Page 19 of Ready For His Rule

Holy hell. This wasn’t a drill. This was a real-life, real bad, situation.

Making her doubt what she wanted to do more to John Franzen right now.

Kiss him or kill him.

He was alive—alive, thank God—enticing her not to waste another moment on merely dreaming of running her hands, mouth, and other things all over him. The psychobabble experts were right. Fear was a heady aphrodisiac, and every cell in her body confirmed it like a lit firecracker.

“What the fuck?”

Then there was his pissed baritone. Attached to his snarling face. Backed by his arrogant hands, digging into both her hips, slamming her back down against the cushion.

“Franzen,” she bit out. “For the love of—”

“Not. Now.” He spat tacks along with both words—a prelude to the nails he shot into Shep. “What. The. Fuck?”

“Down, Fido,” Shep snapped. “I was following orders.”

The captain’s glare flared darker than the soot on his cheeks. And yes, Tracy was close enough to tell, since he pressed against her while yanking at her seatbelt. “Drive,” he ordered Shep. “Now.”

As he rammed the buckle into its housing at her hip, the car lurched into motion. Once more, gravel pelted the Escalade’s undercarriage—Shep understandably taking his tension out on the gas pedal—then they were speeding along the road, the freeway on one side and the hotel on the other, the other cars in the caravan racing to keep up.

After he was done locking her in, Franzen stayed unusually close. As in, he loomed. As in, he resembled a huge orc protecting his—whatever it was orcs protected; she couldn’t ever get that part out of Luke when he spoke of the menacing monsters from the fantasy games he played online with the friends he only saw every few months now, instead of every few days.

Because of her insane job.

The job that had almost taken his very life.

As the comprehension set in, her anger drained. And as a tremor convulsed her whole body, she’d never been more grateful for orcs in her entire life.

“You okay?”

Or for copper-skinned hulks who tamed their bold baritones into tender murmurs—then emphasized with a silken brush of a thumb across her cheek.

“I—I don’t know.” It was the most weak-willed shit that’d left her mouth since Ryker’s death, but Vice President Rhodes didn’t have to be “on stage” right now. It felt damn good to have an orc on hand, issuing a soft grunt as if to tell her that was okay.

Not that he gave anyone else the same leeway.

“Whose orders?” he barked, addressing Shep’s initial defense.

The guy behind the wheel jutted his jaw, taking the shout as if he’d expected it. “Higher pay grade than yours, man.”

“Whose?” Franz twisted, burning a glare into the back of the driver’s close-cropped head. “Goddammit, Shep. I don’t care what the flow charts say. If Sol Wrightman thinks he has the right to dictate what’s going on here, from across the fucking city, especially after what just happened—”

“You mean after the detour you insisted we take?”

Shep’s retort dunked Franzen into thick silence—and Tracy into a bathtub of guilt. The man had flown from Seattle for the priority of her safety. Had defied Sol for the sake of her happiness. Had tolerated Luke’s arrogance for the “privilege” of nearly getting blown up in his place. For what? To weather that kind of insinuation?

That was not going to happen. Not when she could do something about it.

“Mine.”

Like issue that declaration.

Franzen scowled. “Yours…what?”

“My orders.” She straightened. “He ordered the route change for me.” Shoved Franz over to lean toward Shep. “And we all know it—which is exactly how we’ll tell it.”

“Won’t matter,” Shep huffed. “And with all due respect, you know that, ma’am. The others will—”

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