Securing Her Heart (Secure & Sacred #3)

1. Kienna

KIENNA

The scent of crayons and construction paper is my favorite smell in the world. It’s the smell of potential, of messy little fingers, and of the bright, uninhibited joy that fills these rooms.

At twenty-three, this is my first real job, and I still have to pinch myself every morning when I walk in. I love everything about it, from the way the classroom feels when it’s empty to the silence after a chaotic day finally settling over the colorful rugs and alphabet-lined walls.

I take a moment to savor it, lining up the tiny plastic chairs until they’re perfectly parallel to the tables.

On my desk, a hand-drawn picture from little Toby sits propped against my monitor, a crayon-heavy masterpiece of a sun with too many rays.

It’s my sanctuary, my first step into true independence.

I hum softly, straightening a few things on my desk before clearing off the whiteboard. My mind drifts away from my lesson plans for tomorrow and toward my parents. They don’t think much of my job, and they’ve never let me forget it.

With a successful businessman-turned-senator for a father, and a high-power defense lawyer for a mother, the pressure to have a lucrative and important career was suffocating.

When I told them my plans to be a teacher, they were less than impressed.

It was the worst fight we’ve ever had. I cringe at the mere memory of my father yelling at me until his face was nearly purple and spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth.

Needless to say, my relationship with them is strained.

We haven’t spoken since I started my job a few months ago, but that’s just life.

I knew what I would be sacrificing to follow my dreams, and I have no regrets.

I grew up with comfort, money, and a private education, but no one valued me or my opinions.

I may have “downgraded” my lavish lifestyle to be able to afford to live off a teacher’s salary, but I honestly enjoy my apartment more than the mansion I grew up in or any of the vacation houses we stayed at over the summers.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I gather my things and turn off the lights. The hallway is long and dim, the echo of my footsteps sounding unnaturally loud against the linoleum. When I step outside, the evening air is crisp, and the parking lot is nearly deserted.

Once I’m on the road, it takes me a few minutes to notice why I’m feeling so paranoid. The dark sedan behind me has been there for three turns. I slow down; it slows down. My pulse quickens, a cold, unfamiliar dread unfurling in my chest.

I can’t deal with this right now. I’m just going home to a quiet apartment, a cup of tea, and my precious, persnickety cat. Maybe they’re just lost? I rationalize, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. Maybe they’re just heading to the same residential district?

When the sedan mimics my next turn with aggressive precision, I know this is far more than a coincidence.

My heart begins to hammer against my ribs in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

Why are they doing this? Who are they? The questions flash through my head, but they’re just static against the rising tide of pure, unadulterated fear.

My mind races, yet is somehow frustratingly blank at the same time.

What do they want? I’m just a teacher, driving home from a long day at work. What trouble could I possibly be in?

I take a sharp right onto an isolated stretch of road, hoping to lose them, but the sedan surges forward. A sickening crunch of metal against metal reverberates through my car as they slam into my bumper.

The inertia is brutal. My seatbelt locks, digging cruelly into my collarbone as my body is whipped forward and then slammed back against the headrest. My head spins, a sharp, white-hot spike of pain lancing behind my eyes.

Every muscle in my neck and shoulders shrieks, strained and aching from the violent impact.

I’m disoriented, the world spinning in nauseating arcs of asphalt, trees, and dark sky before my car jerks to a final, shuddering halt in the ditch.

Panic rises in my throat, hot and acidic.

I try to breathe, but my chest feels tight, bruised by the force of the seatbelt.

Before I can even reach for my phone, my door is ripped open.

A large, rough hand smelling of cigarettes grabs my arm, hauling me out of the car.

I scream, kicking and fighting, but they drag me toward their vehicle like a sack of flour.

My limbs feel leaden, my muscles protesting every movement, but the pure, adrenaline-fueled terror keeps me thrashing.

"Stop struggling," one of the men growls, his grip bruising. I can’t tell how many people are out here, but they are all dressed in black pants, bullet-proof vests, and black ski masks. What the hell is happening?

I’m frantic, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it might just burst out of my chest. And then suddenly, the air shifts. The tension in the atmosphere changes, snapping like a high-tension wire.

A motorcycle roars, then cuts to silence.

A figure steps into my periphery, a man who seems to dwarf the trees themselves.

He’s all sharp angles and lethal intent, dressed in tactical gear that clings to a frame clearly built for violence.

He’s devastatingly handsome in a way that feels dangerous, with cheekbones you could cut glass on and a jawline like granite.

He stands perfectly still for a heartbeat, his presence so commanding that the world seems to hold its breath.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. They are a shocking, unexpected amber—warm, molten, and searingly focused.

I have no idea who this man is, but he doesn’t have the same uniform or intent as the other men surrounding me.

That has to be a good sign, right? Truthfully, I don’t know if there are any good signs in this scenario.

I’m so used to finding the positive in everything, but I don’t think there’s any upside this time.

My mystery man moves with terrifying, liquid efficiency. One moment he’s twenty feet away; the next, he’s a blur of motion. He hits the man holding me with a precision that speaks of lethal training, the blow landing with a sickening, final thud.

I stumble, hitting the dirt, but my savior is there before I can even process the fall.

He doesn't offer a hand, he envelops me. The man’s massive frame shields me from the carnage unfolding behind him.

He isn't sweating. He isn't frantic. He’s calm…

a calm that is more frightening than the attack itself.

“Miller, Kai, you got this?” he shouts into the darkness of the gravel road. I hear two distinct voices reply in affirmation, making him nod.

Apparently, he has friends. A thought occurs that I’ve jumped from the frying pan and into the fire, as the saying goes.

I was just explaining that phrase to one of my students last week after having read it aloud during story time.

My throat closes at the memory, wondering if I’ll ever get back to the life I was building.

"Are you harmed?" the man asks, his voice a low, vibration that rattles in my chest.

I should be hysterical. I should be screaming, running, or calling the cops. At the very least, I should be curled up in a ball of shock.

Instead, I find myself staring up into those amber eyes, utterly mesmerized. I do feel like I’m in the fire… but I think I want to get burned. The world around us is chaotic and loud, but beneath the shelter of his arm, the panic recedes, replaced by a strange, overwhelming sense of being anchored.

"I... I don't think so," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. I’m finding it hard to form thoughts, let alone words to string together in a sentence.

He doesn't look at the thug he took down or the rest of the fight going on behind him; he looks only at me, his gaze sweeping over my face as if he’s cataloging every inch of me for safekeeping.

The man has salt and pepper hair at his temples, making him a solid ten to fifteen years older than me. Why is that suddenly so attractive?

"Stay behind me," he commands, turning slightly away from me.

“W-wait,” I stutter out. “Who are you? Who are they? Are you kidnapping me? What is this about? I’m just a teacher, I swear I haven’t done anything wrong.” All of my questions come out in a rush, my words tripping over each other as they tumble from my lips.

He faces me once more, those magical eyes locking onto mine. “I’m Atlas. Your new bodyguard.”

That’s all the information he volunteers before giving me his back. He takes a step forward, and so do I, gripping onto his tactical vest so I don’t lose him. Atlas moves with grace and purpose, like a sleek panther in the night seeking refuge.

I don’t know how I’m still standing after the crash and nearly being abducted, but Atlas's strength and stability must be providing a shield around me. Taking a deep breath, I decide to trust him.