Chapter 1 #2
A memory snaps into place. Dad pressing a business card into my palm years ago, looking at me like this part mattered more than anything else.
If you ever feel unsafe, you call. No debating.
He made me keep it in my wallet like a rule. I didn’t get it then. I get it now.
“Give me one minute,” I whisper.
Mrs. Daisy’s mouth tightens. “One minute, sweetheart. Then I’m calling.”
I nod, throat dry.
I pull the card out with shaking fingers and stare at the number.
Then I hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
On the third ring, a man answers. “Lone Star Security.”
The voice is steady, professional. Like whoever it belongs to is already paying attention.
“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m calling the number on a card my dad gave me years ago.” My fingers tighten around my phone. “He told me it was for emergencies only. His name is… was Marcus Quinn.”
Silence.
My mouth goes dry.
“Your name,” he says.
The words hit like a command. It should irritate me. Instead, it steadies me.
“Sierra,” I say. “Sierra Hayes Quinn.”
Another pause. Short. Sharp.
Then, “What happened, Sierra? Where are you?”
“Austin,” I whisper. “I’m in my neighbor’s apartment downstairs. I think someone broke into mine.”
The air on the line changes. Like a switch flips.
“You think or you know?” he asks.
My heart lurches. I don’t know if I should tell whoever this is about the drive. I decide against it, at least for now.
“I can hear them,” I say. “My father told me to call this number if I was ever in danger.” My fingers clamp around my phone. “Are you going to help me or should I call the police?”
“Text this number the address you’re at,” he says.
Mrs. Daisy leans closer, whispering, “Who is that?”
I cover the phone with my hand. “A number my dad left.”
The man on the line keeps talking, calm like a blade.
“Are you alone?”
“No. My neighbor is with me.”
“Good. Stay there. Do not go back into your apartment. I’m sending a bodyguard to you now.”
“A bodyguard,” I repeat, because my brain can’t make it fit.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Daisy whispers, “Police.”
I nod at her, the fear in me warring with the need to listen to the voice on the line.
“Should I call the police?” I ask.
“I advise against that,” he says. “If your father gave you this number, it was because he believed the police cannot help you. Right now, your priority is staying alive. Listen carefully. Do not leave your neighbor’s apartment.
Do not go upstairs. If someone comes to the neighbor’s door, you do not open it unless I tell you it’s my man. ”
“I won’t open the door unless your man comes,” I echo, and the words slide under my skin in a way I don’t have time to unpack.
“What’s your name?” I ask, because I need something human to hold onto.
A pause, like he’s deciding how much to give me.
“Gray,” he says finally. “Grayson Calhoun.”
The name means nothing to me, but the sound of it is steady, grounded.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, Grayson.”
“You did the right thing calling,” he says, and I hate how much relief that gives me. “Stay where you are. He’ll be there as fast as I can get him to you.”
My hand shakes around the phone. “Who is he?”
Another beat.
“Knox Sutton.”
The name lands heavy.
The noises upstairs have stopped now. That’s somehow worse. The silence feels like a predator crouching.
I listen for footsteps in the hallway. For a door opening. For anything.
Mrs. Daisy grips my hand under the couch cushion like she’s anchoring me to the earth.
I don’t know how much time passes. Enough for my heart to start keeping time wrong. It feels like a lifetime.
Then, faintly, through her front door, I hear boots on the hallway stairs.
Heavy. Slow. Controlled.
My pulse spikes.
I hold my breath.
The footsteps stop outside her door.
A knock follows.
Three sharp taps.
Mrs. Daisy looks at me, eyes wide, and I can tell she’s about to ignore every instruction and call the police anyway.
My phone buzzes softly.
Gray’s voice is quiet now, controlled. “He’s there.”
My mouth goes dry. “How do you know?”
“Because he just checked in,” Gray says. “Open the door. Now.”
Mrs. Daisy stands first, moving like she’s ready to swing a cast iron pan if she has to. She cracks the door open a fraction, chain still on.
And then I see him through the gap.
He fills the space like he owns the air in it.
Tall. Rugged. Sun-browned skin. Dark hair cut short like he doesn’t have patience for anything that gets in his eyes. One arm covered in tattoos that disappear beneath the sleeve of his shirt. The other bare, forearm corded with muscle.
And his eyes.
Piercing blue.
The kind of blue that doesn’t belong on earth, not on a man who looks like he’s been through hell and came out meaner for it.
His gaze lands on me, pinned behind Mrs. Daisy’s shoulder.
For one second, the world narrows to that look.
Like he sees everything.
Like he sees right through my grief, my fear, my shaking hands, the curve of my body I’ve spent too many years apologizing for.
His jaw tightens. A muscle ticks.
Then his voice drops low, rough as gravel.
“Sierra Hayes Quinn?”
My throat closes.
“Yes,” I manage.
He nods once, sharp and decisive, like that confirms something inside him.
“I’m Knox Sutton,” he says. “I’m here to get you out.”
And the way he says it, calm and absolute, makes heat flicker in my belly at the worst possible time.
Because fear isn’t the only thing rushing through me.
It’s something else too.
Something dangerous.
Something that feels like recognition.
Like my whole body knows him even though I’ve never seen him before.
Mrs. Daisy hums, low and pleased.
“Well, aren’t you a sight,” she says, absolutely unbothered. “If you’re half as capable as you are handsome, this girl’s going to be just fine.”
Knox’s gaze doesn’t leave mine as he reaches up and unhooks the chain himself, like he’s done this a thousand times. Like locks are suggestions and safety is something he carries in his hands.
He steps inside, and the apartment suddenly feels too small for him.
Too small for the storm he brings with him.
“From now on, you do exactly what I tell you, darlin’,” he says, voice low. “No arguing.”
I should get angry. Offended.
I should tell him I’m not a child, not a possession, not something to be ordered.
Instead, my body does something traitorous.
It relaxes.
Just a fraction.
Because standing in front of me is a man who looks like he was built to end threats.