My legs give out, and I slide down the cold wood of the counter until my bottom hits the linoleum. I can't breathe. Every time I try to suck in a breath, my throat feels like it's closing, tightened by an invisible hand. My vision begins to fray at the edges, dark spots dancing in the periphery like the men in the alley.
This is it,I think, my mind spiraling into a dark, frantic abyss.Everything I've worked for, everything I've bled for, it's gone.
I can see it all disappearing: the shop, the mortgage I just started to manage, the dreams of having a stall at the local farmer’s market next summer. Those men saw me. They knowwhere I am. They'll come back to finish what they started, and they'll turn my sanctuary into a crime scene.
My parents were right. I was never meant for this. I tried to build a life out of flowers and grit, but I just built a target on my back. The smell of the peonies, once so sweet, now claws at my lungs, thick and suffocating like a funeral wreath. I'm going to die here, on the floor of the dream that was supposed to save me.
My phone buzzes from its spot on the counter, Acacia’s name flashing across the screen. I can't answer. I can hardly breathe, let alone speak right now.
Suddenly, the chime on the front door rings. I shriek, scrambling backward until I hit the refrigerated flower case. A man steps inside, but he's not one of the suits from the alley. He's a freaking tower of solid muscles. The man is broad-shouldered with bulging biceps, wearing a tactical vest, and has eyes that look like they're carved from cold flint. He scans the room with terrifying efficiency before his gaze locks onto me.
"Are you the owner? Annika Vance?" His voice is a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates deep in my chest. He's at my side in two strides, his massive hands reaching out. I flinch, expecting a blow or a rough grab, but he doesn't hurt me.
Instead, the giant of a man cups my face, his palms surprisingly soft despite the callouses. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks, a gesture so tender it makes my breath hitch for a different reason.
"Breathe, little flower," he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that should be terrifying. But it isn't. "Just breathe for me. You're safe. I'm Kai, with Aegis Security."
I should probably be running from a man who looks like he could snap me in half with one hand, yet I find myself leaning into his touch almost instinctively. For the first time in my life, I don't feel like a "phase" or a burden. I feel like the most important thing in the world.
Kai isn't just looking at me; he's seeing me. Every tremor, every jagged breath, every ounce of my fear is being acknowledged and anchored by his strength. I've spent my life building walls to prove I'm independent, but in his arms, I feel like I finally have permission to just... be.
"They... they killed him," I choke out, gesturing wildly toward the back.
"I know. We were tracking them, but we were too late to stop the hit. But we aren't too late to save you." He pulls me to my feet, his body heat radiating through my thin apron. He feels like a fortress, solid and unbreakable. "The Syndicate saw your face. That makes you mine to protect now."
"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice trembling.
He stares down at me, his possessive gaze sweeping over my face. "It means you don't leave my sight. Not for a second. From this moment on, you are under twenty-four-hour protection. Where I go, you go. Where I sleep, you sleep. Let's move."
Before I can protest, he has his jacket around my shoulders and is ushering me toward a blacked-out SUV. I should be terrified of him, but as he shields my body with his own, all I feel is a strange, overwhelming sense of security.
2
KAI
The moment I get her into the SUV, I feel the tremor running through her small yet curvy frame. She’s breathing too fast, her chest fluttering like a trapped bird. I can’t risk pulling over, so I drive, one hand on the wheel, fighting the urge to tear her clothes off and check for wounds.My little flower.Her fear is a tangible thing, suffocating the air around us.
I glance over. Her wide, hazel eyes are pools of terror and pain. Each thought stirring within her head feels like another knife twisting in my gut. I see her trying to be strong, then instantly crumbling. The emotion is a heavy, dark pressure that threatens to consume me.
How am I this connected to a woman I’ve only exchanged a few sentences with? I don’t understand how I feel her pain more than my own, or how I can fix it. Ineedto fix it, and not just because it’s my job. Annika’s safety has eclipsed all other priorities in my life. Something broke in me the second I saw tears glistening in her other-worldly eyes.
Focusing back on the woman who inexplicably belongs to me now, I see just how anxious she is. To cope, she starts talking.A lot.A torrent of nervous chatter fills the small space.
“Where are we going? Is it far? Do you really have a safe house? Is it like a bunker? I’ve seen movies with those, they always have those weird metal doors, are yours metal? Did you buy this car just for this, or do you have a collection? Are you, like, really rich? You look rich, but you also look like you could be a mechanic. Are you more of a cat person or a dog person?”
She bounces from topic to topic, a machine gun of questions, not staying quiet long enough for me to answer a single one. It’s a classic stress response, a way to keep the fear at bay. I’m patient with her, a trait few would believe me capable of. My hands, which have been used to break bones and crush lives, are now clasped on the wheel, holding steady for her.
I notice the relentless, nervous tapping of her left leg against the seat.Thump, thump, thump.It’s grating, a tiny noise in the vast silence of my world, but it’s her pain made audible. Without thinking, I lift my massive right hand and rest it gently over her knee.
The tapping stops instantly.
The heat of my palm covers her entire kneecap. I feel the fine bone structure beneath the thin fabric of her jeans, and the contrast between my lumbering, intimidating strength and this precious, delicate angel is stark. She shifts, not away, but closer, and rests her own hand on top of mine, her small fingers squeezing my knuckles, seeking the strange comfort my terrifying presence offers.
We stay like that, connected, until the car’s engine cuts out, plunging the world into a silence that only amplifies the frantic drumming of her heart. I disarm the perimeter alarms, my gaze sweeping the empty dirt lot, then returning to her face.
“Is this… is this it?” she asks, her voice too high, cracking at the edges. “It’s kind of… I mean, I appreciate the, uh, safety, but it’s very… plain.”
Plain.If I were the kind of man who smiled, I might crack a smirk at her description. This place isn’t plain, it’s afortress, the concrete and steel stripped bare of anything decorative, designed only for survival. It's meant to be a tomb for any threat that comes near.
