Her Rough, Possessive Bodyguard (Lone Star Security #17)

Chapter 1

Sierra

The box shows up on a Tuesday, taped and labeled and final. My chest tightens before I even reach for it.

It sits outside my door in the narrow hallway of my Austin apartment building, taped up and scuffed at the corners. My name is printed in clean black ink, and beneath it, a return address that makes my stomach drop so hard I taste bile.

Department of Defense.

My fingers hover over it like it might bite.

A month.

It has been a month since the knock. Since uniforms filled my doorway and my knees forgot how to work. Since I heard words that didn’t fit in my life. We’re sorry to inform you…

I stare at the box and do what I’ve gotten very good at lately. I dissociate.

My brain tries to float above my body, above this hallway, above the whole mess of my existence. Like if I step outside myself, it won’t hurt as much.

Spoiler. It still hurts.

I bend down, pick it up, and carry it inside. The cardboard is heavier than it should be, or maybe my arms are weaker now. Everything feels heavier now.

My apartment is small. Cute, if you like “cute” in the sense of “this is all you can afford when student loans and Austin rent team up to bully you.” The air smells like stale coffee and the lavender candle I keep lighting even though it doesn’t fix anything.

I set the box on my kitchen table and stare at it like it might start breathing.

I should open it.

The email came last week. The warning. The polite, sterile words about “personal effects.” I could have braced myself. I could have cried in advance, planned for it, pretended I had control.

I didn’t.

I waited until the box was here, taking up space in my apartment like it belonged.

My throat tightens.

I take a slow breath. Then another. Like I’m about to jump into cold water.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, Dad.”

I slice through the tape with a butter knife because I can’t find my scissors, and honestly, that feels on brand for my life right now. The cardboard peels back with a harsh ripping sound that’s way too loud in my quiet apartment.

Inside is tissue paper. Bubble wrap. A faint scent that hits me so hard my vision blurs.

A ghost of aftershave and cigars trapped in cloth, metal sharp enough to bring my dad back for half a second.

My chest caves in.

I press my knuckles to my mouth, breathing through it, breathing through the sudden burn behind my eyes. Crying has become this annoying reflex I can’t control. Like my body is a faucet someone forgot to turn off.

I peel back the tissue paper and bubble wrap.

A folded shirt. Neatly packed.

Dog tags in a little plastic bag.

A bent notebook.

A pocket knife.

A baseball cap that looks like it’s been worn hard, the brim curved just right.

Every object is a punch. Every object is a memory.

Him tossing me that cap at the lake when I was ten, laughing because it slid over my eyes.

Him teaching me how to hold the pocket knife like a tool, not a weapon.

Him writing in that notebook at the kitchen counter while I did homework, both of us pretending his leaving didn’t tear me in half every time.

I swallow.

I keep unpacking, because if I stop, I might fall apart.

At the bottom of the box is a small photo frame wrapped in tissue paper.

It’s cheap, scuffed up, like it’s been stuffed into a duffel and forgotten.

I peel the tissue away and my breath catches anyway. An old picture of me, Mom, and Dad, all of us squinting into the sun. It’s from that last summer before cancer took her away, when we still believed we had time.

I flip the frame over and run my fingers along the back. Something isn’t right.

A hidden latch. A thin panel.

I pop it open.

A flash drive.

Black. Unlabeled. Too small for the way my pulse jumps.

I move to my laptop on the counter like I’m on autopilot. My hands shake as I plug the flash drive in. The computer chimes softly, cheerful and oblivious.

A folder pops up.

My heart stutters.

The folder name is numbers and letters. No “For Sierra.” No “Love, Dad.” No “Open when you’re ready.”

I was hoping for a video. Pictures. Anything. It’s just code.

I click. A password prompt appears.

My mouth goes dry.

“Seriously?” I whisper.

I try his birthday.

Denied.

Mine.

Denied.

Mom’s.

Denied.

His favorite stupid saying.

Denied.

I try the obvious patterns he used on everything from his gym locker to the Wi-Fi password at his last rental.

Denied. Denied. Denied.

The prompt sits there, blank and cold, like it’s daring me to keep going.

I lean back against the counter, breathing hard, as if I just ran up a flight of stairs.

I can’t access it.

My laptop makes a faint whirring noise, like it’s thinking too hard. The window flickers once, barely noticeable.

Then it settles. Nothing changes.

It’s probably in my head. Grief has me jumping at shadows.

