Page 10 of The Bodyguard

But what she did instead surprised him.

She stood.

Walked past him.

And without another word, disappeared into her bedroom.

He didn’t follow, but damn, did he want to. That wasn’t true. What he wanted was to strip her naked, scoop her up in his arms, lay her out on her bed and make a meal of her. Instead, he turned back toward the windows, settling in for the first of what would likely be many long nights.

He was here to protect her. That meant staying alert, staying sharp. Most of all, it meant not touching what didn’t belong to him… yet.

Once the loft was quiet and he had assured himself Cerberus had real-time eyes on the newly installed cameras, Mitch did one last perimeter sweep. He checked the windows, scanned the building across the alley for any suspicious movement, and verified HQ’s surveillance feed on his encrypted tablet. They installed three cameras to cover the exterior, two more inside the loft, and armed sensors at every possible entry point. They had reinforced the rooftop access door. Thermal imaging was online.

If someone wanted to get to her now, they’d have to go through him. And then through hell.

He returned to the living room, stripped off his jacket, and set it neatly on the arm of the chair. His Glock was already within reach. He didn’t bother with the Murphy bed in the office. Distance was a luxury they didn’t have. Instead, he stretched out on the long couch and locked his fingers behind his head. His eyes drifted shut, and that’s when the images came—not of threats, not of logistics or kill zones. But of her.

That sharp tongue. That fire in her eyes when she told him no with her chin tilted high, even when he could tell she wanted to say yes. The way she carried herself like she didn’t need a damn thing from anyone—even though someone actually watching her closely could see she was shaking.

He imagined her kneeling. Not broken, not small—just surrendered.Trusting him enough to hand over control because she wanted to, not because she had to. His breath deepened.

He imagined her in his hands. In his ropes. Bent forward over the very counter where she’d stood earlier, hurling insults through gritted teeth. She’d fight. She’d challenge him. And when she finally gave in, she’d unravel beautifully.

He didn’t want to tame her. He wanted to earn her submission, but none of that was going to happen. Not now. Not while someone out there was trying to erase her from the map.

With a sharp inhale, Mitch opened his eyes, the fantasies snapping like a taut cord. He reached for his phone, double-checked the Cerberus feed again, and let the blue glow of data refocus his mind.

Still, the scent of her lingered in the air. Jasmine, honeysuckle and heat.

He didn’t sleep—he never did on night one.

The next morning, he heard her before he saw her. She’d managed to leave her bedroom and get to the kitchen without waking him. A cabinet opened. The clink of a pan. A soft curse when something dropped. He knew guys with years of black ops experience that couldn’t do that.

Mitch stood up slowly, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders, and moved toward the kitchen. Andi stood at the stove, barefoot, her T-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin above the waistband of her leggings. She moved like she didn’t know—or didn’t care—that someone was watching.

“I hope you like Shakshuka,” she said, not turning around.

His brow furrowed and then lifted. “Tomatoes, peppers, eggs, and heat? Yeah. I like it.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who eats anything he can’t grill or shoot.”

“I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and for once, there was no sarcasm in her expression. Just a quiet, lingering look he felt low in his spine. She finished cooking, plated the food and brought him a dish, placing it in front of him on the island like she wasn’t sure why she was doing it. He accepted it without a word.

The silence between them stretched for a few minutes as they ate. Comfortable. Strange.

Then, naturally, she ruined it. “So,” she said, dabbing her lip with a napkin, “what’s it going to take to negotiate a few minor adjustments to my prison sentence?”

Mitch didn’t look up. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Everything’s a negotiation.”

He set his fork down. “You want out of the loft today?”

“Yes.”

“Then you follow my terms.”

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