Chapter 7 Sawyer
SEVEN
Sawyer
Savannah sleeps like someone who's been running on empty for too long—deep and still, occasionally making soft sounds that could be distress or just dreams.
I stand watch at the window, rifle ready, but my mind is split between the darkness outside and the woman curled in my sleeping bag.
She's kicked partially out of the sleeping bag in her sleep, one leg exposed, and I force myself to look away from the smooth skin, the curve of her calf.
This is a protection detail. Nothing more. Except it stopped being a protection detail the moment she drove a pearl earring into a man's throat with the same precision I'd use to sight a target.
And the moment I buried myself inside her, broke every goddamn rule in the book—don't fuck the client, don't blur the lines, don't let the mission compromise the man.
But hell, she felt like salvation, and now I'm the one compromised, guarding her with more than just my weapon.
Tyler's voice echoes in my memory: "You'll know her when you meet her, brother. She'll be the one who makes you want to be better than you are."
I laughed at him then. Told him that was Hollywood bullshit, that relationships in our line of work were comprised of quick hookups and bitter divorces. He just smiled, that knowing smile that made me want to punch him sometimes.
"Michelle makes me want to come home," he said. "Every mission, every close call, I think about her and the girls, and I fight harder. That's what the right woman does—gives you something worth surviving for."
Looking at Savannah now, hair spread across the pillow I folded from my jacket, I understand what he meant.
For three years, I've been operating on autopilot, taking the highest-risk positions because I had nothing to lose. Now, watching her breathe, I'm already calculating how to keep her alive, how to end this threat, how to give her a life where she doesn't have to look over her shoulder.
Dangerous thinking. Attachment compromises judgment. Caring makes you hesitate. But I'm already compromised, have been since that kiss on the motorcycle that tasted like possibility.
Savannah Cross.
Five hours ago, she was just a name on a mission brief. Now she's imprinted on my senses—the way she felt pressed against me on the motorcycle, how she tasted like coffee and desperation, the fierce intelligence in her eyes as she works through encryption that would stump most experts.
The challenge coin is warm against my chest, Tyler's memory a constant weight.
He'd like her.
Would laugh at how she turned household items into weapons, respect how she fought instead of froze.
He’d understand the sex, too.
I check my phone—encrypted message from CJ. "Safe house compromised. Three-man team hit it twenty minutes after you diverted. Stay dark."
So they have someone inside CIA, or at least inside Guardian HRS's communication chain. Good to know. I delete the message, pull the SIM card, and snap it. From here on out, we're completely alone.
Dawn creeps across the mountains like spilled honey, painting everything gold and shadow. The temperature drops just before sunrise, and Savana shivers in her sleep, curling tighter into the sleeping bag.
I want to go to her, wrap myself around her, share body heat. Instead, I stay at my post, watching the tree line for movement that doesn't belong.
A deer emerges from the forest, then freezes, head up, ears swiveling. Something spooked it. I glass the area with my scope, tracking slowly across the terrain.
There—a glint of metal where there shouldn't be any.
Could be trash. Could be someone's scope catching sunlight.
I watch for ten minutes, patient as stone. The glint doesn't repeat, but the deer doesn't relax either. It bounds away suddenly, white tail flashing.
Savannah shifts in her sleep, the sleeping bag falling away from her shoulders. Her torn blouse reveals the edge of a bruise from where one of the fake FBI grabbed her.
The urge to kill them again, slower this time, surprises me with its intensity.
I've protected dozens of clients over the years—politicians, witnesses, corporate executives. It's always been professional, detached, mission-focused.
This is different.
The moment I saw her fighting in that apartment, something shifted.
Maybe it was the intelligence in how she taped the laptop to herself, or the way she didn't hesitate to drive an earring into a man's throat.
Maybe it was just recognition—another person who'd been betrayed by someone they trusted, who chose to fight rather than break.
Doesn't matter. What matters is she's under my protection now, and I'll die before I let Prometheus touch her.
She stirs, stretches, and blinks up at me with momentary confusion before memory crashes back.
"You didn't wake me."
"You needed the sleep more than I did."
She sits up, hair messy, the morning light catching the gold flecks in her eyes. "How long was I out?"
"Six hours."
