Kade (Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists: Short Reads)

Chapter 1

ONE

Wren

The bass thrums through my chest like a second heartbeat, and I let it take over, drowning out the voice in my head that keeps asking what the hell I think I’m doing here.

The Ridgeline Tavern isn’t my scene—never has been. Exposed beams, neon beer signs, sawdust on the floors, locals who’ve been coming here since before I was born. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and a stranger sticks out like a lit match.

But that’s exactly why I chose it. I live in San Francisco. The Ridgeline is a two-hour mountain drive—a place my grandmother used to bring me as a kid. Her apartment is a few blocks away. Perfect for a night of debauchery.

I have one goal tonight, and it’s not to spend the night alone.

No one here knows my face or my name. That’s the whole point.

Tonight, I don’t want to be Wren Calloway, freelance UX designer who spent the last seventy-two hours debugging code for a client who won’t remember my name by Friday. Tonight, I want to be someone else. Someone who takes up space. Someone who gets noticed.

Someone who gets laid.

I’ve been running on caffeine and client deadlines for three months straight. Tonight I want someone’s hands on me. I want friction and heat and a man who knows how to use his body—someone who won’t ask permission to push, who won’t be careful, who will not treat me like I might break.

The dress I chose makes the intention clear. Black, short, the kind that clings to every curve and leaves the tops of my thighs bare when I move. I’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror before leaving and thought: this is either brave or stupid.

I’ve decided it’s both.

The whiskey burns warm in my belly—my second, maybe third. I’ve lost count, which should worry me more than it does. The music is good, some rock cover band, all grinding guitar and gravelly vocals, and my body remembers how to move even if my brain’s forgotten how to shut off.

The dance floor is packed, bodies pressed together with the kind of physical intimacy that only happens when alcohol and rhythm collide. I weave through the crowd, finding a pocket of space near the edge, and the band launches into something slower, dirtier. I close my eyes and let it take me.

My hips find the beat first, then my shoulders. The thin fabric of the dress clings to my skin, already warm, and my carefully straightened hair curls at the temples. I probably look like a mess. I definitely don’t care.

This is what I need. To exist in the physical instead of the digital. To be present, visible, real—skin and heat instead of backlit screens and keyboard clicks.

I’m so caught up in the rhythm that I almost miss him. Just another body edging closer with each song. Then that prickle hits—awareness sharpening at the back of my neck. Someone’s watching. Not the casual sweep of a man taking inventory of the room. This is focused. Intent.

I open my eyes.

He stands maybe five feet away. Flannel shirt, beer gut, the kind of aggressively mediocre who mistakes persistence for confidence. Our eyes meet half a second before I look away. The signal couldn’t be clearer.

He ignores it.

The next song starts—a throbbing beat that presses the crowd inward—and suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that the stale beer on his breath turns my stomach.

“Hey there, beautiful.” He shouts over the music. “Looking lonely out here.”

“I’m good, thanks.” I step back, still moving but building distance.

He follows.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” His hand snags my waist, thick fingers pressing through the thin fabric. “Just trying to be friendly.”

I twist away. “I appreciate it, but I’m not interested.”

Clear. Direct. A boundary that should need no explanation.

His grip tightens instead.

“Don’t be such a bitch about it.” The friendly mask drops, showing something meaner underneath. His other hand clamps my arm. Suddenly, I’m pinned between his bulk and the press of the crowd, no room to shift my feet. “Just one dance.”

My pulse spikes. I can’t fight—he has six inches and seventy pounds on me. I can’t run. The crowd that felt liberating a moment ago is a cage now.

“Let go.” My voice comes out thin. Scared.

“Relax, baby.” Hot, sour breath against my ear. “You were putting on quite a show. Can’t blame a guy for wanting a piece.”

I yank harder. His fingers dig in to bruise. The bar noise warps into slow motion—

Then an arm slides around my waist.

This one doesn’t grab or grope. It settles with a possessive familiarity that stops my lungs cold.

“There you are, sweetheart.” The voice is deep and controlled, with an edge in it that cuts straight through the music. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten you had a boyfriend.”

I look up.

Storm-gray eyes. A face that belongs in a museum—or on a wanted poster.

