Her Possessive Protector (A Halo City Protectors Romance #11)

1. Hudson

HUDSON

I stare at the cracks in the ceiling of my shithole apartment, memorizing each one like they’re escape routes from hell before dragging my eyes back to the laptop sitting in front of me.

Scrolling through the endless list of security gigs offering “competitive pay” that wouldn't even cover my electric bill this month, warehouse work that would break what's left of my back, and night shifts that would finally finish the job the Marine Corps started. My trigger finger twitches with every scroll. I reach for the mug beside me and swallow a mouthful of coffee that’s now stone-cold, the bitter sludge coating my tongue like motor oil.

"Christ," I mutter, grimacing.

My phone rings, vibrating against the table. It’s an unfamiliar number, but I answer anyway. Desperation does ugly things to one’s pride.

“Yeah?”

“Is this Hudson Reed?” the voice on the other end asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“Vincent Landon, Halo Protective Group. I heard you might be looking for work.”

My heart rate kicks up. “Yeah…I mean, yes, sir.”

He continues, “I’ve got something. A high-priority security detail. It’s only for a week, but it pays well. I’d need you to start immediately. Are you interested?”

“Hell yeah, I’m interested. You want a background check?” I cringe a little at the thought of another letdown due to my record. “What about a blood sample? I’ll give you whatever you need. I just need to work.”

He laughs, and it’s short and humorless.

He gets right into the details, skipping right over the mention of a background check or drug test. “It’s at the request of one of our current clients, the Valenti family.

They have guests coming into town for the Harbor Lights Gala, and the daughter’s regular detail can’t travel due to an unexpected family emergency.

You’d be assigned to her for the whole week. ”

Without hesitation, I state, “Done…I mean…yes, sir, I’ll do it.”

He gives me the hotel name, then a few other important details. I jot them in the margin of some overdue bill. My hand remains steady unlike the rest of me. Old reflex, I guess. When you’re this damn hungry for a job, you don’t waste time feeling grateful.

We hang up.

I move on autopilot, showering as fast as I can.

I throw some clean clothes into a duffel bag and grab a suit jacket just in case someone expects me to play dress-up.

Next, the gun gets checked, loaded, and holstered under my arm.

I check my reflection in the mirror. Looking back at me are hollow eyes and a thin line that’s supposed to be my mouth.

Doesn’t matter. No one’s hiring me for my charm or good looks.

Boots and keys are next, then I’m ready to go.

I slam the door shut behind me and walk down the piss-stained hallway, out into the city. My car is waiting, still smelling like stale cigarettes and old coffee. I drive with the windows down, letting the cool breeze cut through me.

I don’t know this girl. Don’t care. All I do know is I need this job so bad it hurts. And I never fuck up a detail.

Not for anyone.

The hotel lobby smells like money and lemon furniture polish, with all the warmth of a dentist’s office waiting room.

My boots squeak on the marble floor, announcing every step.

The strap of my duffel digs into my shoulder, but the whole time, I’m staying conscious of my surroundings.

I could pick every person in here as a threat in under ten seconds.

The concierge looks up, clocking me, my bag, then the way I don’t stop at check-in.

Smart man.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

“Suite 2217. Now. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford are waiting.”

I get in the elevator, catching my reflection in the gold-mirrored walls, trying not to look like I crawled out of some gutter.

I run a hand over my jaw, hoping the stubble looks somewhat intimidating.

When I get to the penthouse door, I notice it’s cracked open.

Learning my lesson the last time, I go ahead and knock anyway.

But before I get the opportunity, a tall guy with slicked-back hair and silver at the temples swings the door open.

He’s wearing a suit that I’d almost bet cost more than my last car and stares back at me with cold eyes, not even bothering with pleasantries or a handshake.

I’m going to guess this is Mr. Ashford.

“Hudson Reed?” It’s not a question but more of an accusation.

“Yeah.” My voice is steady, hard.

“Andrew Ashford.”

