Page 22 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL
I'm not what you'd call a trust-oriented person.
Trust is a luxury I can't afford—not in my line of work, not with my history.
When your father vanishes for telling the truth and your last source ends up dead, you learn to keep everyone at arm's length.
So I'm not sure what I expected from a place called "The Forge," but it wasn't this.
Steel and stone rise before me, glass and pine stretching toward a sky so blue it hurts. The buildings stand like sentinels against the Montana wilderness—utilitarian but striking. Not trying to impress, just... functional.
Every wall seems to hold weight. History. Secrets.
Kind of like the man who brought me here.
Caleb Maddox walks beside me with an easy grin and a spring in his step like this is a campus tour and I'm a new freshman.
Sandy blond hair peeks from beneath a worn ball cap, and his biceps stretch the sleeves of his thermal shirt as he gestures enthusiastically at the grounds.
He doesn't pry about who I am or why I'm here with Logan, which immediately tells me two things: he's been instructed not to ask, and he's trying to get the information anyway.
I know charm when it's being weaponized. Caleb wields his like a grenade—casual, devastating, and with absolutely zero subtlety.
"So," he says, sweeping his arm toward the Main Hall, "this is where the magic happens. Tactical drills, sparring, and the world's worst coffee."
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my expression neutral despite the unexpected humor. "Is that on the brochure?"
"Page one. Right next to the warning label:May cause emotional breakthroughs and minor bruising."
A snort escapes me before I can catch it, and Caleb's dimples deepen in response.
Careful, Sloane. Remember why you're here. Survive first, investigate second, trust never.
The Main Hall opens before us—high ceilings, exposed beams, warm wood against iron detailing. Not at all what I expected from a security training facility. It feels almost... welcoming. That puts me even more on edge.
"What's with all the local outreach?" I ask, nodding toward a chalkboard schedule listing community classes, women's self-defense sessions, trauma support groups.
I keep my questions sharp. Controlled. I'm not here to make friends—I'm here to survive long enough to finish what I started.
"Because this town matters," Caleb says, his tone shifting slightly—less showman, more substance. "And because some people need protection before they realize they deserve it."
The answer throws me. It's not what I expected from a man who looks like he could bench-press a Buick while telling dirty jokes.
There's something beneath the surface here—something that doesn't match the mercenary aesthetic I assumed this place would embody.
I file it away.
Every piece of information is currency when you're a journalist. Especially when you're one with a target on your back.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, drawing my attention toward the far end of the hall.
Caleb glances toward the open doors of the gym section. "Looks like Rosa's running the afternoon class," he says, a hint of fondness warming his voice. "C'mon. You should see this."
My instinct is to resist—to maintain my distance—but I also need to understand this place. Knowledge is survival. So I follow him toward the sound of steady movement and focused breath.
Inside, a small group of women and teenage girls move through self-defense drills on padded mats—stance, step, strike.
No frills.
Just focused repetition under the keen eye of a woman in her forties with no-nonsense posture, soft crow's feet around dark eyes, and a ponytail pulled through the back of a worn Forge cap.
