Chapter 5
FIVE
INDIGO
I wake to sunlight filtering through the penthouse curtains, the city below buzzing with Valentine energy.
My body aches in a good way—no, a great way—from the tension that's been building since Mack stormed into my life like a grumpy thundercloud.
Last night's kiss replays in my mind: his hands on my arms, pulling me close, the rough hunger in his mouth.
God, it was electric. Unexpected. And over too soon when his phone buzzed.
He pulled back like I'd burned him, muttering about protocols.
But I saw the fire in his eyes. He wants me.
And damn it, I'm starting to want him too. More than want. It’s almost like I like him.
The solid, protective type under all that growl.
But admitting that? No way. Taunting him is way more fun. It also helps me keep the upper hand.
There’s a few texts from Etta.
Etta: How’re things?
Etta: Security? Hunk or no?
Etta: I spoke with Cassian and heard about yesterday. Call me.
I give her a quick call and update her, and she assures me she’ll be in Cupid City for the show. I don’t tell her about the kiss. I don’t tell her much of anything. I just assure her things are fine. We hang up and I glance around.
Mack's already up, of course. I hear him out on the balcony, low voice on the phone.
Probably barking at his boss again. I slip into a robe—short, teasing—and pad out barefoot.
He's at the railing, back to me, broad shoulders tense under his black shirt.
Phone to his ear: "Yeah, Cass. Team tailed Voss last night—alibi's crumbling.
He was near the florist. And Lila? Her socials went dark after the note. Push harder."
Voss. Derek, my sleazy ex. The thought sours my stomach. They're getting closer, and Mack's team is on it. Relief mixes with the fear I've been burying. I won't let it show.
He hangs up, turns, and his eyes lock on me. There’s a flicker of heat, then it’s gone. "Morning."
"Morning, bodyguard." I saunter to the kitchenette, hips swaying just a tad extra. "Sleep well on that lumpy couch? Or were you dreaming of protocols?"
He grunts, crossing his arms that bulge with muscle. "Slept fine. You?"
"Like a baby. Though the bed's big enough for two." I wink, pouring some coffee. "Fake couple optics, remember?"
His jaw ticks. "Not happening. Job's protection, not playtime."
"Oh, come on. After last night?" I hand him a mug, our fingers brushing. "That kiss wasn't exactly professional."
He takes it, his eyes darkening. "Mistake. Won't happen again."
"Liar." I lean against the counter, robe gaping just enough to tease him. "You liked it. Admit it, Mack. Under all that grump, you're human."
He steps closer, towering. "Human enough to know distractions get people killed. Eat. Fitting’s in an hour."
I roll my eyes, but grab yogurt from the fridge. "Bossy. What if I want pancakes? Heart-shaped, to fit the theme."
"Room service is vetted. Order what you want." He sits at the table, pulling out his laptop. "But we're not leaving until I clear the venue."
"Fine, warden." I dial room service, ordering extravagantly—pancakes, fruit, mimosas. Just to annoy him. "Two mimosas. Extra bubbly."
He shoots me a look. "Alcohol? Before noon?"
"It's orange juice with a kick. Lighten up." After I hang up, I perch on the table edge near him, legs dangling. "So, update me. Stalker scoop?"
He hesitates, then sighs. "Derek's alibi for the bouquet—shaky. Was in the area. Lila Shane deleted posts hinting at sabotage. Team's digging. Could be either, or both."
Closer. Good. But the note last night—Roses are red, your guard is blue...—creeps in. Fear prickles, but I shove it down. Mask on. "Derek's too dumb for poetry. Lila? She's got the venom."
"Doesn't matter. We stay vigilant." His eyes scan me. It’s protective and leaves goosebumps in its wake. "No solo trips today."
"Aye aye, captain." I salute, then steal his laptop, clicking randomly. "Ooh, what's this? Secret files?"
"Give it back." He reaches, but I hop off, dancing away.
"Make me." Taunt mode: activated. It’s so fun to see him riled.
He stands, slow and predatory. "Indigo..."
"Mack..." I mimic, backing toward the couch. "Come on, share. I'm the target, remember?"
He closes in, grabbing the laptop gently but firmly. Our bodies brush—chest to chest. Heat radiates. "You're impossible."
"You're irresistible." I tilt my chin, lips inches from his. The air thickens. I want him to close the gap, kiss me like last night. Badly. My pulse races, breath shallow.
