Protected from Reprisal (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #4)

Chapter 1

YARA

Why did I agree to come to this fundraiser again?

It’s not like I need to be here. The foundation already has my contribution—a custom prosthetic that they’ll award to a deserving recipient—and I told the event coordinator that I’m not interested in any special recognition.

That’s why the donation is listed under TinkTech, the LLC I created for patenting my inventions, rather than my actual name.

And it’s why I’m sitting in the middle of the ballroom with the rest of the mid-level donors instead of right at the front with the high-level ones.

Yes, I’m aware that if I were to sell a prosthetic like this, it would be somewhere in the quarter-million-dollar range. High-quality prosthetics are close to a hundred K, typically, and with the modifications I’ll add to it, the value will more than double.

But it’s not about the money. It’s not about the attention and accolades. It’s about donating something that will change a person’s life. And I don’t need recognition for that. Just knowing I helped is enough.

That’s why I was going to skip this fundraising gala when Callum, the founder and director of Andy’s Angels, originally asked about it. “I’m not sure,” I hedged. “I might be busy with work. And it’s kind of a long drive…”

“No worries,” my old Army buddy replied. “I just thought you might enjoy it. There’ll be a lot of familiar faces there. Jesse, Rhett, and of course, the Blade and Arrow guys are coming up from Portland.”

Then my friend Bea, who’s married to Indy, one of the aforementioned Blade and Arrow guys, got it into her mind that she wanted me to come.

“I’d love to see you there,” she wheedled when she called a few weeks ago.

“It’s been ages. We can catch up, plus there’s going to be live music, a magic show and a silent auction with really cool items.” She paused before adding conspiratorially, “It hasn’t been announced yet, but Rhiannon’s parents donated a weekend stay at their vineyard in Napa for the winner and five friends.

Indy’s going to try to win it for me. Then I could bring you, Eden, Noelle, Aidy, and Fiona.

Wouldn’t that be such a fun girls’ weekend? ”

“It would be fun,” I agreed. “But I don’t need to go to the event for that.”

“But you need to go to hang out with me,” she tossed back. “Please, Yara? I know Eden and Noelle would love to see you. And of course, the guys, too.”

It wasn’t hard saying no to Callum. But when lovely Bea asked, especially in her most pleading voice, it was almost impossible. And honestly, the idea of seeing my friends was appealing, if not for the whole get dressed up and drive two hours to Tacoma and back again thing.

But it’ll be good to get out, I told myself every time I considered backing out in the weeks after. Do something social for a change, instead of staying home like I usually do, eating my ready-to-eat subscription meals and watching reruns of BattleBots.

“Maybe you’ll meet a guy,” my best friend, Annaliese, offered. She’s been after me to try dating for over a year, and the last time I visited her in Boston, one of her single coworkers just happened to show up at the same place we were having drinks.

“Brayden’s lovely,” she confided during a quick conference in the bathroom. “Single, handsome, and he likes independent women, like you. Plus, he has family in Seattle.”

He was nice.

But he wasn’t for me, even if I were looking to date, which I most definitely am not.

And if I were, I’d want someone like Bea’s husband.

Not him specifically, because that would be weird and inappropriate, but a man who values integrity and bravery and honor.

A man who understands why I wanted to become one of the few female Green Berets and respects me for it, instead of writing me off as too hard or unfeminine.

Which is bullshit, by the way. Wanting to dedicate your life to protecting your country has nothing to do with being masculine or feminine. But some people, they hear that I was Special Forces and make assumptions about me when they have no idea who I really am or what I value.

Like this jerk sitting next to me, for example.

Camden Winthrop. “Of Winthrop Consulting,” he made sure to tell me, “the top financial consulting company in all of Tacoma.”

Before I had a chance to respond, he added importantly, “I’m the CCO. That’s Chief Creative Officer. In case you didn’t know.”

From the moment he flashed me that condescending smile, I knew I was in for it.

It wasn’t just the pompous way he launched into his job description, reeling off phrases like aesthetic vision and holistic approach and my personal favorite, capturing the vibe of the company.

“I want to get away from the boring financial thing,” Camden explained. “Make things more dynamic. Make them pop. Be the vibe, you know?”

No. I don’t know how a company that provides financial consulting services to wealthy residents of Tacoma can be the vibe.

