Chapter 4
FOUR
ANNISTON
I sit in the passenger seat of Banks’s truck, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs that I’m half convinced it’s trying to stage a full escape.
The highway stretches out in front of us like an endless gray ribbon under the bright afternoon sun, the glittering skyline of Halo City shrinking smaller and smaller in the side mirror until the towering glass buildings look like a toy city someone is slowly packing away.
My overstuffed duffel bag is squished between my feet, the strap digging into my ankle, but I can’t bring myself to move it. My hands won’t stop shaking no matter how hard I press them together in my lap, fingers laced so tightly the knuckles turn white.
Banks drives like he was born doing exactly this: calm, focused, completely in control.
One hand rests on the steering wheel with relaxed confidence, the other occasionally reaches out to tap the glowing screen on the dashboard, rerouting us onto smaller roads without a single wasted motion.
His profile is lit by the sun, highlighting that sharp jawline and the faint cut on his sleeve where the knife had grazed him.
He looks like a man who has done this a hundred times before, extracting people from danger like it’s just another Tuesday.
I, on the other hand, look like a woman who just watched someone try to stab her in a high-end boutique and is now seriously questioning every single life choice that led her to this moment.
My pencil skirt is wrinkled, my blouse still has faint vanilla oat milk stains, and my hair’s a wild mess from running through alleys.
He glances over at me, those gray-blue eyes catching mine for a brief second before returning to the road. “You okay?”
I nod way too fast, my voice coming out bright and brittle like cheap glass.
“Peachy. Absolutely peachy. Just casually fleeing for my life with a man who moonlights as my personal bodyguard. Normal Tuesday shit, right? Happens to everyone. I’m totally not replaying that knife coming at me on loop in my head or anything. ”
The corner of his mouth twitches, the tiniest hint of amusement breaking through his serious expression, but he doesn’t smile. Instead he taps the screen again and says, “I need to make some calls. I’m gonna put them on speaker. I want you to hear this.”
I stay quiet. Very, very quiet. Because listening feels a thousand times safer than talking right now.
My romcom-loving brain is still trying to process that this man is not just a meet-cute gone wrong.
Hes my protection detail. And somehow that makes him even more attractive, which is deeply unfair to my already overwhelmed nervous system.
He hits a button on the steering wheel. The truck fills with the sound of a ringing line, then a deep, steady voice answers on speaker.
“Crewe. It’s me.”
“Talk fast,” Crewe says immediately. He sounds tense, like he’s been pacing wherever he is, waiting for bad news all day. “We’ve been holding position on the mountain lead. What happened?”
“Anniston was attacked outside the boutique on Fifth,” Banks reports, his voice even and professional.
“Knife. Professional operator. No hesitation. I neutralized him, zip-tied him, but there were at least two backups waiting near her building. They knew her route. We got out clean. Heading to the secondary safe house in the woods now.”
A short pause crackles over the line. Then a rougher, gruffer voice jumps in. “You hurt, brother?”
“Negative, Colt. Minor cut on my sleeve. Nothing worth mentioning. Anniston’s fine. Shaken but physically fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m spiraling hard, my mind flashing back to the glint of that blade and the way Banks had moved like liquid lightning. But I keep my mouth shut and stare out at the passing trees.
A third voice comes through, lighter but sharp with energy. Jace. “You need us to move in? We can be wheels up in under two hours if you need extra hands.”
“Not yet,” Banks answers. “I’ll update Mack when we’re secure.
Tell him to keep Elena looped in but quiet.
No unnecessary chatter. This just proved the pipeline is deeper than we thought.
They’re not playing anymore. We need to know if Shaw has friends.
They sent a hitter in broad daylight. This is coordinated. ”
My stomach flips violently at his words.
Pipeline. Alden Shaw? These names are threads straight from my own late-night research sessions, the same shadowy connections involving D.C.
consultancies, shell nonprofits, and dirty money that have kept me up for weeks, typing furious notes and double-checking sources.
Hearing them come out of Banks’s mouth in that calm, matter-of-fact tone makes everything feel ten times more real and terrifying.
These aren’t just conspiracy theories anymore. These are people willing to kill me.
The men exchange a few more short, coded updates.
I catch fragments about a mountain lead, their missing father, someone named Nash and Sin who were taken.
Brothers. Plural. Of course Banks has brothers.
They sound like the kind of men who would all look unfairly good in tactical gear, moving through the world with the same quiet intensity he has.
The thought almost makes me smile despite everything.
Before I can fully process that, Banks ends the call and immediately dials another number.
This time the voice that answers is smooth, older, carrying the crisp edge of someone used to command. “Vance.”
“Vance, it’s Banks Hawthorne,” he says. “The principal was hit twenty minutes ago outside the boutique on Fifth. Knife attack. I engaged, secured her, and we’re moving to the woods location now. Target was neutralized but there were spotters. They knew her exact route. This wasn’t random.”
