Page 8 of The Bodyguard

“No,” he agreed, cool as stone. “You need someone who can take a bullet and still drag you to safety.”

Andi folded her arms, ignoring the pull in her sore shoulder. Do you think crashing on my bohemian-chic sofa will magically make a hitman back off?”

“No.” He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes scanning the lakefront like he could see threats through the glass. “That’s why a Cerberus team is en route to retrofit this place. Security. Surveillance. Entry point reinforcement. The works.”

Her pulse jumped. “You’re not tearing apart my home.”

“No. We’ll be discreet and if you ever sell this place, it will be a feature of your loft. Besides, you don’t have a choice.”

“Like hell I don’t.”

Mitch turned then, eyes locking with hers. That quiet dominance she’d felt before—just a whisper of it—slammed into her like a physical thing now. There was no heat in his stare. Just command.

“It’s this loft,” he said, voice low, “or one of the safe rooms at Club Southside.”

She went still. “You’re not serious.”

“I never joke about security. Club Southside is fortified, discreet, and we maintain twenty-four-hour armed surveillance. If you think your reputation can handle it, I’ll pack you up and take you there right now.”

She glared at him, but her mouth had gone dry. “You know damn well I can’t go there.”

“I also know damn well you won’t be walking away from another hit if whoever has set their sights on you tries again. So choose.”

Her head swam with the possibilities. She’d spent years building a public image polished enough to survive in politics, balancing fire and diplomacy with a scalpel’s precision. The media would devour a rumor of her being holed up at Chicago’s most exclusive BDSM club like wolves on blood.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Retrofit the loft. But if anyone drills into my white oak cabinetry, you’re paying for it.”

His mouth didn’t twitch, but something in his eyes gleamed—dark and satisfied.

“Deal.”

A knock sounded at the door. Not the buzzer this time. Three short, clipped taps. Andi moved instinctively, but Mitch was already there, hand on the grip of the concealed weapon under his jacket as he looked through the peephole before opening the door.

Three men in tactical gear stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Quiet. Efficient. No wasted movements. One carried a tablet. Another was already sweeping the room with practiced eyes.

Mitch spoke without looking back at her. “They got in without tripping your building’s security or being seen by the guy at the front desk, by the way.”

Of course they had.

Andi rubbed her temples and muttered, “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“No,” Mitch said, still watching the team move like shadows through her space. “But you’ll be alive to complain about it. So there is that, and that’s the point.”

Again she thought about saying something or not complying, but the desperate look on Maya’s face convinced her not to. So she turned and retreated to her bedroom—not because she agreed, but because when a man like that gave a command, something inside her listened—even when her brain screamed otherwise.

2

MITCH

The moment the Cerberus team cleared out, Mitch felt the energy in the loft shift. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that came just after chaos—the kind that left space for thoughts he’d rather keep buried.

He stood at the window near the kitchen, arms crossed, watching the last of his team’s vehicles pull away from the curb. Below, the streetlights cast soft halos on the pavement. It looked peaceful.

It was a lie.

This loft—Andi’s loft—was damn near a gift-wrapped target. Wide open floor plan, too many glass surfaces, minimal cover. It was on the top floor with a balcony which meant someone could rappel from the rooftop and break in from the outside. The building was gorgeous, but it wasn’t built for defense. It was built for comfort, for show. For someone who didn’t think twice about danger.

His gaze flicked to the closed door to her bedroom, where she’d disappeared again, likely nursing her pride more than her wounds.

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