Chapter 11
ELEVEN
JACK
I wake up before the sun, because my body doesn’t know how to do anything else.
It’s not the military that did it—though that didn’t help. It’s the fact that Stella Hart is lying next to me breathing softly, and somewhere out there, someone decided she’d make a good target.
That makes sleep feel like a luxury I don’t deserve.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a second, boots in hand, listening.
The cabin is quiet. No cars on the road. No crunch of gravel. No voices. Just wind moving through trees and the faint hum of the fridge.
Still, I check the locks.
Still, I check the windows.
Still, I run the perimeter, because fear is a liar and routine is the only thing I trust.
By the time I come back inside, Stella is awake—hair in a messy ponytail, wearing one of my t-shirts like it belongs on her, eyes still sleepy and soft. She’s holding a mug of coffee like it’s a lifeline.
My chest tightens.
I’ve protected people before.
I’ve never wanted one like this.
“Morning,” she says, voice warm.
“Morning,” I answer, and the word comes out rougher than it should.
Her gaze slides over my face. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The broody protector thing,” she says, and she tries for playful, but there’s a nervous edge under it. “You look like you want to fight the air.”
I walk closer and take her mug from her hands, set it on the counter, then slide my hands to her hips and pull her against me—just enough to feel her warmth, to remind my body she’s real.
She exhales, surprised. “Jack—”
“I’m here,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to her forehead.
Her hands come up to my chest, fingers curling in my shirt. “I know.”
I breathe her in—shampoo and sleep and something sweet—and it hits me again, hard: I’m falling.
I don’t get that luxury.
Not now.
Not while someone is circling.
I force myself to step back. “Eat,” I tell her.
Stella blinks. “You’re back to bossing.”
“Yes.”
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I will eat. Like a responsible hostage.”
“You’re not a hostage,” I say, voice sharp.
She softens immediately. “I know. Sorry.”
I make breakfast. We move through the morning routine like we’ve been doing it for years—coffee, food, her packing her teacher bag, me checking my phone, texting Grayson for updates.
No new hits overnight.
No clear suspect.
But the thread is tightening.
Stella tries to be normal on the drive to the school. She talks about a read-aloud book she wants to use, a little “feelings chart” activity for her kids, and her voice brightens when she mentions Levi’s obsession with “ninja moves.”
I nod at the right places. I listen.
But my eyes never stop scanning the road. And my mind never stops calculating. Because I’m not just her bodyguard anymore.
Not in my head.
Not in my gut.
She’s become something else.
Something dangerous.
Something worth losing myself over.
At the school, I park in the same spot—line of sight to the main entrance, easy exit, no blind corners. I get out first, sweep the lot, then open Stella’s door. She rolls her eyes, but she steps close enough that her shoulder brushes mine when we walk.
That tiny touch feels like a brand.
Inside, the hallways are loud with morning energy. Teachers rushing. Kids dragging backpacks that are too big for their bodies. The smell of disinfectant and cereal.
Stella’s classroom is a bright square of normal.
She throws on her teacher smile the second the first kid runs in, and I watch her transform—fear tucked away, sunshine turned on, warmth poured into every word.
It’s one of the things that’s ruining me.
Because she does it even when she’s scared.
Because she refuses to let anyone else carry her fear.
I stand in the hallway outside her door like I belong there now. Kids wave at me. Levi shouts, “MR. SINCLAIR! DID YOU DEFEAT ANY BAD GUYS LAST NIGHT?”
I keep my voice calm. “Not last night.”
Levi frowns. “WHY NOT?”
“Because you were asleep,” I say.
The kid’s eyes widen like I just revealed a secret spy rule. “OH.”
Stella looks up from her desk and gives me an exasperated, affectionate look that hits me right in the chest.
She mouths, You’re encouraging them.
I mouth back, They’re fine.
She shakes her head, smiling, and for a second everything feels… possible.
Then my phone buzzes.
Grayson.
My body goes cold.
I step farther down the hall, out of Stella’s direct line of sight but still close enough to cover her door. I answer quietly.
“Sinclair,” Grayson says. “We’ve got movement.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Talk.”
“Funding,” he says. “We pulled the district budget adjustments. That Safe Steps line item didn’t vanish. It was transferred.”
My jaw clenches. “To where.”
“Principal Hanover approved a reallocation,” Grayson replies. “Moved it into a discretionary bucket tied to ‘facilities and safety upgrades.’”
My stomach drops.
“Safety upgrades,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says. “Except there’s no record of actual upgrades. No bids. No purchase orders.”
My blood turns hot.
“Embezzlement,” I say.
“Or laundering,” Grayson corrects. “And here’s the part I don’t like—Hanover’s signature is all over it.”
My eyes flick to Stella’s classroom window.
Stella is at the front of the room now, holding up a picture book, kids gathered on the rug like tiny ducks in a row.
Safe.
For the moment.
“How does this connect to her?” I ask.
Grayson exhales. “We’re still mapping it. But we pulled Hanover’s recent contacts and there’s overlap with a contractor flagged in a fraud case out of San Antonio.”
My spine tightens. “Yeah.”
“There’s definitely something bigger going on here.”
My grip on the phone goes white-knuckle. “I agree, and it all leads to Hanover,” I say.
“Exactly,” Grayson replies. “Keep Stella tight. We’re pushing this to Wyatt and the sheriff right now.”
I glance again at the classroom.
Stella is smiling, reading, turning pages like the world hasn’t cracked open beneath her.
“I have her,” I say, voice low and deadly. “No one touches her.”
“Good,” Grayson says. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“Call me the second anything changes,” I say.
“Sure thing,” he says. Then he hangs up.
I stand there for half a second, pacing up and down the hallway, thinking.
Hanover. Missing money. A principal reallocating funds.
This isn’t random.
This is a net.
And Stella’s been standing in the middle of it, smiling and teaching vowels like she isn’t the bait.
I turn and head back toward her classroom with purpose. I need her eyes on this. I need her prepared. I need her understanding what we’re dealing with— I stop short.
The classroom door is open.
Kids are still inside, but the energy has shifted. A teaching aide—Ms. Rina—stands at Stella’s desk with a confused look, scanning the room like she misplaced something important.
Stella isn’t at the front.
She isn’t at her desk.
She isn’t anywhere.
My blood goes cold.
I step into the doorway. “Where is she?”
Ms. Rina looks up, startled. “Oh—Mr. Sinclair. She just… she stepped out.”
My voice stays calm, because panic gets people killed. “Stepped out where?”
Ms. Rina gestures vaguely. “She said she needed to speak to Principal Hanover again. She looked—” She frowns. “Focused. Like she had her mind made up.”
My stomach drops hard.
I didn’t know.
I was on the call.
I wasn’t watching the hallway.
I wasn’t—
The kids chatter on the rug, oblivious. Levi raises his hand like we’re in the middle of math.
“MR. SINCLAIR,” he whispers loudly, “WHERE’D MS. HART GO?”
My jaw clenches.
I force my face into something neutral. “I’ll go find her, buddy.”
I look back at Ms. Rina, voice low. “How long ago?”
“Maybe… two minutes?” she says quickly, reading my tone. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, though it’s not. “Keep them in the room. Door closed. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
Her eyes widen. “Okay.”
I step back into the hallway, already moving.
Principal’s office is down the hall, past the trophy case, around the corner.
Two minutes is an eternity.
And Stella is walking into a closed room with a man who might be involved in something bigger than a stolen grant.
My phone is in my hand as I stride fast, calling Wyatt as I go, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
Because the one second I let my guard down— Stella Hart disappeared.