Page 76 of The Bodyguard

She didn’t stir. But something in him did. This was no longer about safeguarding a public figure—they were long past that. This wasn’t even about protecting a woman he wanted. This was about defending what was his, because that’s what Andi was now. Not property. Not a job. But his in the most elemental sense—like a storm that had chosen him, carved him out, rebuilt him molecule by molecule.

Loyalty wasn’t the word for what bound them now. Neither was trust nor ownership. This was fire—the kind that left an indelible brand.

Andi had walked into the war like it was hers to win. And maybe it was. But if anyone took a shot at her now, they’d have to go through him first—and they’d bleed for the privilege.

Mitch set the phone down. Walked to the edge of the bed and sat on the mattress beside her.

She stirred, murmuring his name, before her eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” she asked, voice groggy.

“Nothing,” he lied. “Go back to sleep.”

But her hand found his. Fingers lacing through his in the dark. “Liar,” she said without rancor. She didn’t ask him again. She just held on.

And Mitch knew—he wasn’t going anywhere. But the next man who came for her would… feet first.

18

ANDI

The official statement went out at 6:42 a.m. sharp. Councilwoman Andrea Donato would be stepping away from the campaign trail temporarily. Stress-related fatigue, the release said. A precautionary measure. She was fine. Just resting. She appreciated everyone’s support.

The message was perfectly crafted—bland, clinical, safe. It didn’t mention black SUVs or secure elevators. Didn’t hint at the Cerberus encryption protocols now running on every one of her devices. And it certainly didn’t say that someone woke the woman in question before dawn, rushed her from the loft with two duffels and a go-bag, and drove her across the city in a rerouted motorcade that ignored traffic lights.

Andi stood at the center of the suite now—Club Southside’s so-called ‘residence level’—still wrapped in the dull haze of adrenaline withdrawal. The room was bigger than her entire first apartment: exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows fitted with ballistic glass, and a security terminal tucked discreetly behind a wall panel. Not a single piece of furniture looked out of place. Not a single thing felt like hers.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

Across the room, Mitch was calm, precise, methodical. He moved like the space already belonged to him—checking angles, clearing the corners, running a fingertip across the edge of the blackout curtain to check for breaks in the lining.

He didn’t look at her when he answered. “I know.”

Andi exhaled, slow and tight. “They’re going to spin this. Wexler will say I cracked under pressure. That I’m hiding.”

“He’s not wrong.” Mitch turned then. “You are hiding. And that’s exactly why it’ll work. Let him run his mouth. He’ll get comfortable. That’s when he’ll slip.”

She dropped her jacket onto the nearest armchair. “And what am I supposed to do while we wait for that? Catch up on rest? Do a face mask? Practice gratitude journaling?”

His mouth twitched, the closest thing he ever got to smiling when she was like this.

“You’re supposed to stay alive.”

Andi bit back the retort. He wasn’t wrong. But being sidelined still left a foul taste in her mouth.

The silence stretched. Tense. Heavy. Mitch crossed the room with that same quiet intensity he always carried. He stopped directly in front of her. Not touching. Just there.

“You’re not on pause,” he said, his voice low. “You’re repositioning for tactical advantage.”

She arched a brow. “Tactical advantage? You make it sound like I’m a sniper.”

“You are,” he replied. “Just a political one. Which means I need you clearheaded. Not playing target practice for assholes with campaign funding and kill lists.”

That stopped her. Just for a second.

She looked up at him, studying the unshakable calm in his posture, the way his jaw was set—not with frustration, but with focus. He wasn’t rattled. Not even close. He’d slept less than two hours, had barely eaten, and yet here he was—unflinching, fully operational, running point like a man wired straight into the threat itself.

“You’ve thought all of this through,” she said.

“Every move.”

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