Chapter 11
Rain lashes the embassy windows steadily by the time we rotate into night watch.
The command center glows dimly beneath rows of surveillance monitors and blinking equipment, the air thick with stale coffee, electronics, and the aroma of three men who have spent a good deal of the day outside.
Hawk sits near the communications board reviewing perimeter reports while Gunnar cleans one of the rifles with the kind of disciplined focus only former military men seem capable of.
Jagger is bored, which means I have, unfortunately, become his entertainment.
I stay planted in front of the security feeds, pretending to review perimeter schedules while camera footage cycles endlessly across the screens overhead.
Pretending being the important word, because my attention keeps drifting elsewhere.
Specifically to the second floor of the east wing.
More specifically, the bedroom at the end of the hall.
We’ve been here a little under two weeks, and I know Mackenzi’s routines in ways I absolutely should not.
Around seven-thirty every morning, movement hits the east hallway camera when she finally leaves her room.
If she’s angry, she attempts to skip breakfast and paces instead.
If she’s anxious, she wanders the library, pretending to find a book to read, but settling on either a very worn copy of The Bell Jar or a collection of Edgar Allen Poe.
Every day, I catch her, at least once, standing at an expansive window staring toward the gates like she’s trying to remember what freedom feels like.
I can convince myself that knowing every second of her routine is my job. It’s believable-ish. It’s the things I don’t need to know to keep her safe that I can’t seem to pack neatly into a work-related box.
She’s smarter than she lets most people realize.
Sharp enough with her wit to cut people open with a single sentence and smile while she does it.
Half the time, I can’t tell whether she’s flirting with me or trying to start a fight.
Probably both. She argues just for the thrill of it, pushes every boundary she can reach, then watches for reactions with that bratty little tilt of her lips like she enjoys being difficult.
And Christ, her laugh.
It sneaks up on me every damn time because there’s this small dimple in her right cheek that appears out of nowhere and changes her entire face. It’s a tiny—and beautiful—imperfection in her armor, making her look softer and less guarded.
I know about the tiny heart tattoo on the back of her shoulder, too—the one she tries to keep beneath her clothes and carefully arranged hair like she’s hiding it from her father.
I adore how she tucks her hands into the sleeves of her oversized shirts when she’s uncomfortable.
She rolls her eyes before she says something reckless.
And I have decided that I make her nervous.
I shouldn’t know any of that.
“You’re doing it again.” Jagger’s voice cuts through the low hum of electronics and my thoughts.
I don’t look up from the monitors. “Doing what?”
“Brooding so hard, I can practically hear the tragic backstory music.”
Hawk snorts from the other side of the room before quickly regaining his composure.
“Fuck off,” I grumble, flipping Jagger the bird.
“I’m serious,” Jagger continues around a mouthful of pretzels. “You’ve been staring at East Wing Camera Three for ten straight minutes.”
“That’s because East Wing Camera Three covers a vulnerable access point.”
“Mhmm.” He leans back in his chair slowly. “And, I suppose, rewinding the footage twice was tactical, too?”
Shit.
My jaw tightens. “You got a point?”
“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely toward the screens. “You’re down catastrophically bad.”
Gunnar looks up briefly from the rifle he’s cleaning. “Catastrophic is accurate.”
Traitors. My brothers are fucking traitors.
“I’m surrounded by idiots.”
“Nah,” Jagger exhales lazily. “You’re surrounded by people watching you fall into the world’s most inconvenient crush.”
“What am I? Fucking fifteen? It’s not a crush.”
“Right.” He points toward one paused screen. “Then why has that camera been frozen for the last thirty seconds?”
My eyes flick unwillingly toward the monitor.
Mackenzi from earlier that afternoon fills the frame, moving barefoot through the west hallway with a book tucked against her chest and an oversized cream sweater slipping off one shoulder.
The one with the tattoo. Her long, dark hair is pulled into a messy bun.
She looks unguarded in a way I’ve never seen her in person, and it does something ugly to me.
Something protective and possessive. The vicious instinct settles in my chest before I can stop it, as if my body has already decided she belongs behind my back and under my protection. Not just mine to guard, but mine.