“Too many old, stodgy types,” he continued, leaning in far too close for my taste. “I keep telling my dad, where’s the fun? The youth? We need more excitement. More pop. Color. Vibes.”

I’d only known him for a couple minutes at that point, and I already disliked him.

Forty-two minutes later—and yes, I’m counting—I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t just dislike Camden Winthrop. I detest him.

And Bea—who’s sitting three tables away with Indy and the rest of the Blade and Arrow crew—had better take me on that wine trip if she wins it. Because she owes me.

When I found my seat at this table with seven strangers, I’ll admit, I was disappointed.

I’d been hoping to spend the evening with people I actually knew.

Preferably the Blade and Arrow guys—Indy, Rafe, Webb, Tyler, and Ace—all men I served with back when I was based at Fort Campbell and consider good friends.

But the tables only seat eight, and with Bea, Rafe’s wife, Eden, and Webb’s girlfriend, Noelle, also in attendance, that left me as the odd one out. Literally.

Bea sent me an apologetic message as soon as we found our seats.

I’m so sorry! I thought Callum said the tables would seat ten. Come sit with us. Ace said he’d swap with you. Tyler volunteered, too.

But I didn’t want to break up their close-knit group. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time I found myself surrounded by strangers. So I politely refused her offer.

No worries! I’ll stay here. It’s just dinner, after all. As soon as it’s over, we can check out the music and magic show, like you talked about. It’s totally fine.

And it would have been fine if not for getting stuck next to Camden Winthrop, who I’ve secretly renamed as The Most Obnoxious Man on the Planet.

Even that wouldn’t be too bad if he spent any time talking to my tablemates. But for the last forty-two—no, forty-three, now—minutes, his attention has been completely on me. Not asking me questions, oh, no. He only wants to talk about himself.

I now know that MOMP got his business degree at UCLA, but he decided on the six-year plan so he could hang out with his frat buddies longer. I know that he lives in a condo with a view of Mount Rainier, but he thinks the view is overrated.

“It’s not like it’s Everest or something,” he explained dismissively. “I like beaches better than mountains, myself. But my dad wouldn’t spring for a house on Sunset Beach.”

That was the first time I wanted to punch him.

“Mount Rainier isn’t a mountain,” I told him politely, because one thing my parents always told me was honey works better than vinegar. “It’s a stratovolcano. And many people consider it to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world.”

“Pssh.” He rolled his eyes. “Give me a beach any day. And anyway, I’d think you’d like the beach better, too.”

“Why?” I asked. I didn’t really care about his answer, but it was like watching a car crash in real-time. I just couldn’t help myself.

Camden gave a pointed look at my breasts. “Because you have a great body. And I’m sure you look amazing in a swimsuit.”

That was the second time I wanted to punch him.

Forty-three minutes in, I’ve heard about his hobbies—golfing and collecting expensive cigars—the last trip he took to Ibiza, his new Mercedes, and his current topic, his perspective on traditional gender roles.

And I bet I’m in for a treat with that one.

“It’s not that I expect women to be barefoot and pregnant,” he explains. Pausing, he waits until our server clears away our dinner plates before continuing. “But the whole household equality thing doesn’t make sense. If the woman is working, who’s home to raise the kids? Cook the meals? Clean?”

“Well,” I reply tightly. “There are daycares. Schools. Housekeepers. Both partners could share in the responsibilities. Or… the man could stay home.”

Camden stares at me for a long second before laughing. “Oh, Yara. You’re so funny.”

As irritation builds, my ears go hot. Beneath the table, my fingers dig into the silky fabric of my dress. “What’s funny about a woman working?”

He cocks his head at me. A lock of gelled hair falls over his forehead. For the first time since we sat down, he actually asks me a question. “What is it that you do, Yara? You can’t tell me you’d rather toil away at some boring job than have your husband take care of you?”

I haven’t mentioned a word about my donation for the event, or my profession—past or present. And I have no intention of giving this jerk any more information about myself than absolutely necessary. So I stick with a more generic answer.

“I work in robotics,” I reply. “For a company in Seattle. And I find my work very rewarding.”

Camden gives me another long look. “But if you had the choice of not working, wouldn’t you prefer it?”

“Not really. I like working.”