Page 9 of Protecting What's Mine

By the time we arrive at the safe house, the sun hangs lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the ocean that stretches endlessly behind the property. The house itself is impressive—a sprawling structure perched on a bluff, its white stucco walls and terracotta roof blending perfectly with the tropical surroundings. Palm trees sway gently in the breeze, framing the house like a postcard.

“Wow,” she breathes, her voice laced with awe as she steps out of the truck. Her big blue eyes widen, taking in the grand façade of the house and the shimmering ocean beyond it.

Not aswowas her.

I grab her bags from the back of the truck, slinging them over my shoulder before motioning for her to follow me. “This is homefor now,” I say, leading the way up the stone steps and unlocking the front door.

Inside, the cool air greets us, and her footsteps echo softly against the tiled floors of the expansive foyer. The space opens into a great room, its design modern but inviting, with long white couches flanking a glass coffee table. The back wall is made entirely of sliding glass doors, revealing a lanai that overlooks the ocean. Beyond it, the waves crash rhythmically against the shore, the sound soothing yet powerful.

Her gaze bounces from the furniture to the view, her lips parting slightly. “This is beautiful,” she says, her voice tinged with disbelief, as if she can’t quite process the elegance of the place.

“So are you.”The words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I clamp my jaw shut and force myself to look away before I say something I can’t take back. Instead, I head toward the hallway, my boots scuffing lightly against the tiled floor. “Come on,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll show you your room.”

She follows me down the hallway, her steps hesitant as she takes in the artwork lining the walls and the subtle scent of salt lingering in the air. When we reach the master bedroom, I push the door open and set her bags down on the massive king-sized bed. The room is just as impressive as the rest of the house, with white furnishings accented by pops of blue and yellow. Large windows frame another breathtaking view of the ocean, and the en-suite bathroom is visible through an open door, its marble finishes gleaming.

“I figure you can have the master,” I tell her, gesturing to the room.

“Oh, I don’t need the master,” she protests, shaking her head as her eyes dart around the space. Her fingers brush over the edge of the bedspread, her touch light and tentative. “This is too much. Really.”

“Nonsense,” I reply, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe. “You need to be comfortable.”

Comfortable. With me. On top of you. Screaming my name until the walls shake.

I shake my head sharply, forcing those thoughts out before they spiral further. My gaze falls on her again, and I’m struck by how perfectly she fits here—her golden hair catching the soft afternoon light, her curves accentuated by the way she stands, slightly unsure of herself but utterly captivating.

This is going to be torture. Pure, unrelenting torture.

“You sure this is okay?” she asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.

“It’s more than okay,” I say, my voice gruffer than I intend. “This is your space for however long we’re here.”

I turn toward the doorway, needing to put some distance between us before my control snaps. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything,” I add, my back to her. “Get settled in. I’ll start dinner in a bit.”

As I leave the room, I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the image of her in that room, her soft curves against the stark white of the bedding.

I hope this time goes by quickly because every second in this house with her is a battle against my own desires. And I’m not sure how long I can keep winning.

Chapter 4

Tory

No one ever tells you that having a security guard while your life is in peril is a lot like being in prison. Sure, I’m not locked up—technically, I can go outside, stroll along the lanai, or even take a dip in the pool. But there’s always one condition: I have to stick close to Ranger.

And therein lies the problem.

Iwantto stick close to him. Too close.

It’s only been one day in this safe house, and I’m already losing my mind. Not because I feel trapped, but becausehe’s here. Everything about him—the way his dark, unreadable eyes flick over me when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his broad shoulders seem to fill every doorway, the quiet confidence in his movements—makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Right now, I’m sitting on the cozy white sofa in the living room, my jewelry supplies spread out on the glass coffee table in front of me. A crystal pendant rests cool and smooth against my fingertips, the soft light from the windows catching the stone’s facets and throwing tiny rainbows onto the table. Usually, working on jewelry is my escape. It calms me, grounds me, lets me channel my restless energy into something creative.

But not today. Not with Ranger in the room.

He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, his large frame nearly blocking out the hallway behind him. His arms are crossed over his chest, the fabric of his black T-shirt pulling taut over his biceps, and his gaze is locked on me with an intensity that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone commands the entire room.

I try to focus on the pendant, picking up a tiny silver clasp with trembling fingers, but my hands feel clumsy and uncoordinated. Normally, this would be second nature, but under his watchful eyes, I can’t seem to do anything right.

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