Sharp jaw, dark stubble, military-short hair just long enough to curl if he let it.

He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back, broad enough that his body becomes a wall between me and Flannel Shirt without him having to try.

He isn’t looking at me. His gaze is locked on the man still gripping my arm, and there’s nothing emotional in his expression. Just cold, precise calculation.

“She’s with me.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Find another target.”

Flannel Shirt’s grip loosens but doesn’t drop. “Didn’t see you anywhere, buddy. Think the lady can speak for herself.”

The stranger’s mouth curves—not a smile, exactly.

The kind of expression a blade might make if it could.

“The lady shouldn’t have to. But since you need it spelled out—” A small, deliberate shift of his weight.

Just that. The casual arrangement of muscle under his dark Henley, his free hand resting easy at his side like a threat in standby.

“She’s not interested. She’s taken. And you’re about three seconds from finding out what happens to men who can’t read a clear No. ”

He delivers it conversationally, almost pleasantly, which somehow makes it worse. Flannel Shirt’s hand drops from my arm as I burned him. He mutters something that means nothing and retreats into the crowd.

I should step away now. Thank this stranger and walk. Instead, I register that his arm is still around me, solid and warm, and for the first time tonight, I actually feel safe. Which is irrational.

Everything about this man broadcasts danger. The coiled readiness in his body. The way he assessed the situation with no visible emotion. The way the crowd parts around him without him having to ask.

“You hurt?” His voice shifts when he finally looks at me. Still deep, but quieter.

I shake my head.

“Good.” He starts to drop his arm, and I suffer an embarrassing, very specific pull of disappointment. “You should be more careful. Place like this, woman alone, dancing like that—you’re asking for trouble.”

“Excuse me? Dancing like what?”

“Like you’re trying to start a riot.” A rough current runs through the words—not criticism, not quite admiration. Something between. “Trust me, I’ve been watching you for twenty minutes. I’m probably the only man in here whose first instinct was protection instead of possession.”

His gaze drops—a single, unhurried sweep from my face down the length of the dress and back up. It isn’t subtle. It isn’t meant to be. The heat in it lands against my skin like a touch.

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Someone had to.” He scans the bar. I follow his line of sight and register, belatedly, how many eyes are still aimed in my direction. Not at us. At me. “That asshole wasn’t the only one tracking you. There are at least two others waiting for their shot.”

A chill moves over my skin despite the heat. “I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe.” His eyes return to my face. Dark, direct, unreadable. “But why should you have to? Dance with me instead.”

It isn’t quite a question. His hand extends between us, palm up.

Every rational part of me lines up its counterarguments. Instead, when the band shifts into something slow and dark, all low bass and liquid guitar, I put my hand in his.

He pulls me in—one smooth motion, no hesitation—and every nerve ending I own wakes up simultaneously. He’s all hard planes and coiled strength barely contained under his clothes.

One hand settles low on my back, deliberate and warm, fingers spanning the strip of skin the dress leaves bare.

The contact is a jolt. The other hand traps mine against his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat—steady, unhurried, as though threatening men in bars is simply how he spends his Thursdays.

“What’s your name?” I ask because I need something to say, or I’ll embarrass myself entirely.

“Kade.” No last name. No elaboration. “You?”

“Wren.”

“Wren.” He tests the syllable. The rough timbre of his voice sends heat pooling low in my stomach, immediate and inconvenient. “Pretty name for a pretty bird who flew into the wrong nest.”

I should roll my eyes at that. Instead, I press closer, letting him guide me through the slow burn of the song.

His thigh slides between mine as we turn, and the friction—the rough denim against my bare inner thigh where the dress has ridden up—draws a sharp, quiet exhale from somewhere in my chest.

I don’t step back to a polite distance. I step forward.

I let my hips roll against him, deliberate, testing.

The contact draws a controlled inhalation from him—the first crack in his composure I’ve seen.

Beneath the rough denim I feel the heavy, unmistakable press of his erection against my hip, and my breath stills—not from surprise, but from a surge of pure, uncomplicated want.

The realization sends heat washing through me that has nothing to do with the whiskey.

His grip shifts—a low, possessive slide to my hip, fingers curling into the thin fabric and pulling me harder against him. An answer. Not an apology.