"Sawyer—"
"I've gone longer on less. I'm fine." I turn from the window before the sight of her sleep-warm and soft makes me think things I shouldn't. "Get dressed. MREs in the corner if you're hungry."
She wrinkles her nose but gets up, the sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. The small space means she has to brush past me to get to the food, and the contact is electric.
She smells like sleep and jasmine under the fear-sweat, and I have to focus on the tree line to keep from pulling her against me.
"Beef stew or chicken teriyaki?" she asks, examining the MREs with skepticism.
"Beef stew's from 2019, chicken's from 2020."
"So they're both terrible."
"Pretty much."
She tears open the beef stew with the kind of resignation that comes from having no better options. While it heats, she finger-combs her hair, trying to restore order.
The domestic normality of it—a woman fixing her hair in the morning—clashes with the rifle in my hands and the fact that we're being hunted.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me.
"Scanning for threats."
"Inside the tower?"
"You could be dangerous." My voice is rough as I watch her across the dim shelter, the morning light filtering through the cracks like it's trying to chase away the shadows of last night. "You did stab someone with an earring."
She laughs, and the sound transforms the space from a cold, makeshift hideout to something almost like home—warm, alive, pulling at edges of me I thought were long dulled. It's a bright, unfiltered burst that makes my chest tighten, reminding me why I broke every rule for her.
"Any word from your people?" she asks, still smiling faintly as she stretches, the sleeping bag slipping down to reveal the curve of her shoulder.
"Safe house was hit. We're on our own." The words land heavy, the reality of it settling like lead in my gut. No backup, no extraction—just us against whatever's hunting her. I reach down and grab a harness from my pack, the rough nylon familiar under my fingers. "Here, put this on."
"More climbing?" She eyes the harness with a mix of wariness and that spark of determination I can't help but admire.
"Perhaps." I step into my own harness while she does the same, the straps whispering against her legs as she adjusts them.
I double-check mine first—cinching the buckles tight, testing the fit with a quick tug—professional habit dying hard, even with her. Then I cross to her in two strides, my hands steady as I kneel slightly to inspect hers.
My fingers brush her hips, sliding the straps into place with deliberate care, ensuring they're secure, no give, no risk.
She's close—too close for focus. I stand, and I lean in, unable to resist, my face inches from hers.
Our eyes lock, and I steal a slow, languid kiss, my lips claiming hers with a gentleness that belies the fire still smoldering between us.
It's unhurried, my tongue tracing the seam of her mouth until she parts for me, a soft sigh escaping as I deepen it just enough to taste her again—the sweetness from sleep, and that underlying heat that's all her.
My hand lingers on her waist, thumb grazing the exposed skin above her waistband, a promise of more when the time allows.
I pull back reluctantly, the harness now perfectly fitted, and watch as she processes it all—the kiss, the isolation, the weight of what's coming.
"They have someone inside your organization," she says finally, her voice steady but edged with the same realization that's been gnawing at me since the safe house went dark.
"Not Guardian HRS. My bet is on the CIA. Either way, we can't trust anyone except each other."
"Do you trust me?" She asks it casually, but there's weight beneath the words.
I consider lying, keeping it professional. But we're past that. "Yeah. I do."
"Why?"
"Every instinct I have says you're exactly who you appear to be."
"Nathan fooled my instincts for three years."
"Nathan had three years to build a false persona. You've had hours of exhaustion and adrenaline. Hard to maintain a lie under those conditions."
She takes a bite of beef stew that's probably older than she'd like to know. "What about you? How do I know you're trustworthy?"
"You don't." Simple truth. "But I'm the best option you've got."
"That's not very reassuring."
I move closer and crouch in front of where she's sitting. "This morning, watching you sleep, I realized something."
"What?"
"I can't change what happened to Tyler. But I can make sure nothing happens to you. That's not professional, it's personal. You want reassurance? Here it is—I will burn the world down before I let them touch you again."
Her breath catches, eyes searching mine. "That's... intense."
"Too much?"
"No." She sets down the MRE, leans forward until we're inches apart. "It's exactly what I needed to hear."
The air between us charges, and I should move back, maintain distance, keep this professional. Instead, I stay frozen as she reaches out, fingers tracing the burn scars on my forearm.
"Do they hurt?"