"You good to close up, Amanda?" Mike, my manager, tosses me the keys.
"Yeah," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady. "I've got it."
But my stomach knots as I think about stepping outside. Danny knows where I work now. Is he waiting in the shadows? Has he followed other employees to figure out where I live?
I finish the closing routine on autopilot—counting the register, wiping down surfaces, restocking for tomorrow. The bar is empty except for Ryker, who hasn't moved from his post. I figured he'd leave once his shift ended at eleven. But it's midnight, and he's still here, those gray eyes following me.
When I finally grab my jacket and purse, he straightens from the wall and approaches. Each step deliberate. Predatory. But not in a way that scares me.
"Ready?" he asks, voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest more than hear.
"You don't have to wait," I say, though everything in me hopes he'll insist.
"Yeah, I do." No room for argument. Not a question.
Outside, the night air hits my overheated skin. The streets are quiet this late—just the occasional car passing, neon signs buzzing from the storefronts. I'm acutely aware of Ryker beside me. He positions himself between me and the street, one huge hand coming to rest on my lower back.
That touch—light but firm—sends electricity up my spine. So simple. So proprietary. I should be offended. I don't even know him. But God help me, that gentle pressure is the most secure I've felt in years.
"Which way?" he asks.
"Five blocks east." I point down the darkened street.
We walk in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. His hand never leaves my back, guiding me around puddles, steadying me when my foot catches on uneven pavement. I'm hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect—his palm spanning nearly my entire lower back, the occasional brush of his arm against mine.
"Has he bothered you before tonight?" Ryker finally asks, voice controlled but with an undercurrent of something dangerous.
I swallow hard. "Not for a while. I moved. Changed my number. Thought maybe he'd given up."
"Tell me." Not demanding. Offering to carry the weight.
And something in me cracks open. Years of holding everything in, making myself invisible, keeping my life quiet and contained—it all comes spilling out.
"We dated in high school. Briefly. I ended it after two weeks when he got…insistent.” My voice drops. "He didn't take it well. Started following me, sending messages, showing up places. There was a restraining order, but..." I trail off, shrugging.
Ryker's hand presses more firmly against my back. Steadying. Grounding.
"You've been hiding," he states. Not a question.
"Yes." The admission comes easily. "Keeping my head down. No social media. No dating. Nothing that might draw attention."
The muscle in his jaw ticks. "That's over now."
Those three simple words make something flutter in my chest. Hope? Relief?
“He comes near you again, I’ll handle it.”
We reach my apartment building—a small, nondescript complex with decent security locks. I pause at the entrance, keys clutched in my hand. Ryker towers over me, his body a wall between me and the world. His eyes, usually so hard when watching the bar, have softened to smoke rather than steel.
"Thank you," I whisper, meaning it more than he could know. "For tonight. For walking me home."
"I meant what I said, princess." The endearment rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it for years. Like it belongs to me. "He comes near you again, I'll handle it."
Princess.
One word and I'm undone. Heat floods my cheeks, pools low in my belly. No one has ever called me anything but my name. Never with that rough tenderness. Never with that implicit promise of protection.
I should say goodnight. Should unlock my door, go inside, lock him out along with the rest of the world. That would be the sensible thing.