His brown eyes drop to my mouth, darkening. His strong hand lingers on mine. "This game's dangerous."
"Who's playing?" Whisper-soft. I lean in, almost...
Room service knocks. He pulls back, cursing under his breath. The moment’s shattered. Darn it. I wanted that kiss so bad—his roughness, the surrender. But he straightens, checks the peephole, then lets them in.
Breakfast arrives on a heart-shaped tray. Of course. I plop down, masking my disappointment with a smirk. "Saved by the bell. Or the pancakes."
He sets the tray, eyeing the mimosas warily. "Eat fast. You’ve got fittings."
I nod, and then dig in. "These pancakes are perfection. Try one."
"No carbs before ops."
"Ops? It's lingerie, not war."
"With you? Feels like war." But he takes a bite from my fork, our eyes locking. Heat simmers low in my belly.
Post-breakfast, we head to the venue—escorted by two Heartline guys. Mack's hand is on my elbow. It’s possessive, but I don't pull away. I like it, actually.
The city's alive: couples kissing in booths, heart balloons everywhere. Paparazzi snap us—Mack glares them off.
At the showcase hall, security's tripled. Backstage, designers fuss over me. Fittings: lace bras, silk teddies, all red and pink. I change behind a screen, but Mack's nearby, eyes always scanning.
"Like the view?" I call, emerging in a sheer robe over a crimson bra-and-panty set. Trying my best to taunt him.
His gaze heats, jaw clenching. "Focus on the job."
"This is my job." I strut, posing. "Rate it. On a scale of 'protocol breach' to 'damn'."
He looks away, but not before I catch the hunger. "It's... fine."
"Fine? Ouch." I twirl closer. "Admit it looks good."
"It looks dangerous." Voice low, rough.
"For who? You or the audience?"
"Both." He steps up, adjusting my robe tie—fingers grazing against my heated skin. Electric. "Don't tempt fate."
"Or what? You'll bodyguard me harder?" I challenge, heart pounding.
His breath fans my neck. "You have no idea."
Almost... I tilt up, lips parting. I want it. Bad. His eyes drop, hand stilling.
Coco, the designer interrupts: "Indigo! Next set!"
Mack retreats. Again, and frustration boils, but it's thrilling. He's cracking.
Rehearsal drags—struts, poses, lights. Mack watches like a hawk. Lunch break: we eat in a secure room. "Is there any progress on the stalker?"
"Cass says Derek's holed up in a motel. Team's watching. Lila skipped a meeting. It’s suspicious."
"Good. Maybe it'll end before the show."
"Maybe." He hands me water. "Hydrate."
"Bossy." But I sip, slowly. My eyes watching him. Does he have to be so darn good-looking all the time. It’s exhausting.
By late afternoon, I taunt Mack via texts while changing—Bored? Send pics of your protocols. He replies: Focus.
Fun. But underneath, my feelings grow. His protectiveness, the rare chuckles. It’s real.
Once we’re done and Coco has declared me ready to kick ass, we head back to the penthouse. I’m exhausted, and collapse on the couch. "Massage time. Vetted masseuse?"
He nods, calling one up. While waiting, we review the footage from today. Mack’s on his laptop, and I lean over his shoulder. "See? That strut needs work."
"It's perfect." His voice is gruff. Was that a compliment?
"Flattery? From you?" I nudge his arm.
"Truth." His eyes meet mine. Searing straight through me.
The masseuse arrives before I can beg Mack to kiss me. Not that I’d ever beg… okay, fine, maybe a little. But the knock on the suite door saves me from finding out.
Mack opens it, body blocking most of the view like he’s expecting an ambush instead of a spa appointment. “You Matteo?”
The man nods—tall, dark-haired, early thirties, built like he spends more time lifting clients than dumbbells.
He’s wearing black scrubs that hug his shoulders and carries a folding table under one arm, a leather case of oils in the other.
“Yes, sir. House call for Ms. Lyric. One-hour deep tissue, correct?”
Mack gives him a once-over that could strip paint. “Yeah. Set up in the bedroom. I’ll be right outside the door.”
Matteo’s smile is polite, professional. “Of course. Privacy is priority.”
I catch the way Mack’s jaw ticks as Matteo steps past him into the suite. Interesting.
