Rescuing Aria (Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists: DELTA TEAM #2)

1. Aria

ONE

Aria

I used to believe the worst thing that could happen was being taken. It turns out, surviving it is harder. Surviving means carrying the silence. The nightmares. The lies you tell yourself just to keep breathing.

Except you don’t forget. You just get better at hiding it. You smile prettier. Wear designer jeans. Rebrand the trauma as strength. Wrap the scars in gold and call it kintsugi.

Now I sell hope in glass jars. Dreams that smell like cinnamon and safety.

I tell myself this candle shop is healing.

That I belong here, where it smells like light, not the cellar where they broke us.

And maybe if I burn enough wicks, I’ll believe it.

They broke us in the dark, but now we’re building light.

And I’m pretending I’m not still shattered.

Ember’s on her third pass reorganizing a display of crystal vessels, fingers trembling like they remember too. The last time she touched fire, it nearly killed her. Now she bottles it in glass and calls it hope.

“If you reorganize that display again, I’m calling Blaze.” I’m unable to keep the amusement out of my voice as she adjusts the same arrangement of crystal vessels for what has to be the twentieth time this morning.

Despite the ungodly hour, I’ve made an effort with my appearance—designer jeans and our company shirt, which I’ve modified to look more runway-worthy than retail. The familiar ritual of putting myself together helps calm my nerves.

“Aria, I’m fine,” Ember insists, though her hands shake as the crystal vessels clink together. “Just—making sure everything’s perfect.”

“Everything’s already perfect.” I cross the space, my heels clicking against the reclaimed hardwood floors. “Including the west wall display, which you’ve obsessed over for three days straight.”

I catch her restless hands in mine, feeling the tremor of anxiety beneath her skin. Her fingers find the small burn scar on her collarbone—an old tell I’ve learned to recognize.

“What if—” she starts.

“No what-ifs,” I interrupt gently. “We’ve planned for everything. Now breathe before you work yourself into a panic attack.”

The workshop door creaks open, and Ryn slips through. Six months of regular meals have softened the sharp angles of her face, but her eyes still hold shadows. She stands taller now—another survivor refusing to break.

“The first batch is ready for inspection.” Her voice carries that careful deliberation of someone who went too long without speaking. “The new rose quartz vessels worked perfectly.”

I follow as she leads us into the workshop, watching Ember’s face light up with pride. The space is incredible—three professional pouring stations gleaming under specialty lighting, walls lined with ingredients that would make any artisan weep with envy.

“Look.” Ryn lifts one of her creations, and I gasp. Rose quartz vessels hold swirls of pale pink and gold wax, tiny crystals suspended like constellations. “I tried that new technique with the suspended minerals.”

“These are extraordinary,” Ember breathes, and I nod in agreement. “There’s real artistry here.” She hugs Ryn, who immediately flinches, but then relaxes, leaning into Ember’s touch.

We’ve all been traumatized. Ryn, perhaps more than Ember or myself.

The front bell chimes, and my hands fly to my hair, smoothing strands that are already perfectly in place.

“Three guesses who that is,” Ryn mutters, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

“Anyone alive in here? Brought coffee and those almond croissants Aria likes.” Jon’s voice carries from the retail floor, deep and warm like coffee and promises. My heart does something ridiculous in my chest. He remembered. Of course, he remembered—Jon notices everything.

“I should, um—go help. With the coffee. Because… Reasons,” I stammer, already moving toward the front.

“Subtle,” Ryn calls after me, her smile widening.

I practically float to the retail floor, then try to compose myself when I see him.

Jon stands near the entrance, still carrying himself with the same military bearing, despite being in civilian clothes.

He sets out breakfast with careful attention to detail—pastries arranged just so, coffee cups positioned just right.

His gaze finds mine immediately, and something electric passes between us. I catch him looking when he thinks I’m not paying attention, his gaze lingering on my face, my hair, and the way I move through the space. When our eyes meet, my stomach does backflips.

“You didn’t have to bring breakfast.” Though I’m already gravitating toward the coffee like it’s calling my name.

“I wanted to.” Simple words, but the way he says them makes heat pool in my belly.

The front door chimes again. This time, it’s Charlie and Brett, carrying more breakfast and looking relaxed together.

Jon’s shoulders tense slightly—the only visible sign of discomfort.