He steps aside and lets me in like I’m a bellboy delivering another piece of luggage. The place screams money. With its marble floors and art-decorated walls, everything is designed to look expensive and make you feel uncomfortable as fuck.

There’s a woman, who I’m going to say is Mrs. Ashford, sitting like one of those mannequins you’d see in a department store on a cream-colored sofa, hands folded all prim and proper, not daring to make eye contact with anyone.

Next to her, looking as if at any moment she might jump up and run out of here, is a younger version of her.

She’s small and pale, with ink-black hair.

She keeps her head down as well, with her sweatshirt sleeves pulled down over her hands.

Timid isn’t the word. She’s shrinking away from the room, from him… her father.

Ashford doesn’t introduce either one of them.

He doesn’t even acknowledge their presence in the room.

I drop my bag at my feet, waiting for him to fill me in on what I’ll be doing.

Instead, he says nothing, turns, and with a self-righteous swagger, walks over to the fully stocked minibar in the corner of the room, pouring himself a drink.

He downs its entire contents before pouring himself another, then downing that one as well.

He slams the glass down on the table, hard.

Surprised when the crystal doesn’t shatter into a million pieces.

But I guess when you’re rich you can do whatever the hell you want.

Just throw a pile of money at whatever the problem is, and it’ll go away or fix itself.

He turns, looks me dead in the eye and begins speaking as if I’m a piece of garbage stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“You will remain within fifty feet of Ivory at all times.” His jaw ticks. “You’ll stay in her suite, in the spare bedroom. She is not to be left unattended, ever. Discretion is expected. You report to me. If I call, you answer, or you’re done. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No drugs, no alcohol, no boys. The moment you sense or notice anything weird, call me immediately. Got it?”

“Define weird, sir,” I say.

He huffs, and I sense his annoyance at me wanting him to explain. “If you’re doing your job properly, you’ll know.”

Prick.

What a typical rich asshole response. Thinking he’s too important to waste any breath on details, expecting everyone to read his damn mind.

I guess it never occurs to guys like him that whoever is keeping his daughter safe should be in the loop about any possible threats.

But no, he’d rather keep everyone guessing.

Makes me want to ask again just to piss him off. I swallow it down.

It’s not the time, Hudson. You need this job.

If anything happens, it’ll be on him. Not that he’d ever admit it.

His wife doesn’t flinch or move, keeping her eyes on the carpet. Ivory looks mortified, like she wants to disappear.

There’s something about her, though. The obvious being, she’s young… too young, too breakable. But for some reason, it makes every instinct in me sharpen, every muscle coil tight. The slightest urge to protect her to stir. But I pushed it away.

She’s a client. She’s...fuck, she looks like she’s barely out of high school.

He holds out a piece of paper, not daring to come a millimeter closer than necessary to his daughter. “All the details are on this schedule. Understood?”

She doesn’t dare reach for it.

My eyes flicker to her, then back to him. I finally take it upon myself to be the one to take the paper.

He narrows his eyes, sizing me up. “I advise you not to get comfortable. If anything happens to her, there won’t be a second chance.”

I nod. “There won’t be a problem, you have my word.”

“Good.” He dismisses me, dismisses all of us, with a wave of his hand. “That’s all.”

I don’t know what kind of power trip this asshole is on, talking to everyone like he’s the king and we’re his goddamn subjects.

Not once did he even glance at his wife or daughter, treating them like they’re some sort of property, not worthy of being in the same room as him.

Not to mention, the way they sit there, silent, tense, and barely breathing.

It makes me wonder what the hell goes on when there’s no one around to watch.

Why are they so scared of him? No amount of money justifies that kind of control.

If this is how he treats his family in front of a stranger, what’s it like behind closed doors?

I shoulder the duffel and glance at Ivory, who hasn’t made a peep. When she stands, she moves like she’s afraid to take up space.

We step out into the hallway together, then into the elevator. The moment we are out of her father’s presence, something inside me shifts, coming to life. Something intense and protective.

I know I’m not here to care, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.