Chapter 4
FOUR
Tory
No one ever tells you that having a security guard while your life is in peril is a lot like being in prison. Sure, I’m not locked up—technically, I can go outside, stroll along the lanai, or even take a dip in the pool. But there’s always one condition: I have to stick close to Ranger.
And therein lies the problem.
I want to stick close to him. Too close.
It’s only been one day in this safe house, and I’m already losing my mind.
Not because I feel trapped, but because he’s here.
Everything about him—the way his dark, unreadable eyes flick over me when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his broad shoulders seem to fill every doorway, the quiet confidence in his movements—makes it impossible to focus on anything else.
Right now, I’m sitting on the cozy white sofa in the living room, my jewelry supplies spread out on the glass coffee table in front of me.
A crystal pendant rests cool and smooth against my fingertips, the soft light from the windows catching the stone’s facets and throwing tiny rainbows onto the table.
Usually, working on jewelry is my escape.
It calms me, grounds me, lets me channel my restless energy into something creative.
But not today. Not with Ranger in the room.
He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, his large frame nearly blocking out the hallway behind him. His arms are crossed over his chest, the fabric of his black T-shirt pulling taut over his biceps, and his gaze is locked on me with an intensity that sets every nerve in my body on edge.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone commands the entire room.
I try to focus on the pendant, picking up a tiny silver clasp with trembling fingers, but my hands feel clumsy and uncoordinated. Normally, this would be second nature, but under his watchful eyes, I can’t seem to do anything right.
Why does he have to look at me like that? Like he’s studying me, trying to figure me out, peeling back the layers I’ve spent years building to keep people at arm’s length.
The worst part is, I want him to.
I sneak a glance up at him, hoping he’s turned his attention elsewhere, but no—he’s still watching me. His dark eyes are locked on mine, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My cheeks burn, and I quickly look away, pretending to focus on the necklace again.
This is ridiculous. I’ve always been composed, confident in my own quiet way.
But one day with Ranger, and I feel like a nervous wreck.
My pulse races every time he’s near, my thoughts scatter the moment he speaks, and the way his voice rumbles through the air?
It’s like he’s rewiring my entire nervous system.
I grip the clasp tighter, trying to steady my hands, but it’s no use. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself around him. I feel… exposed. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before.
And the craziest part? I don’t hate it.
I glance up at him again, just for a second, and catch him shifting slightly, leaning one shoulder against the frame.
His gaze softens—not by much, but enough to make my heart skip a beat.
It’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he’s giving me just enough room to flail without drowning.
But it’s not just his presence that’s messing with me. It’s the way he makes me feel seen, like I’m more than just the overly protected, science-obsessed daughter of my father. Like I’m not invisible.
I take a deep breath, setting the clasp and pliers down and lean back into the cushions. The crystal pendant gleams on the table in front of me, unfinished, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when Ranger is standing there, a living, breathing distraction I can’t seem to shake.
The thought makes my cheeks heat all over again, and I drop my gaze to the pendant, pretending to examine it like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. But the truth is, there’s only one thing on my mind.
I try to keep my head down, pretend I don’t notice the way his gaze feels like it’s burning through me, but it’s no use. My pulse races, my hands tremble slightly as I think about it.
This is new.
This feeling is new.
Yes, I’m a virgin. Overprotective father, remember?
But I’ve experimented. And that’s all it ever was—experimentation.
I’ve kissed boys. Practiced might be a better word for it.
Chris Henderson, my old lab partner, was the closest thing I ever had to a boyfriend, and even that was more about science than anything else.
I used to tell my dad I was off to study with Chris, which wasn’t a lie. We studied everything. Including making out.
We’d analyze each kiss, break down the specifics like it was part of a biology project. Which muscles were involved, the mechanics of head tilts, even the chemical reactions happening in our brains. We tried each step together like we were dissecting a frog in a high school lab.
It was weird. Too clinical.
There’s definitely science involved in attraction—hormones, neurotransmitters, pheromones—but what’s happening to me now?
