Page 9 of Protected By Her Daddy

I’ve never met anyone called Wren, but it suits her. Delicate. A wounded little bird.

“Stay with me, Wren,” I urge, my voice rough with an emotion I can’t put a name to right now. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

Ed glances at Wren, his eyes filled with the same concern as me and a quiet rage at the senseless violence.

“What took you so long?” I ask my friend.

Ed throws me a glare. “You leaped out of the damn car in the middle of the street and took off like some avenging angel before I had a chance to park and grab my piece.”

“Too proud to admit you’re getting slow, old man?” I taunt him, hitting him where it hurts. At forty, Ed is two years older than me, a fact he hates to be reminded of.

“Never. And you’re no spring chicken yourself, Methuselah,” he grunts, the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth belying his harsh tone. Our banter is a leftover from our days in the military in high-stress situations.

Wren lets out a small moan as we reach the car. She’s fragile, but each shuddering breath is a testament to her will to survive.

Ed opens the door and reaches out to take her from my arms while I climb inside.

“No.” I shake my head. “I have her.” I don’t want anyone touching her, not even Ed.

I clutch Wren as I duck inside and settle in the backseat, trying not to examine my possessiveness too closely.

Ed slides behind the wheel, starts the engine, and guns it toward my building.

The ride is tense, each second stretching into an eternity. The soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of the windshield wipers against the rain-soaked glass create an almost hypnotic backdrop to the chaos in my mind.

I hold Wren close, her damp hair clinging to her face, shivers shaking her body. It’s clear she’s been living on the streets for a while, judging by the dirt covering her ragged clothing and pale face.

Ed maneuvers the car with precision, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, a mix of concern and determination etched in his features. “She’s tough. She’ll make it,” he reassures me, though his grip on the wheel suggests otherwise.

I nod and lift my wadded jacket to check her wound. “Looks like the bleeding has slowed, but I don’t like how pale she is or her shallow breathing.”

Ed nods. “Almost there. The doc is waiting.”

“Hang on, little bird,” I murmur, smoothing her hair from her damp forehead. “Just hang on.”

Wren’s eyes open, her eyes glassy. “Handsome angel,” she slurs, lifting a chilled hand to my face as if to prove I’m real. “I like this dream better… than the nightmares.” She sighs, and her eyelids slip closed again.

Nightmares?

My mind races with a thousand theories about why she was on the streets alone, few of them good.

“What’s your story?” I whisper, holding her limp hand to my cheek and pressing a kiss to her palm. I have no fucking idea what’s come over me, but my reaction to this woman is unexpectedly visceral.

A mix of lights and shadows blur past as we enter the city and make our way to my high-rise home—a sanctuary of glass and steel above the bustling city. I bought the entire building when I made my first billion, and it houses my entire operation, including staff, a fully equipped medical facility, and a surgeon and medical team on my payroll. The lower floors contain apartments for my inner circle and the offices of Burns SafeGuard. The building surrounds a large courtyard garden where staff can enjoy lunch or grab some fresh air on their breaks.

In my business, I like having everything within reach, under one roof. Every person who works for me is scrutinized and vetted thoroughly. I hire the best because I expect the best when working for government officials and high-profile celebrities who entrust us with their safety and security.

Dr. Sanderson is waiting as we pull into the underground garage, his presence a silent, reassuring force. I carefully exit the car, carrying Wren to the waiting gurney. I’m oddly reluctant to let her go, but I know she needs Dr. Sanderson’s expertise.

“Who is she?” the doc asks, his tone brisk.

“Her name is Wren. Knife wound to the shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood and has a possible concussion,” I reply, the memory of the struggle flashing vividly in my mind. “Someone attacked her in an alley, and I intervened. I thought I put the guy down, but next thing I knew, she was throwing herself between me and his blade.”

Dr. Sanderson nods, his expression grim. “My team is waiting. We need blood tests, X-rays, and a CT scan.”

We ascend one floor in the elevator to the medical unit, and the doc barks orders to his staff the second the doors swish open. The warmth and opulence of our surroundings contrast sharply with the cold, grimy alley we left behind. Everything here speaks of a life of comfort and privilege, yet it feels superficial compared to the current situation.

I follow as Wren is taken to one of the treatment rooms, but Ed places a hand on my shoulder.

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