Vance swears under his breath, a low, vicious sound. “I just got the retainer approved this morning. They’re moving fast. You need backup out there?”
“Not yet,” Banks replies. “I have her. But I want a full file dump on anyone connected to the D.C. consultancy network. Cross-reference with the financial pipelines Anniston’s been exposing. And pull the boutique security footage before the locals lock it down and bury it.”
“Already on it,” Vance confirms. “I’ll have my team scrub everything. Keep her breathing, Hawthorne. She’s worth more alive than dead to a lot of powerful people right now, and that makes her a walking target.”
The call ends with a soft click. Silence fills the truck again, broken only by the low, steady hum of the tires on the asphalt and the occasional whoosh of a passing semi-truck.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to, almost fragile. “So… Vance is your boss? The one who hired you to babysit the girl who knows way too much about things she probably should’ve left alone?”
Banks nods once, keeping his eyes on the winding road ahead.
“He owns Halo Protective Group. High-end contracts, mostly corporate and high-net-worth. I took the assignment because it overlapped with something personal my brothers and I are working on. But after today?” He turns his head just enough to meet my gaze, those gray-blue eyes serious and warm in the glow of the dashboard lights.
“Keeping you safe stopped being just a job the second you spilled that ridiculous vanilla oat milk all over me.”
I let out a shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. “Great. My meet-cute is officially a protection contract with a side of attempted murder. My romcom brain is filing a formal complaint and demanding a refund on the butterflies.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his right hand reaches over the center console and squeezes my knee for a long, steady second. His palm is warm, calloused, and grounding in a way that sends a flutter through my chest despite the fear still churning in my stomach. It helps more than it probably should.
The highway gradually narrows into smaller two-lane roads, then into twisting mountain paths lined with thick, towering pines that loom like silent guardians on either side.
The sun sets, bringing up the moon over the treeline.
The air grows noticeably cooler through the vents, carrying the rich scent of damp earth, moss, and forest. I crack my window just a little and breathe it in, letting the wild smell chase away some of the city panic still clinging to my skin.
After what feels like forever but is probably only another hour or two, Banks turns onto a narrow dirt lane almost completely hidden by overgrown brush and low-hanging branches.
The truck bumps and jostles gently along the uneven path until a small cabin appears between the trees, dark and perfectly tucked away like it was built specifically to disappear from the world.
He parks, kills the lights, and sits for a long moment, scanning the surrounding woods with intense focus before finally nodding. “We’re clear.”
I step out on shaky legs, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my arms. The cabin is rustic but solidly built, with a wide front porch wrapped in sturdy railings and windows that reflect the silvery moonlight like quiet eyes.
Banks grabs both our bags with effortless strength, unlocks the heavy wooden door with a key from his pocket, and does a quick, professional sweep inside, moving room to room with quiet efficiency before waving me in.
It’s surprisingly cozy inside. Warm hardwood floors stretch across the open living area.
A big stone fireplace dominates one wall, already stacked with kindling and logs ready to go.
A compact kitchen is tucked into one corner with basic appliances and a small table.
Down a narrow hallway there’s a bedroom.
Someone had clearly stocked the place recently.
Fresh towels sit folded on a side table, shelves hold canned goods and non-perishables, and there’s even a neat stack of soft blankets on the oversized couch.
I stand in the middle of the living room, hugging myself tightly, suddenly freezing even though the night air is not that cold. The reality of everything crashes over me again in a heavy wave.
Banks locks the door behind us with a solid click, sets the bags down, and turns to face me fully. “We’re safe here tonight. No one followed us. I’ll set perimeter alarms and motion sensors in a minute.”
I nod, but my eyes are stinging with unshed tears. “They really tried to kill me. In the middle of the day. Over spreadsheets and bank transfers and stupid whistleblower stuff that I probably should’ve left buried in my hard drive.”
He crosses the room in two long strides and pulls me into his chest without asking.
His arms wrap around me, strong and warm and incredibly steady.
He smells like pine, faint traces of the forest, and the faintest sweet hint of that spilled oat milk still clinging to his ruined shirt.
I bury my face against him and let myself shake, all the fear and adrenaline pouring out in silent tremors.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs quietly against my hair, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back. “My brothers are out there working other angles. Vance is pulling every string he has. And I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I tilt my head back to look up at him, my chin resting against his chest. He’s watching me with that intense, focused gaze that makes my knees feel unreliable and my heart do stupid little flips.
“You have brothers who sound scary competent. And a mysterious dad situation. And you still stopped in the middle of all that chaos to let me ramble about soup disasters right before someone tried to murder me in a scarf shop.”
A real smile finally breaks through on his face, small but absolutely devastating in its gentleness. “Best decision I’ve made all week.”
I laugh, watery and soft, and for the first time since that knife flashed in the boutique, the terror eases enough for something warmer to take its place.
I feel safe.