving bone-deep weariness in its wake. My hand still stings from hitting him. My body still hums with something I refuse to name. And he's standing there, immovable, waiting me out like he has all the time in the world.
He probably thinks he does. He's been waiting seven years already.
The sedan. Chesca saying "pigeon man" like he's a friend. I have no good options. Just this one and worse ones.
"Fine." The word tears out of me, "Guest room. Right wing, end of the hall. Stay away from our side of the house."
His chin dips. Acknowledgment. "I know where it is."
"Of course you do." I'm already moving toward the stairs, desperate for distance. "You've been watching this house for seven years."
I make it three steps before spinning back, finger pointed at his chest.
"Tomorrow. You're going to show me everything. Every camera. Every feed. All of it. And then we're going to have a very long conversation about boundaries."