I step into the bathroom, slipping into the fluffy white towel the hotel provided. I step into the bedroom and climb onto the table face-down, cheek resting on my folded arms, and let the towel fall away to drape loosely over my hips. Standard protocol. Nothing scandalous.
Mack positions himself just inside the doorway—close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend he’s giving me space. His arms are crossed, eyes fixed on the far wall like the abstract painting there is suddenly fascinating.
Matteo warms oil between his palms. “Ready, Ms. Lyric?”
“Indigo,” I correct softly. “And yes. Please.”
His hands land on my shoulders—warm, strong, competent.
He starts at the base of my neck, thumbs digging into the knots that have lived there since the break-in, since the note, since the necklace in my dressing room.
I exhale long and slow, letting the pressure melt some of the terror I’ve been carrying like a second skin.
I won’t admit out loud how scared I am. Not to Etta, not to the cops, definitely not to Mack.
But God, it feels good to be touched without fear.
I crack one eye open. Mack is still staring at that painting, but his posture has changed—shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Every time Matteo’s hands glide down my spine, Mack’s gaze flicks over. Quick. Guilty. Hungry.
I can’t resist.
“Jealous?” I murmur, voice muffled against my arms.
“Of what?” His growl is low enough that Matteo probably doesn’t catch it.
“His hands on me.”
Mack shifts his weight. “Professional.”
“Liar,” I taunt, smiling into the table.
Matteo works lower, kneading the small of my back with slow, deliberate circles. The oil smells like cedar and something faintly citrusy. My muscles loosen, but the tension in the room ratchets higher.
Mack makes a sound—barely audible, but I hear it. Something between a grunt and a curse.
Matteo’s hands pause for half a second. “Everything okay, Indigo?”
“Perfect,” I purr. “Keep going.”
But before he can continue, Mack’s stepping closer.
“We’re done here,” he says.
I push myself to sitting, towel slipping just enough to bare the curve of my hip and the side of one breast before I catch it. I don’t bother fixing it fully. Let him look.
Mack’s gaze snaps to me like a magnet.
Matteo blinks. “I—sorry?”
“I said we’re done.” Mack’s voice is flat steel. “Thanks for coming. I’ll walk you out.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence. Matteo glances at me, then back at Mack. He’s not stupid. He reads the room in about two seconds flat.
“Right,” he says carefully. “I’ll just… grab my table.”
“Leave it,” Mack states.
Matteo blinks again. “Uh… okay.”
Then Mack escorts him to the suite door like he’s escorting a suspect. The lock clicks behind them.
When Mack comes back, the air feels thicker. Charged.
I’m still sitting on the table, towel barely clinging, legs dangling over the edge. “That was rude.”
“He was done,” Mack says. He’s closer now, close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “You needed more work on your shoulders anyway.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head. “You offering?”
He doesn’t answer with words. He steps between my knees, hands finding my waist—warm, rough, possessive. “Lie back down.”
My pulse kicks hard. I do what he says, slowly, towel sliding away completely as I settle face-down again. Naked. Exposed. Trusting him with every inch.
His hands are different from Matteo’s. Bigger. Calloused from years of whatever life he lived before Heartline Security. He starts at my neck, thumbs pressing deep, working out the same knots Matteo found but with twice the intensity. Like he’s claiming territory.
I moan—quiet, involuntary.
He freezes for a second. Then his hands slide lower, palms flat against my spine, gliding down in long, slow strokes. Oil slicks the way. Heat follows.
“You’re tense,” he mutters, voice gravel.
“Wonder why.”
His thumbs dig into the dimples above my ass. “Because you like pushing me.”
“Maybe.” I arch just enough to press back into his touch. “Maybe I like seeing how far I can push before you snap.”
He leans over me, chest brushing my back, mouth close to my ear. “Careful, Indigo.”
“Or what?”
His hand slides up my side, skimming the curve of my breast, thumb grazing the underside. Not quite touching where I want him most. Teasing. Torturing.
“Or I stop being polite,” he says.
I turn my head, catching his eyes. They’re dark, stormy, pupils blown. “Who said I want polite?”
His eyes blaze like pure fire igniting deep within.
The tension builds as he stares at me. He steps closer, and my breath hitches.
Before he can act on anything his phone buzzes with a text.
He slides his finger over the screen, looking at it.
"Derek's on the move. Toward Gilded Hart. " He pulls back. Again. "Duty calls."
Dammit.