Chapter 1 #2
Or a coat.
I don't know fashion, but I know the look on her face as she adjusts the way it hangs.
Pride. Nerves. Hope.
She made this.
These are her pieces.
Something shifts in my chest.
Something I don't want to examine too closely.
A man approaches her—tall, silver-haired, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my monthly wage.
One of the buyers, based on the badge clipped to his lapel.
He says something that makes her laugh, and I watch his eyes drop to her neckline.
My hand twitches toward my weapon.
Easy. He's just talking to her. Looking at her. Like every other man in this room is looking at her.
I hate all of them.
Dalla touches the man's arm—a polite gesture, nothing more—and excuses herself.
She moves through the crowd with purpose now, stopping to adjust a garment here, speaking with a model there.
Doing her job and being brilliant at it.
Then her head turns, and those blue eyes find mine across the room.
Shite.
She doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just holds my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
I'm across the room, half-hidden in shadow, dressed in black like every other security guard here.
She shouldn't have been able to pick me out.
But she did.
Her mouth curves—that same curve from last night, the one that says she knows exactly what effect she's having—and she starts walking toward me.
No. No, no, no.
I straighten, keeping my expression blank, my posture professional.
She can't come over here, can't acknowledge me.
That's not how this works.
She stops a meter away, close enough that I can smell her perfume.
Something floral and warm.
Something that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe.
"You're supposed to be invisible," she says quietly, not looking at me. To anyone watching, she's studying the artwork on the wall.
"I am invisible."
"Not to me."
Jaysus.
"Go back to your guests, Miss Dalla."
"Miss Dalla?" Her lips twitch. "That's very formal for someone who pinned me with a look last night like he wanted to—"
"Don't."
The word comes out rougher than I intend.
She turns her head slightly, just enough for me to see her eyes.
They're sparkling. The little minx is enjoying this.
"Don't what?"
"Don't play games with me. You don't know what you're starting."
"Maybe I want to find out."
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised I don't crack a tooth.
She's testing me.
Pushing.
Seeing how far she can go before I break.
"The showing's about to start," I manage. "You should take your position."
"You're right. I should." She pauses. "Will you be watching?"
Always.
"It's my job to watch."
"Mm." That curve again. That devastating, maddening curve. "Then I'll make sure to give you something worth watching."
She walks away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Fuck.
I'm in so much trouble.
The showing begins at two sharp, and I have to give Greer Mackenzie credit—the woman knows how to command a room.
She takes the small stage at the end of the runway, elegant in black, and delivers a speech about innovation and heritage and the future of design.
The guests hang on every word.
Even I'm half-listening, though my eyes never stop scanning.
Then she introduces Dalla.
"My senior designer has been developing a collection that represents everything we believe in at this house. Bold. Uncompromising. Utterly original." Greer's gaze finds Dalla in the crowd. "I'm proud to present her work to you today."
Dalla steps forward, and I see her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
Nervous, but her voice is steady when she speaks, walking the guests through her inspiration, her process, the story behind each piece.
She's good.
Better than good.
She speaks about fashion the way Da speaks about protection—with absolute conviction that what she does matters.
The first model walks the runway, and a murmur ripples through the crowd.
Then another, and another.
I don't know enough to judge the clothes themselves, but I can read a room.
These people are impressed.
More than impressed—they're hungry.
I see phones coming out, photos being snapped, buyers leaning forward in their seats.
Dalla did this.
She's standing near the side of the runway now, watching her creations come to life, and there's something on her face I can't look away from.
Joy. Pure, unguarded joy.
I want to bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe. Make sure nothing ever takes it from her.
Christ. Get a grip.
I tear my eyes away, forcing myself to focus on the job.
Scan the exits. Check the guests. Look for anything out of place.
That's when I see him.
Third row, left side.
Dark suit, forgettable face.
He's been watching the runway like everyone else, but something's off.
His posture. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hand keeps drifting toward his jacket.
I've seen that movement before. A hundred times.
He's armed.
My body goes cold and hot at the same time.
Training taking over.
I'm already moving before I've made the conscious decision, cutting through the crowd at an angle that won't draw attention.
Dalla's still by the runway.
Exposed.
Fifteen meters from the threat.
Too far.
The man's hand slides into his jacket.
Twelve meters.
Dalla turns, laughing at something someone said, her back to the danger.
Eight meters.
He pulls the weapon.
I don't think.
I launch myself at her, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other coming up to shield her head as I take her down.
We hit the floor hard—my shoulder absorbing most of the impact, her body pressed tight against mine.
The first shot cracks through the air.
Screaming. Glass shattering. Chaos erupts around us.
I roll, putting myself between her and the shooter, and draw my own weapon in one smooth motion.
The Sig feels like an extension of my hand.
Second shot. This one is closer.
I return fire without hesitation. Two rounds, center mass. The man staggers. Falls.
But he's not alone.
Another shooter near the exit.
Third by the windows.
They've boxed us in, planned this, and Dalla's lying beneath me with her heart slamming against my chest and her breath coming in sharp gasps against my neck.
"Stay down," I growl in her ear. "Don't move. Don't fecking move."
I feel her nod.
A tiny motion, her fingers curl into my jacket, gripping tight.
The next thirty seconds are violent.
I move on instinct, on training, on years of being shaped into exactly this—a weapon that doesn't hesitate.
I take the second shooter with three rounds, then the third when he breaks cover to aim at us.
My shoulder screams.
I've been hit—grazed, probably, nothing serious—but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
Not until every threat is neutralized, not until she's safe.
When it's over, the silence is deafening.
Three men down.
Guests huddled against walls, crying, screaming into phones.
Security flooding in too late to matter.
And Dalla.
Still beneath me. Still breathing.