This isn’t clinical. This is chaotic, consuming, uncontrollable.
Every time Ranger so much as glances my way, my stomach flips like I’m on the edge of a roller coaster. Butterflies? Oh, no. This is a swarm.
I’ve never felt this way before. Not even close.
Every time his dark, smoldering eyes lock onto mine, I lose the ability to breathe. My thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, leaving me speechless and flushed. It’s embarrassing how obvious it must be.
What’s worse is, I think he knows.
Ranger is nothing like Chris or any guy I’ve ever known.
Chris was awkward, scrawny, and sweet in a way that made him feel safe.
Ranger, on the other hand, is pure danger wrapped in a body so perfect it defies reason.
He’s tall, broad, and muscled in a way that seems impossible.
His voice is deep, a rumble that makes me shiver every time he speaks, and when he’s close, the air seems to shift, charged with something electric.
And it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he moves, the way he watches me, the way his mere presence fills the room. There’s a confidence about him, a quiet strength that makes me feel simultaneously safe and completely unraveled.
I try to distract myself, to focus on the necklace I’m making, but my hands shake too much to keep going. I set the pendant down on the coffee table and let out a soft sigh.
Ranger shifts slightly in the doorway, his gaze never leaving me.
I bite my bottom lip, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. If just one look from him does this to me, how am I supposed to survive being around him every day?
The logical part of my brain knows I should focus on staying safe, on getting through this ordeal without letting my emotions—or my hormones—get in the way. But every time Ranger is near, logic goes out the window.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to analyze it. I just want to feel it. I return to my work, focusing on the pendant.
He must think I’m a twit, the way I mumble random, nonsensical things every time he looks at me. Every time his dark eyes flick in my direction, I lose my train of thought, babbling about crystals or some obscure scientific concept no one cares about.
Let’s face it—Ranger isn’t interested in science girls like me. He’s probably traveled the world, experienced more than I can even imagine. He’s had women—countless women—fall at his feet, because any man who looks like that is bound to.
He’s tall, but not intimidatingly so. Just over six feet, the perfect height that doesn’t make him tower like a skyscraper but still makes him feel solid, unshakable.
His body isn’t overdone—he’s not one of those beefed-up bodybuilder types who can barely move—but his muscles are hard, compact, and powerful.
He’s built for action, for taking down threats with precision.
Then there’s his jaw, strong and sharp, framing an enviable set of lips.
Full, perfectly shaped lips that I can’t stop staring at, no matter how hard I try.
Lips that I know—just know—would know exactly what to do with me.
Unlike Chris Henderson’s mouth, which had all the finesse of a science experiment gone wrong, I’m sure Ranger’s would be devastatingly skilled.
Not that I’d know what to do in return.
But looks aren’t everything, right? Personality is an important scientific factor. And wouldn’t you know, Ranger’s got that too. He’s funny, with a dry sense of humor that sneaks up on you. He’s patient—at least with me—and he’s caring in a way that feels genuine, not forced.
I enjoy being around him. Crave it, actually.
I peek up from my work to find him sitting on the sofa now, a book in his large hands.
At some point, he moved from the doorway, his quiet strength filling the room without a word.
He’s leaned back, legs spread slightly, completely at ease, as if the plush couch was made for him.
His fingers are wrapped around the spine of the book, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along the edge as he reads.
The ache that settles low in my belly is immediate and undeniable. I can’t stop imagining those big hands of his, strong and rough, working their way over my skin with the same careful precision. I clench my thighs together, trying to banish the thought, but it lingers, hot and unwelcome.
It would be a novel experience, that’s for sure. Chris Henderson’s awkward fumbling in the name of “experimentation” no longer counts in my mind. This… this would be something entirely different.
I bite my lip, focusing intently on the Tanzanite crystal in my hand. My fingers tremble slightly as I try to attach a delicate metal clasp, the motion far more challenging than it should be with my current state of mind.