3. Hudson
HUDSON
Sleep’s a fucking joke. I’m flat on my back, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the hum of the hotel AC and the distant sirens coming from the street below. Some bodyguard you are, Hudson. You’re supposed to be rested, sharp, and vigilant.
But it’s Ivory’s face I can’t shake, the look she gave me when I basically told her to leave me the hell alone during dinner. I didn’t use those exact words, but it landed just as hard, hurting her feelings.
Good, I tried to tell myself. It keeps things simple because I need boundaries.
She’s not a friend; she’s a job. Christ, she’s what, barely nineteen?
Still practically a kid. So goddamn small, always nervous, always bracing herself, ready for someone to snap at her.
I remember how she flinched when her old man so much as looked her way, telling myself it’s none of my business, it’s my problem.
But who am I kidding? She already is.
When she looks at me, it isn’t fear. Not exactly. More like…hope. Which is worse.
I let out a low groan, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, scrubbing a calloused hand down my face. I need to hit a gym somewhere, blow off some of this unwanted tension. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her alone. So I settle for investigating instead.
I flip open my laptop and start hunting.
Socials, news articles, the deep corners of the internet.
Ashford’s name is everywhere, associated with old money, new money, dirty money; money that still stinks no matter how many times you run it through the wash.
I find paper shell companies, fraud accusations, and a couple of federal investigations that never resulted in anything.
All of it pretty much Mafia-adjacent. Ivory barely exists in all this noise.
There are only a few private accounts, some charity event photos of her wearing dresses worth more than my year’s rent, then a whole lot of nothing.
No friends. No parties. No exes crawling out of the woodwork.
Just a handful of likes from cousins and some old lady.
Probably her grandmother.
Fuck. No wonder she tried so hard to make small talk tonight. She’s lonely as hell.
I swipe through her photos. Every shot has that same practiced half-smile, positioned just off-center, carefully arranged as an accessory.
There's nothing spontaneous; no candid laughter, no genuine moments. Someone else is pulling the strings on how the world sees her, and I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s responsible.
My fists clench involuntarily.
I close the laptop, and stare at my reflection on the black screen. What the fuck am I doing here? Babysitting a sad, pretty girl while her family runs the city like it’s their personal casino?
I should keep my head down, do the job, get paid, and leave when it’s over. But I can’t shake that look she gave me. The one that said she’d take any scrap of kindness and hold it close.
I slam the laptop closed, needing to move. There’s too much energy buzzing under my skin, and nowhere to put it. Normally, I'd find a gym open all night and work this tension out of my system on an old leather bag. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving Ivory here alone and unprotected.
I stand and stretch, bending a certain way until my back pops. Deciding to see if there’s anything to eat in the kitchen.
The suite’s dark, except for the faint glow of the under-cabinet lighting. I move quietly. Old habit. Always assume someone’s waiting to jump you in the dark.
I round the corner and freeze.
Ivory is at the table, one knee hugged up tight, and one bare leg poking out from under some oversized T-shirt that hangs on her tiny frame. She hasn’t seen me yet, she’s too busy staring into her bowl, lips parted, the tip of her tongue flicking over the spoon.
Fuck me.
My eyes drag over her; long black hair spilling down her back, skin pale and soft, the slope of her thigh exposed and begging for my hands. She looks so fucking innocent, and she has no idea what she’s doing to me.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this. She’s too young.
But all I can see is the little gap where her thighs part and the way she cradles the bowl to her chest. That baggy shirt has slipped down just enough that I get a perfect view of her tits.
They are smaller than what I typically prefer, but perfect.
I can’t help but notice how her perky nipples strain hard against the thin fabric.
She has no idea what she looks like right now, sitting there all sweet and vulnerable, but my cock sure as hell does, wanting so badly to toss her over my shoulder and ruin her in ways she’s never dreamed.
No. No.
I’m supposed to be her bodyguard. My job is to keep her safe, not stand here in the dark like some perv, getting hard at the sight of her looking so damn hot.
Every dirty thought running through my mind right now is aimed straight at her, and she has no fucking clue how bad I want her, knowing how wrong it is.
She glances up, green eyes going wide, spoon halfway to her mouth. Caught.
Right then it hits me, I want to be the reason she gasps like that, not from being scared or startled. But for a different reason entirely.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she mumbles, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. “I think there’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
I grunt, grabbing a plate from the fridge. It looks like some expensive pasta the hotel left. I heat it up and sit across from her. I can feel her watching me, all shy and awkward.
I clear my throat. “I thought I was the only one prowling around at two in the morning.”
She gives a tiny laugh, shoulders relaxing a bit. “I have a hard time sleeping in new places. There’s too much noise.”
I nod. “I get it. The city will do that.”
We eat in silence, but this time it’s different, not uncomfortable like earlier. It’s just…quiet.
I could ask her about her family, about her old man, and why he treats her the way he does. But I don’t. It’s too personal, too dangerous. So I keep it light.
“Are you always a night owl?” I ask, shoving a forkful of cold pasta in my mouth.
She shrugs, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "I read a lot at night. And it’s hard to sleep when I'm caught up in someone else's world, I can’t put it down. Makes it worth being tired the next day."
“What do you read?” I ask, surprised at myself for caring.
She perks up a little. “Anything, really. I like stories that aren’t real. Fantasy. Magic. Places I know I’ll never get to go.”
I nod, chewing slowly, wanting so bad to tell her there’s more to the world than this prison she lives in, but it’s not my place. I’m not here to save her, I’m here to keep her alive and breathing.
“Sounds better than reality most days,” I say instead. She grins, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from her.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous when she lets herself relax.
We end up talking for a while, about nothing really. I keep it safe. No family, no old wounds, nothing that would make either of us uncomfortable. She laughs at something I say, and I laugh too, just to hear the sound echo off the marble countertops.
When we’re done, we clean up together. She hands me a dish towel, and our fingers brush. She freezes, eyes wide, but I act like it’s no big deal and dry the plates.
I toss the towel down on the counter, “Alright, that’s enough manual labor for one night. Go get some sleep, kid,” I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to sound.
She simply nods, and heads down the hall toward her room. I wait until she’s inside, then do one last check of the doors and windows before heading to my own room.
This time, when I hit the mattress, I actually sleep. No dreams, no guilt. Just the memory of Ivory’s laugh, and the way she looked at me like I might be something safe.