The dissolution of their three-way relationship still echoes in moments like this, wounds that are healing but not completely healed.

I reach for the mug, fingers brushing ceramic, but they won’t steady. Tremors betray me—tiny at first, then stronger, a pulse of tension radiating out from my core. The silence presses in, heavy and sharp-edged, scraping nerves already frayed raw.

The cup tips.

Time slows.

Coffee arcs in midair, splashing across the wood floor as the porcelain shatters. A sharp gasp—not mine—breaks the moment. I stare at the mess, heat rising in my throat, unable to breathe past the sudden sting behind my eyes.

Before I can even react, Jon is there. His hands catch mine, steadying me, checking my fingers for any sign of burns or cuts. His touch is gentle but thorough, professional yet intimate.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is soft, concerned, meant only for me.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, though I don’t pull my hands away. “Just clumsy.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Charlie and Brett exchange knowing looks, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment.

And then the moment passes—slips between us like breath—and the rhythm of the morning presses in to swallow it.

Brett crouches to mop up coffee with a wad of paper towels while Charlie mutters something about needing stronger mugs. Jon finally releases my hands, his touch leaving behind a phantom heat that lingers far longer than it should.

The front door chimes again.

Controlled chaos descends like a well-rehearsed play.

Jenny strides in with Mac on her heels, both scanning the space like they’re prepping a battlefield instead of a candle shop. Mitzy’s right behind them, already scrolling through her tablet and muttering something about wireless dead zones.

“Don’t start,” Ember warns from across the counter, without looking up. “No robots, no drones, no laser grid.”

I watch the familiar banter, but my attention keeps drifting to Jon.

The way he moves—deliberate, coiled, predator-smooth—makes it impossible not to stare.

Six-foot-something of silent intensity, all broad shoulders and cut muscle stacked like he was carved, not born.

His shirt stretches just enough across his chest to make my thoughts indecent, and when he pivots, that narrow waist and thick arms pull heat straight into my bloodstream.

He doesn’t just look like danger. He wears it like a second skin. Eyes sweeping the space, cataloging exits, reading threats I can’t even see. But then his gaze snags on mine—and holds.

Too long. Too deep. Like he sees everything I’m not saying.

And God help me, I don’t look away.

The front door jingles, and Blaze fills the space with his effortless swagger. Ember turns like she’s gravity-bound to him, her whole face lighting up. That look between them? It’s a slow-burning fire. A promise. Something so real it makes my heart twist in my chest.

“Morning, beautiful.” His voice is a low caress, and their kiss draws out a collective groan.

“Gross,” Ryn calls from the workshop. “Some of us are trying to work here.”

The laughter that follows is familiar, grounding, and I use the distraction to step toward the front shelving. One of the signs is crooked—barely, but it bothers me. I reach up, stretching onto my toes, fingertips grazing the bracket.

A shadow moves in.

“Here—let me.” Jon’s voice slides down my spine, all quiet power.

Before I can react, he steps in close, reaching above me, his body a wall of heat and muscle. We’re not touching—barely—but my whole body buzzes like we are. I lower my arm slowly as his takes its place, and now he’s towering above me, breath warm against my temple.

I turn my head. He looks down.

The moment sharpens—tense, electric.

His face is inches from mine. Sharp jawline, dark eyes with flecks of amber catching the light. One hand still raised above me, the other dropping slowly to his side. We’re frozen, suspended in something fragile and dangerous.

I forget the sign. Forget the shop. Forget how to breathe.

“Are you two gonna kiss, or should I give you a minute?” Jenny’s voice pierces the silence, bone-dry and perfectly timed.

We spring apart like teenagers caught sneaking out.

“I was just fixing the sign,” I mutter, ducking my head.

“I was just helping her.” Jon clears his throat, stepping back.

Charlie snorts into her coffee. Brett lifts a candle to his nose with exaggerated concentration.

And me? I can still feel the heat of his body like it’s been branded into my skin.

“Two hours to opening,” Mitzy announces, saving us from further embarrassment.

“Your Instagram announcement reached fifty thousand views overnight.” I check my phone, smiling. It’s a phenomenal number.

“Fifty thousand?” Ember’s knees nearly buckle.

“Turns out ‘Former Foster Kid Opens Luxury Candle Shop With Kidnapping Survivor Bestie’ makes compelling social media,” I manage to say, trying to regain my composure. “Who knew?”