Guarded from Danger (Blade and Arrow Security Bravo Team #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

LUCY

I never imagined my life being like a romance novel.

In all the books I’ve read and the ones I’ve written myself, I’ve viewed the stories as romantic fantasies. Tales of macho SEALs with hearts of gold, dark, brooding millionaires who fall in love with their downtrodden assistants, the mafioso who rescues a woman in danger and falls in love with her at first sight.

When I write, I never imagine myself in the role of the main character. I’m more of the quirky best friend, or the coworker who’s dragged into the drama due to her proximity.

When I imagine the hero of the story, he’s nothing like the pleasant but bland guys I’ve dated, ones who were nice to spend time with but never made my heart flutter or my skin tingle whenever they touched me.

Novels are fiction. Sparks of creativity brought to life in the pages of a book, but never reality.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Then I met Xavier. And suddenly, I wasn’t the quirky friend anymore. I was the lead.

If I were to list all the criteria for a perfect boyfriend, Xavier would check every box.

Drop-dead gorgeous with muscles upon muscles and perfect bone structure and rich brown eyes that sparkle with gold and bronze when he smiles? Check.

Works for an internationally-renowned security team and also used to be a Green Beret? Check, again.

Intense and protective, but with a sensitive side that comes out in the sweetest ways, like the little notes he leaves for me everywhere—in my car, on my pillow, tucked into my lunch bag—telling me how wonderful he thinks I am and how much he misses me? Check.

Endlessly patient when I go on and on about a new story idea, listening attentively and even helping me brainstorm? Another check.

Even the way we met was the perfect meet cute. I was working my part-time job at the bookstore, and he stopped in to find a gift for his friend. When I spotted him, he was standing in front of the romance new releases, his brow furrowed as he studied the rows of books with shirtless men on the covers.

He looked so strong, so confident, so in control, I wasn’t expecting him to blush when I approached him. I wasn’t expecting him to fumble the book in his hand, dropping it on the ground and nearly whacking me in the head when we both bent down to get it. And I definitely wasn’t expecting this unbelievably handsome guy to stare at me like I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

After he introduced himself in the exact voice I imagine all my romance heroes using, he explained that he was there searching for a gift for his friend’s girlfriend. “Jade loves reading. But I’m not sure what kind of books she likes. I thought romance—” He gestured at the shelves next to us. “Because it’s what some of the other women I know say they read. But I’m not sure…”

Now that I’ve met Jade, I know she likes cozy mysteries over romance, but back then, I had no idea. So I suggested he give her a gift card and a cute literary themed item, like one of our tote bags or sweatshirts with a clever book quote printed on it.

As I rang his purchases up, Xavier gave me a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Lucy. This is perfect.”

When he took the gaily-wrapped gift bag I put together for him, disappointment swept through me, along with a certainty he wouldn’t be back in the store again.

But then he set the bag on the counter and met my gaze. A flicker of uncertainty moved across his face as he asked, “Would you consider going on a date with me? I know we just met, and you don’t really know me, but… I would really like to see you again.”

I didn’t have to think about it. Even then, I think I just knew.

Now, nearly five months later, I’m even more certain. At thirty-five, after almost two decades of dating guys who thought I was too much of something or not enough of another, I finally met the man who likes me as I am. Who doesn’t mind when I jump up in the middle of the night to jot down a story idea. A man who’s happy to stay home in the evenings, watching TV while I snuggle against him, reading my Kindle.

And I think he’s perfect, too. Even with his own little quirks, like insisting on watching every episode of Jeopardy , keeping careful score to see if he beats the contestants. And how he shuffles cards when he’s anxious, like when he’s thinking about an upcoming job or he’s worried about one of his friends. When he has nightmares but refuses to talk about them, I don’t push. I know he’ll tell me eventually.

I guess if I had to pick one thing about our relationship that isn’t perfect, it would be how often Xavier has to travel. It’s not that I don’t get it—the company he works for has clients all over the country—but selfishly, I wish he was here all the time.

Especially on a night like tonight.

It’s been an extra long day thanks to two people calling off, so my usual four-hour shift at the bookstore turned into ten. That means I’m going to fall behind schedule for the current book I’m writing, and I hate feeling rushed catching up. Plus, if there was something that could go wrong at work, it did.

First, the bookmark display carousel got knocked over by a harried mom pushing a stroller, which meant half an hour of putting the hundred different bookmark designs back in order. Then a toddler decided to dump his sippy cup all over the floor in the children’s section, so I had to spend another hour trying to clean the carpet between helping customers. Add in some extremely rude customers, no time to have lunch, and the cute shoes I just bought leaving massive blisters on my ankles, and I’m more than ready to get home and put this day behind me.

If Xavier were here instead of in Houston, providing security for a FinTech convention, he’d insist on taking care of me. He’d come over to my place with pizza and some of those hard seltzers I like, and he’d bandage my ankles before putting my feet on his lap and rubbing them.

He’d stay overnight, like he’s been doing more often, we’d have slow, passionate sex, and then I’d fall asleep wrapped in his arms.

I might even get up the courage to tell Xavier I’m falling in love with him. Maybe.