“Oh,” Jagger chirps, almost delighted, when he notices my expression. “You’re fucked fucked.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The look.”
Hawk chuckles under his breath without looking up from his reports. “He’s not wrong.”
I shove away from the desk and stand.
“You all talk too much,” I snap, “Besides, it’s ludicrous. She’s practically the same age as Gabriel.”
“And?” Jagger counters immediately.
“And,” I repeat slowly, like he’s an idiot, “what business do I have with a nineteen-year-old college kid?”
Hawk finally looks up. “Considering she’s smarter than half the people in this house? Probably more than you think.”
“That’s not helping.”
Jagger shrugs. “She’s an adult, Damon. Not a child.”
“Barely,” I mutter.
The three of them stare at me as Jagger leans against the desk, smirking. “You know what your real problem is?”
“Oh… I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“You’ve met a girl who doesn’t give a shit who you are.”
“Or who you were,” Hawk adds, nodding in agreement. “And she keeps pushing at you because she knows you’ll push back.”
“That,” Jagger says, pointing at me and mocking my let-me-explain-it-to-you-like-you’re-an-idiot tone, “is called chemistry.”
“Get out.”
Neither of them moves.
Hawk’s lips twitch slightly. “You already care about her.”
And that’s the problem. Not attraction. Not the age difference.
Not even the fact she’s now the first face I look for in every room I walk into.
It’s that somewhere between the walks around the grounds, the arguments, and the late-night security feeds, Mackenzi stopped feeling like an assignment…
And started feeling like someone I couldn’t lose.
I hate that they’re all right, and leave before I have to admit it out loud.
The hallway outside the command center feels cooler and quieter, low lighting casting long shadows across empty marble floors, while rain taps steadily against distant windows.
I should go get some sleep. I’ve been awake for nearly twenty hours. Instead, I start walking patrol, but somewhere between the west corridor and the grand staircase, my feet carry me instinctively toward the east wing.
Toward her.
The mansion sits mostly silent at this hour, the staff having retired and security rotating quietly through shifts outside. Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance as I come to a stop at her door. I stand there, merely staring at it. This is a bad idea. A genuinely terrible one.
I scrub a hand roughly over my jaw before knocking on her door.
The locks click softly on the other side of the door before it opens a few inches. “Murderer or emotionally constipated bodyguard?” Mackenzi asks sleepily, peering through the gap.
Upon seeing me, she opens the door fully, and the sight of her hits me like a punch to the gut.
She isn’t wearing an oversized sweater or carefully arranged layers.
Instead, she stands before me in a fitted gray tank top and tiny sleep shorts that leave her thick bare legs exposed against the warm glow spilling from her room.
Her dark hair falls half loose from its bun, unstyled and soft around her face like she’d been trying to sleep but was failing.
Christ… She’s beautiful.
With soft curves and plush skin, she has the kind of body that would’ve been carved into marble centuries ago. The kind of beauty that sculptors practically built religions around.
My body inconveniently reacts to the sight of her as her eyes narrow slightly. “Why are you staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost?”
I drag my gaze to her face through sheer force of will.
“Just checking to make sure you’re good for the night.”
Mackenzi blinks once before the corner of her mouth curves lazily upward. “Ensuring I’ve eaten no longer enough for you?” she asks playfully with a tinge of sass to her tone. “What’s next? You gonna start tucking me in, too?”
And, fuck me, the way my brain immediately supplies the image. Her in this room, sleepy and warm beneath tangled blankets, while I lean over her. My hand brushing hair away from her face. Pulling covers over bare skin. Her looking up at me like?—
Nope.
Absolutely fucking not.
Heat curls, low and vicious, through my stomach as I clear my throat hard enough to almost choke on it.
“Oh my God!” she exclaims, the look on her face a mixture of embarrassment and intrigue. “You’ve actually thought about it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m leaving.”
She laughs softly, that damn dimple appearing in her cheek. I stare at her for one second too long before stepping back into the hallway. “You good?” I ask roughly, trying to gain my composure.
Her expression softens just slightly, and her voice drops to a breathy whisper. “Yeah… I’m good.”
I nod once before getting the hell out of there before I do something dangerously stupid like try to stay.