Page 26 of Sawyer
“You won’t sleep either.”
“I’ll doze on guard. Comes with the job.” I pull her gently to her feet. She sways, and I steady her. “Lean on me if you need.”
Instead she links her fingers with mine. “Walk me?”
“Always.”
We traverse dim corridors lit by sconces; my hand engulfs hers. At her bedroom door she pauses, studying the new steel reinforcement plate Riggs bolted over the frame.
“Stronger,” she whispers.
“Unbreakable,” I correct, brushing my knuckles along the wood. “Go shower, get warm, and sleep.”
She pushes to her toes—impulsive—plants a soft kiss to my cheek. Lightning ripples across every nerve. “Goodnight, Soldier Boy.”
I step back, throat tight. “Goodnight, Cam.”
The door closes. I exhale the breath I’ve been kayfabe holding all night, then take position outside her room, back to the wall, eyes on the hall intersection. Every shadow feels personal now. I rest my palm on the grip of my SIG, feeling the comforting certainty of metal.
She thinks I’m the wall. Truth is, she’s become mine.
And walls don’t fall. Not while I’m breathing.
10
Camille
Sunlight drapes the veranda in honey, but I’m already on my third espresso and fifth checklist before the first ray crosses the marble threshold. Six days—now five—until two hundred philanthropists and four hundred socialites descend on Kingsley House for the annual gala. Normally I’d be thrilled; this year the event feels like a live-wire negotiation between purpose and peril.
I pad barefoot through the ballroom, clipboard tucked under one arm, earbuds feeding me a rapid-fire update from my assistant, Megan, who’s wrangling vendors off-site. While Megan rattles off linen delays and canapé counts, the far doors open and Sawyer strides in with the BRAVO Orange Team—four operators in muted polos that somehow still scream cavalry.
Sawyer wears charcoal tactical pants and a long-sleeve black henley that hugs his biceps with indecent devotion. He moves with quiet authority, pointing out blind spots, issuing radio checks, marking doorways with discreet adhesive sensors. TheOrange operators fall into formation around him like planets around a sun. For a second I just … watch.
His focus is laser, but when he catches me staring, his expression softens, a flicker of warmth beneath the ice. My pulse speeds up. I force myself back to the task list, but every tick of the pen echoeswant, want, want.
The day blurs into stations:
Florist consult.(“No peonies near the heat sensors, Ms. Kingsley.”)
AV team test.(“Screens must not block camera sightlines.”)
Catering walkthrough.(“Badge every sous chef.”)
Everywhere I go, Sawyer or an Orange operator floats at the edge of my vision—unobtrusive but monumental, like living statues ready to leap the moment reality tilts. It should feel oppressive. Instead it steadies me. And stokes something wicked.
Because how do you stay purely professional when the person guarding your heartbeat looks at you as if it’s already his territory?
Later in the evening,the last vendor van rolls away. The estate exhales into a hush of cicadas and shifting light. I find Sawyer in the back garden, calibrating a discreet drone pad beneath the wisteria arbor. He checks something on his tablet, completely absorbed.
I lean against a column, arms folded. “You’re supposed to take breaks, Soldier Boy.”
He answers without looking up. “Break comes when you can sip wine without looking over your shoulder.”
I push off the column, crossing to him, my voice soft. “What if I look over my shoulder … and find you?”
That arrests him. His head lifts, and his gray-green eyes lock onto mine. Heat sizzles down my spine. For a long beat neither of us moves—then a chime sounds on his tablet. He swipes, expression shuttering. “Motion sensor test complete.” But his voice is gravelled, affected.
“Come inside when you’re done,” I say, hoping the invitation buries itself under the innocent wording. “Dinner’s at eight.”