“Hey, Lucy.” Amanda, my lone coworker for the day, looks about as frazzled as I’m feeling. She’s carrying the register drawer in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. “I’m going to put this in the safe, and then I think we should be ready to go. Unless you can think of something we missed?”

I give the books on the Road Tripping table a final, appraising glance before saying, “I don’t think so. All the shelves have been restocked, the counters wiped down, and I left all the reports on Remy’s desk.”

Amanda shakes her head. “I’m glad Remy will be back tomorrow. Not that I begrudge him taking a vacation, but with Emmett and Victoria calling out…”

“Yeah.” I walk alongside Amanda as she heads to the office. “Figures it would happen the first time Remy takes time off since he opened the place.”

“I know.” As I watch her open the safe, I continue, “I don’t think I want to tell Remy how rough today was. He’ll never take a vacation again.”

My fifty-something boss has been talking about taking a trip to Yellowstone for over a year, but he’s been too worried about leaving the store to go. Tired of waiting, his boyfriend finally made non-refundable reservations without telling Remy, so there was no way of rescheduling it.

Like Amanda, I’m glad he’s enjoying his well-deserved vacation, but I’ll be glad when he’s back. Not just because he’s a great boss, but because he loves books as much as I do. Every time we work together, we chat about books and he asks me how my writing is going. He always says, “Imagine, a famous author working in my little store. One day, when you’re a number one New York Times bestseller, I hope you’ll come do a signing here.”

I’m not really famous. Yes, I’ve published twenty-six romance novels and have hit the top lists for romance on Amazon, but I’m nowhere close to a bestseller. And that’s okay with me. Just being able to write and put my books out in the world for people to read them is enough to make me happy.

My parents keep saying I should quit my job, let them support me while I write full time. But I don’t want to. It’s like what I told Xavier not long after we met. Just because my parents are wealthy, it doesn’t mean I earned it. I want to find success on my own terms, and if that means working part time at the bookstore to help pay my bills, that’s what I’ll do.

“Phew.” Amanda spins the combination dial on the safe, then stands up and lets out a relieved sigh. “Finally done. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

“Same.” As we leave the office, I turn off the light and make sure the door is locked. “Do you have any plans when you get home?”

“Yes. I have a date with some ice cream and wine.” Amanda grins. “What about you?”

“I’m going to try to get some writing done. Maybe order a pizza. Really exciting stuff.”

“No Xavier tonight?”

“Not tonight.” I force a smile. “He’s working in Houston. But he’ll be back in a couple of days.”

We go quiet as we move through the store, double-checking the doors and shutting off lights. Once we’re at the back door, about to leave, she says, “Well, if you’re feeling lonely, we could go out tomorrow night. The Lonesome Hearts Pub does ladies' night on Thursdays.”

“Maybe.” Or not. Amanda is single and definitely looking, and I’m not in the mood to play wing-woman for the night. Bars were never really my thing, and they’re definitely not now. I’ll go out with Xavier and his friends, but that’s different. They go to the little bar outside town—aptly named The Bar, which always makes me laugh—and with Xavier and his five former Green Beret teammates around, I never have to worry about some strange guy hitting on me.

“That sounds more like a no,” she laughs. “But if you change your mind…”

“I know. Let me see how much work I get done tomorrow.”

As we walk across the small parking lot, I keep my hand in my purse, fingers wrapped around the small canister of pepper spray Xavier insisted I carry. He gave it to me months ago with the explanation, “I know it seems excessive. But I know a woman who got away from her attacker by using this stuff. And I worry about you walking to your car at night. Will you take this?”

Of course I said yes. And I take all the other precautions a woman should when she’s walking alone at night. I have one of those alert whistles attached to my keychain. I try to walk with a partner whenever possible. And I never use my earbuds or stare at my phone, staying alert instead.

But once I’m inside my car and the doors are locked, I pull out my phone and text Xavier.

Hey. Just left work. Long day. I hope everything is going well at the conference. Say hi to Rhiannon and Erik for me. I miss you.

I’m not sure if he’s busy, so I put the car in drive and am about to pull out of the parking lot when his reply comes in.

Hey sunshine. I miss you, too. The conference is good, but can’t wait to get home. I should be wrapping things up for the night soon, so I’ll call you later. Drive safe.

A smile pulls at my lips as I picture Xavier taking a minute from his duties to text me. He’s probably wearing a suit—he said that’s what they wear when working an event—and all the women there are no doubt drooling over him. His tailored jacket hugs his broad shoulders and very impressive biceps, and he has that sexy, intense look in his eyes…

I never considered myself a particularly sensual person, but with Xavier? It’s like the sexy scenes in my books come to life. Better, even.

While I drive home, I let my mind wander to the chapters I’m planning to work on tomorrow. One of them is the first time my characters have sex—make love—and I really want to make it perfect.

Before Xavier, most of my steamy scenes came from my imagination. But now? I can use what we do for inspiration.

As I turn into my driveway, I’m going over the buildup to the act in my head, how the hero, Axel, sweeps his girlfriend, Molly, into his arms and carries her to the bedroom. His gaze heats with desire, his chocolate eyes shifting to espresso, and she clutches his neck, nuzzling his warm skin…

Oh. And now I’m imagining Xavier doing the same thing.