I unplug the flash drive and stare at it in my hand. Too small. Too ordinary. Too easy to hide. Too easy to steal.

Dread settles low in my gut, heavy as a stone.

I grab my shoulder bag and shove the drive inside. I’ll call my uncle when I’m not… like this. Dave’s not my real uncle, just my father’s best friend, the man who’s been around since I was a kid. He’ll know what to do with it. Or at least know someone who does.

I don’t have the energy to figure it out right now. I don’t have the emotional capacity to open a new door when I can barely keep the old ones closed.

My stomach growls, sharp and mean, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything real today. Coffee doesn’t count. Sad crackers don’t count. Neither does the spoonful of peanut butter I had at midnight because sleep wouldn’t come.

I need food. I need outside air. I need to feel like a person for ten minutes.

There’s a hotdog stand two blocks away. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s familiar. And right now, familiar feels like survival.

I grab my keys, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door.

Then I see the glass pie plate on my counter.

Mrs. Daisy brought me pie yesterday.

She’s my neighbor downstairs, the kind of older lady who smells like clean laundry and cinnamon and has the softest voice in the building. She didn’t ask questions when she showed up with pie. She didn’t tilt her head and look at me like I might shatter.

She just said, “Eat something, sweetheart,” and pressed the warm plate into my hands like that was a normal thing to do when someone’s world ends.

I pick up the plate and head down the narrow stairs.

Her door opens before I even finish knocking.

“Look at you,” she says, eyes crinkling. “Looking better.”

“Barely,” I admit, holding up the plate. “Returning this. Also… thank you. For the pie.”

“I’m glad you ate,” she says, like she’s proud of me for accomplishing the bare minimum.

I step inside because she waves me in like she owns me now, like she’s adopted the grief-stricken girl upstairs and decided I’m her responsibility.

Her apartment smells like lemon cleaner and old books. A fan hums in the corner. The TV is on low. Everything is soft and lived-in, like comfort has been baked into the walls.

I set the plate on her counter.

“You heading out?” she asks.

“Hotdog,” I say, forcing a tiny smile. “Trying to be… functional.”

“That’s good,” she says firmly. “That’s very good. Your dad would want you eating.”

My throat tightens at the mention of him, but she doesn’t say it like a weapon. She says it like a truth.

“Come back later,” she adds. “Tell me if it was any good.”

“I will,” I promise.

I move toward the door.

My hand wraps around the knob.

And then I hear it.

A sound from upstairs.

From my apartment.

A thud, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the paper-thin ceiling.

My whole body locks.

I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, breath caught in my throat.

Another sound. A scrape. Like furniture shifting, or a drawer being yanked open.

My pulse slams into my ears so loud it blots out everything else.

Mrs. Daisy’s voice cuts through the sudden rush of panic. “Sierra? Honey, what’s wrong?”

I don’t answer at first because my brain refuses to accept what my body already knows.

There is someone in my apartment.

I live alone.

No pets. No roommates. No friends with keys.

My gaze drops to my shoulder bag hanging off my arm, with the flash drive inside.

A cold wave washes over me.

Oh my God.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, the words coming out thin.

Mrs. Daisy is already moving. She steps between me and the door like she’s shielding me from the hallway, from the upstairs stairs, from the whole world. “What is it?”

“There’s…” My voice breaks. I swallow hard. “There’s someone in my apartment.”

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. She moves with this sharp, practiced calm that makes me wonder what she’s lived through to learn it.

She locks her front door.

The click is loud.

“Come here,” she says, tugging my elbow. “Behind the couch. Now.”

I follow like a puppet.

We crouch low behind her couch, half hidden from the windows. My hands tremble so badly my phone nearly slips out of my grip. My bag is clutched to my chest like a shield.

My lungs forget how to work.

In. Out.

In. Out.

I know a little self-defense. My dad insisted. He taught me how to break a wrist grip. How to stomp someone’s foot. How to drive my palm into a nose and run.

But self-defense requires you to be close enough to hit someone.

And I am not going upstairs to meet whoever is tearing through my life.

Mrs. Daisy whispers, “I’m calling the police.”

My stomach flips. “Wait.”

She stares at me, eyebrow raised like she does not love that answer.

“I…” My thoughts scatter. If this is connected to the flash drive, if this is something bigger… police means questions. Reports. Explanations I do not have. It means dragging my father’s box into the light when I can barely look at it without shaking.

But if I don’t call the police, what am I doing? Should I call uncle Dave? He’s deployed. He can’t help from afar.

My hand tightens around my phone.