Page 2 of Nine of Swords
Blade
Tonight,I’ll be at her door for my formal introduction, letting her know I’ve been hired to keep watch. Aiden and I have already agreed that for now, we’ll hold off on announcing he’s working with me. It’s safer for her, having an extra layer of protection in the periphery.
I just hope he’s not as affected by her the way I am.
She’s my assignment.
My responsibility.
Mine to protect.
The more I watch her, the less I understand this magnetic force drawing me to her. And the less I can control it. Just last night while Aiden kept watch while I took my daily four-hour rest break, I went to sleep with my fist wrapped tightly around my shaft, picturing all the sinful things I’d make her do to satisfy my lust.
Like stretch her out on the bed with her head off the side, her mouth parted, waiting to take every inch of my thick, meaty cock.
Or lower her to her knees.
Bend her over.
Press her up against any flat surface.
Or all of the above, and then some.
It’s no wonder I have to adjust my stance to accommodate my on-the-job boner.
This has to stop, and fast.
Because the kind of danger she’s in has already struck hard in her life.
I read her file before the assignment started, and it fucking hit me in the gut for a second. Parents gunned down right before her eyes at age ten. Made a ward of the state because no other relatives were in the picture and not even the executor of her parents’ estate could fight to keep custody of her. That’s how it is for some of us. The gift of breathing air, of living, takes a fuck ton of work. And the second people like Sydney discovers that this world is riddled with danger lurking at every corner, life is never the same. You go to sleep on edge and wake up on high alert. You move through life watching around every corner, expecting something bad to happen. You believe in nothing, trust no one, and question everything around you. It’s a sad fucking life for a kid, but it sure as hell made her a damn strong woman.
I can relate. My life was no easier.
I didn’t know my mother. She gave me up before I could even open my eyes as a newborn. All I have of her is the one picture she left sewn into the baby bag found beside me when she set me down outside a church in inner city Miami. As for who my father is, that’s a mystery too. For all I know, he still has no idea I exist. Looking back at my childhood, it seems like shit happens in this world to fuck up some people’s childhood and their entire lives. If there’s a god, he sure as fuck likes to wreck some people’s chances right out of the gate, like he did mine. I believe that even though I was put in the care of the state and quickly adopted by amazing people who couldn’t have kids of their own. They loved me like I was their flesh and blood, but that all ended at age eight when some drugged up college kid lost control of his vehicle and hit my parents’ car head-on. They died within hours, leaving me alone and exposed and vulnerable yet again.
But at least I had those eight magical years. If there’s anything I’m grateful for, it’s for that time when life was simple. I could be a normal kid with normal shit to handle. Like fixing my bike tires, setting up weekend lemonade stands with my neighborhood friends, and pulling the pigtails or being a general little turd to girls I had a crush on. After that car crash, the hole carved into my unprepared, pre-teen chest never closed up or healed. All I managed to do was wrap one tough as nails, impenetrable wall around it so I could survive.
After that, I had to harness my grief and grow up real fast in a system of foster care that failed me like it did for so many before I ever came along. I bounced from one fucked up home to the next, ran away every chance I got, and when I hit fourteen, I scraped together every penny I had and bought a bus ticket out of that sweltering shithole that was my life. I made the streets of Big Apple my home, begging or fighting for scraps until I was old enough to enlist in the Army. I thrived as a soldier, and after a few tours of duty, with military training that was so well suited to a scrappy, wild, and angry loner like me, I made a damn good living protecting people so they wouldn’t have to go through the shit I almost didn’t survive.
Like right now as Sydney packs up her stuff for the night and prepares to leave.
I’ve been watching the man in the office next to hers off and on for a few hours. I haven’t seen him before today. He’s out of place in more ways than one. For starters, the dark suit he has on is a cheap knockoff of the Armani’s, Valentino’s, and Saint Laurent’s I normally see being sported in this firm like leisure wear. Those scuffed shoes give him away too. If anything, he looks more like low level Secret Service than trader, and his walk, stare and laser focus are dead giveaways.
My shoulders tense and my muscles bunch at the sight of him starting to pack up at the same time as Sydney. There’s a concrete wall between their offices, so the only way he’d know that she’s ready to leave is if he has a lookout like me giving him a signal. Or if he has some way to monitor her from inside her office. For all I know, he could be piggybacking off of the transponder I planted in one of the fluorescent light fixtures the first day I started watching Sydney. Anger rises in my chest as I contemplate the possibility, but I quickly shove the emotion away. At this particular moment, it doesn’t matter how he knows. I need to focus on ensuring he doesn’t have an opportunity to get to her before I stop him first.
That’s exactly what I plan to do.
No one gets between me and my assignment.
Especially not this woman, who’s unwittingly sunk her claws into me before she’s even met me.
3
Sydney
These men haveno idea who they’re dealing with.
Fucking amateurs.