Her blue eyes wide and fixed on my face like I'm the only thing in the world.
"You're okay," I tell her, and I don't know if I'm asking or telling. "You're okay. Are you hurt? Dalla. Are you hurt?"
My hands are on her face before I realize I'm moving.
Checking for blood.
For injuries.
For anything wrong.
Her skin is so soft.
So warm.
She's shaking—or maybe I am—and I can't make myself let go.
"I'm okay," she whispers. "RJ. I'm okay."
Something cracks open in my chest. Something I've kept locked away for so long, I forgot it existed.
"We need to move," I manage. "Now. Before more come."
I pull her up, keeping her pressed against my side, my body still shielding hers.
The wound in my shoulder burns, but I ignore it.
Pain is irrelevant. Only she matters.
Only getting her out.
I guide her toward the back exit, past the chaos, past the bodies, past Greer Mackenzie's white-faced fury and Doran's roar of rage as he fights through the crowd toward his wife.
Dalla doesn't speak. Doesn't cry.
Just keeps her hand fisted in my jacket, her body tucked against mine, trusting me to get her through this.
Trusting me.
Me.
The monster Dublin created.
The man with no conscience, no connections.
I'd burn this whole city to ash if anyone tried to take her from me.
The thought should terrify me.
It doesn't.
The safe room is in the basement of the townhouse—reinforced walls, separate air supply, comms equipment.
Standard for any Mackenzie property.
I get her inside and sweep the space before letting myself breathe.
She's sitting on the narrow bench against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, still in that cream dress that's now streaked with dust and debris.
Her hair's come loose from whatever style she had it in.
Her makeup is smudged beneath her eyes.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You're bleeding."
Her voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I look down at my shoulder.
Right. The graze.
Blood's soaked through my jacket, spreading in a dark stain. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." She's on her feet, crossing to me, and before I can stop her, she's pushing the jacket off my shoulder to look at the wound. "You got shot."
"Grazed. There's a difference."
"You got shot protecting me."
Her hands are gentle on my arm, examining the wound with a clinical focus that reminds me she used to be in medical school.
Her fingers are steady now.
Whatever shock she was feeling has been shoved aside.
"Take off your shirt," she says.
"Excuse me?"
"I need to see the wound properly. Make sure it doesn't need stitches." She looks up at me, all business. "I may have dropped out of med school, but I can handle a graze. Shirt. Off."
I should argue. Should tell her I've dealt with worse, that I'll patch it up myself, that she doesn't need to touch me.
Instead, I find myself unbuttoning my shirt.
The fabric peels away from the wound with a wet sound that makes her wince.
I shrug it off carefully, letting it fall to the floor, and I hear her sharp intake of breath.
Not at the fresh wound.
At my back.
"RJ..."
I'd forgotten. The scars.
Four of them, scattered across my shoulder blades and lower back—puckered, silvered, ugly.
Bullet holes that healed wrong because I didn't have time to let them heal right.
"Old wounds," I say flatly. "Don't worry about them."
"How old?"
"Does it matter?"
"You were shot. Four times. In the back."
"Five times. One of them went through clean—no scar."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can feel her eyes tracing the damage, reading the story written in my skin. A story of violence and sacrifice, and a life spent putting myself between bullets and the people I protect.
"You weren't running," she says finally. "These angles... you were shielding someone."
Smart woman.
"It's the job."
"Is that all it is?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is more complicated than she needs to know.
Her fingers brush one of the old scars, feather-light, and I flinch.
Not from pain—from something worse.
Something I haven't felt in years.
Tenderness.
"Sorry," she whispers.
"Don't be."
She moves to my shoulder, examining the fresh graze with those steady hands.
It's not deep—the bullet barely kissed me—but it's bleeding freely.
She finds the first aid kit mounted on the wall, pulls out gauze and antiseptic, and sets to work.
"This is going to sting."
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"Wasn't trying to make you feel better. Just stating a fact."
She looks up at me then, and we're close.
Too close.
I can see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes, the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips part slightly as her breath catches.
Her hands have stopped moving.
The gauze presses against my shoulder, forgotten.
"You saved my life," she says quietly.
"It's my job."
"Is it?"
The question hangs between us. Loaded. Dangerous.
I should step back. Should put distance between us, remind myself that she's a principal, I'm protection, and this—whatever this is—can't happen.
But I don't step back.
And neither does she.
"I don't know what you are," she whispers. Her hand is still on my arm, her thumb tracing an absent pattern against my bicep. "I don't know what any of this is. But when you looked at me last night..."
"Dalla."
"You looked at me like you wanted to consume me."
Christ.
"And right now," she continues, her voice barely audible, "you're looking at me the same way."
I am.
I know I am.
I can't stop.
"You should be afraid of me," I manage.
"Probably."
"I'm not a good man."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm not afraid of monsters." Her chin lifts. Defiant. Fierce. "I was raised by them."
My control snaps.
I don't kiss her.
I want to—Jaysus, I want to—but we're in a safe room, there are bodies upstairs, and someone just tried to kill her.
This isn't the time.
But I do step closer.
Close enough that her back hits the wall.
Close enough that my body cages hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other coming up to cup her jaw.
"When this is over," I say, my voice rough, "when you're safe, when I figure out who just tried to take you from me—we're going to finish this conversation."
Her breath hitches. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
The tension between us is a living thing, crackling like electricity, demanding release.
Then the door opens, and reality crashes back in.
I step away from her, my mask sliding back into place, as Doran storms into the room with murder in his eyes and questions I don't want to answer.
But I can still feel her.
The warmth of her skin against my palm.
The way she looked at me like I was something worth wanting.
Turns out the perfect soldier isn't so perfect after all.
And God help anyone who tries to hurt her again.