Chapter 5
Sabrina
“It wasn’t that bad,” I tell Mary as I gather my purse and coat.
“Not that bad? Ugh. You lucky heifer. All my guys smelled like chicken soup and cheese crackers.”
I laugh as my bodyguard—Ego. Or Theodore. I’m still not sure what to call him—makes his way toward me with that same serious, brooding expression he’s worn all evening.
And then I snort.
Out loud.
Because yes, I am that cool.
Do not be jealous.
He stops in front of me, those intense dark eyes scanning my face like he’s cataloging every freckle. I can feel the weight of his attention.
Not creepy. Not leering.
Just alert.
Aware.
He notices everything. It should be unnerving. It probably is unnerving.
But for some reason, it makes me feel safe.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice deep enough to rattle the church basement walls.
I nod quickly, before my voice can betray me.
“Goodnight, Mary.”
“Bye. Have fun!” she calls out with a wink so exaggerated I think it qualifies as a facial cramp.
My cheeks flame.
Mortification level? Maximum.
But does he notice? Nope.
Mr. All-Business just nods and clamps one enormous, tattooed hand over my elbow before steering me toward the double doors with a quiet confidence that screams ex-military.
And yes, the part of my brain not frozen in embarrassment or trying to keep up with his long-legged stride is definitely taking note of the way his hand feels on my arm.
Warm. Solid. Protective.
Ugh, get a grip, Sabrina.
“My car?” I start to ask as we hit the parking lot.
He shakes his head, already pulling out keys to the kind of vehicle that probably requires a special license and a small loan.
“It’ll be brought back to your place after I get you there safe and sound,” he says smoothly, then opens the passenger door to a glossy, jet-black SUV that looks like it belongs to someone way more important than me.
I pause for exactly one second, then get in.
Because what else am I going to do? Say no? Walk home alone with a maybe-stalker still looming in the background?
No thanks.
And before you ask—I’m not a total idiot.
I didn’t just trust this guy because he looks like he stepped off the cover of Tactical Bad Boy Monthly.
No, before the whole awkward speed dating circus began, I emailed one of the moms I suspect is behind this sudden and mysterious security detail.
Aella Ramirez.
Yes, that Ramirez. Part of the Volkov Industries dynasty with more power and secrets than the Vatican. Her daughter was in my class—cutest kid, honestly. Draws fairies with fangs and insists glitter is a basic human right.
Aella replied immediately, confirming her family arranged this after “concerning activity” was flagged by their private network. Whatever that means.
She also confirmed that Theodore Montego is legit.
Licensed. Background-checked. Certified.
And highly recommended.
So yeah. I checked.
I’m not looking to be some cautionary tale.
Still, being alone in a car with him now, in the dark, with the streetlights flickering and the faint hum of the heater the only noise between us—it’s a little much.
“Um, do you need my address?” I ask, fumbling with the seat belt.
He glances at me, that half-lidded gaze flicking up like I’ve just asked him if water is wet.
And then he rattles it off.
My full address. Street name. Apartment number. Even the zip code.
Oh. Okay, then.
I blink. “Right.”
“I’m supposed to know that stuff, Angel.”
Angel?
I pretend I don’t hear it.
Probably just a habit. A throwaway nickname he uses for everyone.
Definitely not something I should read into.
“What else did your, uh, file say about me?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though my pulse ticks up a notch.
“Sabrina Rosetto. Thirty-four. Single. Parents deceased in a tragic automobile accident—sorry for your loss. One brother. His last known address was in Philly. Kindergarten teacher at Our Lady of Grace for three years, promoted from assistant. Graduated Rutgers with honors. Clean record. No priors, no substance history. One long-term relationship that ended after he cheated on you with his coworker—she dumped him two months later, by the way.”
My mouth drops open. “She did? Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“Well. I guess karma still works.”
He nods, like this is just a normal Tuesday conversation.
“You were lucky to get out of that one. Guy was a creep.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Okay, Mr. Human Dossier. You clearly know everything about me. That’s not exactly fair—I don’t know a thing about you.”
“You know my name.”
“Do I, though?” I ask, turning a little in my seat. “What do I even call you? Theodore? Teddy? Ego? Mr. Montego? Or should I just stick with ‘Hey, you with the terrifying shoulders’?”
He actually smiles at that—just a flicker, but it’s there. “My peers call me Ego.”
“Why?”
A pause. Then, “Short for my last name.”
“Must be more to the story.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”
Something about the way he says that—like it’s a promise—makes my stomach flutter and causes my girly bits to perk up.
Down, girl.
“But if you want,” he adds, voice lower now, “you can call me Theo.”
Theo.
He gave me the soft version.
The one no one else gets.
The one he doesn’t hand out unless he wants to.
“Okay. Theo it is,” I say softly.
And maybe it’s ridiculous, but something about using his name like that makes me feel special.
We fall into silence after that. Not the awkward kind. Just the still kind.
Like snowfall.
Quiet, and strangely peaceful.
It gives me too much time to think—but for once, I don’t mind.
Not when I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not so alone in this life. Not for right now, anyway.
My thoughts turn to how it felt when I realized my desk had been rifled through.
When the lock on the window didn’t quite click shut the same way.
When my favorite mug was found cracked in the trash, even though I hadn’t used it that day.
I thought I was being paranoid. Until I wasn’t.
When we pull up in front of my townhouse, he parks neatly in my usual spot without hesitation.
Like he’s been here before.
Like he mapped every part of my life out before we even met.
He shuts off the engine. The air feels thick, still warm from the vents, but cooler now that the engine’s gone quiet.
Then his voice rumbles low and steady.
“Wait for me.”
Not a request. A command.
And for some reason, it doesn’t bother me at all.
I sit still, watching him round the front of the SUV with that predatory grace I’ve only ever seen in action movies.
He opens my door like a gentleman from another century—silent, sure, and not taking no for an answer.
I should probably be worried about how easily I’m falling into step with this man.
But I’m not.
Because for the first time in weeks, I feel like whatever’s been watching me isn’t the only thing out there anymore.
Now someone’s watching back.
And this time, he’s on my side.