No. Back to the story.

Molly nips his jaw, feeling his light stubble brushing against her lips, and he groans low in his throat. Then he speeds up, jogging the remaining distance to the bedroom…

My mind half in the story, half in real life, I push the button to open the garage, dimly noting that the automatic light isn’t on. The lightbulb must have burned out, which isn’t a surprise considering I haven’t changed it since I moved in three years ago. I could wait for Xavier to get back to fix it, but I don’t want to become that woman who relies on her boyfriend to do everything.

I shut off the car and get out, leaving the garage door open so I can use the faint light of the moon to see. The garage is still mostly dark, shadows stretching to the ceiling and across the floor. A little shiver ripples through me, even though there’s no reason to be nervous. My house is in a nice development, with a neighborhood watch and everything.

The one concession I made to my parents as an adult was letting them help me buy this house, and my dad insisted on installing security. “I’ll sleep better,” he explained. “A woman living on her own… it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Needless to say, Xavier and my dad get along great.

But the end result is, my house is safe. There’s nothing to worry about.

Except.

I’m nearly to the kitchen door when I hear something.

It’s a soft sound, like something brushing on concrete.

An animal?

A breeze catching something?

My heart stutters in spite of my rational explanations.

I hurry towards the door, at the same time reaching into my purse for the pepper spray.

Now my heart is pounding too loudly for me to hear anything above it.

But it’s fine. Just my overactive imagination conjuring something that isn’t there.

I’m sure it’s?—

Something clamps over my mouth.

I’m yanked backwards into something solid.

Oh, God.

Not something. A person .

Their arm bands around my chest.

The thing over my mouth—not a thing, it’s fabric, held by a large hand—smothers my screams.

Fear makes me lightheaded. Spots dance in my vision.

This can’t be happening.

But it is. Someone is in my garage. Smothering me.

I start wriggling, even as my lungs strain to breathe. Kicking. Bucking. Punching.

“Stop it,” hisses a low voice. “There’s no escape. Not from this.”

NO.

Everything is getting fuzzy.

My chest is bursting.

A strange smell hits my nose.

NO.

I’m sucking in frantic breaths, the fabric damp on my lips.

I have to fight.

But everything is fading.

My limbs are getting heavy.

My eyes won’t stay open.

Please. No.

If I could just reach the spray…

Darkness works its way across my vision.

It’s too late.

I’m still alive.

That’s all I know.

Everything else is still in the fog.

Quicksand. Pea soup. Taffy.

Why is it so hard to think?

Why does my head hurt so much?

Where am I?

Nothing makes sense.

Fear catches hold of me, its claws digging in.

But I’m still stuck. My brain won’t work right.

I don’t know what I’m afraid of.

Think. Focus.

Taking deep breaths, I try to force my way through the fog. To take stock.

As my brain gradually comes back online, small details begin to register.

The wood beneath me, gritty and slightly damp.

The smell, sour with a hint of mildew.

Birds calling in the distance.

Wherever I am is dark, but it’s starting to get lighter. The sun coming up?

Terror builds inside me, expanding so quickly I’m breathless with it.

Where am I?

Then, in a strike of clarity, I remember.

The person—it had to be a man—in my garage. Not smothering me, as I first thought, but drugging me.

And now I’m… somewhere.

I need to see .

As light enters the room, I hold myself still. Hoping if someone else is here, they won’t know I’m awake.

But once the room is bright enough, I realize I’m alone.

And as I look around, each thing I notice makes me more afraid.

Sun filters through the cracks of boarded-up windows.

I’m not in a room, but what looks like a dilapidated cabin.

There’s no furniture. No blankets. No carpet.

In the corner, there’s a small pile of food—a few cans of tuna and vegetables, a box of crackers, and a case of water sitting next to them. Then the finishing touch, a hand-held can opener.

In the opposite corner, a thick rope hangs from the ceiling, long enough to coil against the floor.

It looks like there’s a hole in the floor, but it’s not big enough for someone to fit through.

The terror I’m barely managing to control makes another surge forward.

Where am I? Why am I here?

And then.

I realize the worst part of all.

I’m shackled. One around my wrist, the other my ankle—both attached to heavy chains bolted to the wall.

NO .

I’m not just scared. I’m petrified.

And I go a little bit crazy.

I leap up, swaying from dizziness, and race towards the door. But the chains jerk me back, and I go crashing to the floor.

Then I start yanking at the shackles, crying as I try to pull free. But all I manage to do is make my skin tear and bleed.

When my voice goes hoarse from screaming, I finally collapse into a heap. Tears scald my cheeks, and my chest hurts from the sobs bursting out.

Why am I here? How can I get out?

I’m so scared.

As I huddle against the wall, breathing in stuttering gasps, my mind threatens to shut down. To reject whatever is happening here.

But.

Xavier. He’ll realize I’m gone. He’ll come back from Houston and he’ll come looking for me.

Xavier and his team will do what they do best. Protect people. Rescue them.

I just have to hang on until he gets here.