Securing Her Innocence (Secure & Sacred #1)

1. Annika

ANNIKA

T he scent of peonies and eucalyptus usually calms my nerves, but tonight, the silence of the floral shop feels heavy.

For the last few hours, a cold, prickly sensation has been crawling up my spine.

It’s a persistent, nagging intuition that something isn’t right, like a storm brewing just over the horizon.

I’ve tried to shake it off, blaming the shadows cast by the streetlights or the creaks of this old building, but my gut refuses to settle.

Maybe I’m just exhausted. Quitting my steady, soul-crushing corporate job to open this shop was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I scrounged every penny and worked overtime for years, determined to build something that was entirely mine.

My blood, sweat, tears, and sleep schedule have been sacrificed to make this shop a success.

I named my little haven "The Petal the busy dad grabbing a last-minute apology bouquet, the elderly woman who buys a single rose every week, and the young couples planning their first big life events.

I sigh wistfully, thinking about a couple who got married last year.

They had me do their flowers, and now they are having a fancy baby shower to welcome a new little life.

I’m so happy for them. Truly. But I can’t stop the slight twinge of loneliness at the thought of never having those memories for myself.

Clearing my head of those thoughts, I focus back on the positive, like how much I love my job now that I work for myself.

Every day is a whirlwind of color, and even on the toughest days, simply arranging a bouquet of my favorite wildflowers reminds me that I'm living my dream. I wouldn't trade the exhaustion for the world. I love my shop more than I ever thought possible.

I spent countless nights researching business licenses and local wholesalers, and even more weekends elbow-deep in paint and sandpaper, tackling DIY projects to transform this old space on a shoestring budget.

It was only a few months ago that I finally stopped seeing red in my ledgers and started turning a modest profit, a victory that felt more precious than the flowers I sold.

Still, my parents’ voices echo in my head.

Am I really cut out for this? I wonder, my eyes drifting to the "Open" sign I worked so hard to hang. My parents certainly didn’t think so.

The last time we talked over the phone, they gave me the oh so helpful suggestion to just find a nice man to take care of me.

Apparently, I’m being too complicated and difficult for any man to handle. I wish I would have had the courage to tell them that if a man is threatened by a business-owning woman, then I don’t want him around anyway.

To my parents, my dreams were just a phase, something to be discarded in favor of a quiet, domestic life. But I wanted more. I needed this shop. Yet tonight, the price of my independence feels unusually high.

I decide to call my old work friend, Acacia, to try and distract myself from this sudden and unwelcome bout of paranoia.

She recently packed up her life in the big city and moved to a tiny mountain town just a few hours away from my floral shop here in Colorado, and I’ve been meaning to get the latest details of her whirlwind adventure.

Acacia tells me about her hunky mountain man savior and opening her own bakery, which was her life-long dream. We bonded over starting our own businesses one day, even though at the time, we were stuck in our drab, gray cubicles, fetching coffee for people who didn’t even know our names.

"Oh my God, Cace," I gush. "That sounds like a literal fairy tale. I’m so happy for you. You deserve every bit of?—"

A loud bang echoes through the alleyway behind my shop. It sounds like a car backfiring, but the secondary thud that follows makes the hair on my arms stand up.

"Annika? You still there?" Acacia asks, her tone wary and uncertain.

Another crack rips through the otherwise eerily silent evening, this one louder and much more terrifying. It’s sharp and metallic, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

"Annika! What was that?"

"I... I’m okay," I manage to squeak out. My voice is a terrified whisper, shaky and thin. "I think... I think it came from the alley behind the shop."

"Call the police, Annika. Right now. Get under a table and call 911,” my friend insists.

"I don't know if I should," I stammer, my breathing coming in jagged bursts. "I think I saw... oh crap. Acacia, I have to go."

"Annika, wait?—"

I hang up before she says anything else. My hands are trembling so badly I can’t grip my phone anymore. It clatters onto the counter, and I wince, not wanting the sound to draw attention to my whereabouts.

After a beat of silence and a few deep breaths, I debate what to do next. If someone needs medical attention, it’s my duty as a responsible citizen to call for help. Plus, having someone bleed out next to my floral shop wouldn’t exactly be good for business.

Curiosity, that trait my mother always warned would get me into trouble, wins out, pulling me toward the back door. I crack it open just an inch, peering into the dim light of the alley.

The world stops. Three men in dark suits stand over a slumped figure. One of them holds a pistol, the barrel still smoking. I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth, but the sound is enough.

Three heads snap in my direction. I don't wait to see if they recognize me. I slam the door, bolt the lock, and sprint back into the main shop, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My lungs feel like they're shrinking, the air coming in shallow, staccato gulps.

My legs give out, and I slide down the cold wood of the counter until my bottom hits the linoleum.

I can't breathe. Every time I try to suck in a breath, my throat feels like it's closing, tightened by an invisible hand.

My vision begins to fray at the edges, dark spots dancing in the periphery like the men in the alley.

This is it, I think, my mind spiraling into a dark, frantic abyss. Everything I've worked for, everything I've bled for, it's gone.

I can see it all disappearing: the shop, the mortgage I just started to manage, the dreams of having a stall at the local farmer’s market next summer. Those men saw me. They know where I am. They'll come back to finish what they started, and they'll turn my sanctuary into a crime scene.

My parents were right. I was never meant for this.

I tried to build a life out of flowers and grit, but I just built a target on my back.

The smell of the peonies, once so sweet, now claws at my lungs, thick and suffocating like a funeral wreath.

I'm going to die here, on the floor of the dream that was supposed to save me.

My phone buzzes from its spot on the counter, Acacia’s name flashing across the screen. I can't answer. I can hardly breathe, let alone speak right now.

Suddenly, the chime on the front door rings.

I shriek, scrambling backward until I hit the refrigerated flower case.

A man steps inside, but he's not one of the suits from the alley.

He's a freaking tower of solid muscles. The man is broad-shouldered with bulging biceps, wearing a tactical vest, and has eyes that look like they're carved from cold flint.

He scans the room with terrifying efficiency before his gaze locks onto me.

"Are you the owner? Annika Vance?" His voice is a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates deep in my chest. He's at my side in two strides, his massive hands reaching out. I flinch, expecting a blow or a rough grab, but he doesn't hurt me.

Instead, the giant of a man cups my face, his palms surprisingly soft despite the callouses. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks, a gesture so tender it makes my breath hitch for a different reason.

"Breathe, little flower," he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that should be terrifying. But it isn't. "Just breathe for me. You're safe. I'm Kai, with Aegis Security."

I should probably be running from a man who looks like he could snap me in half with one hand, yet I find myself leaning into his touch almost instinctively. For the first time in my life, I don't feel like a "phase" or a burden. I feel like the most important thing in the world.

Kai isn't just looking at me; he's seeing me. Every tremor, every jagged breath, every ounce of my fear is being acknowledged and anchored by his strength. I've spent my life building walls to prove I'm independent, but in his arms, I feel like I finally have permission to just... be.

"They... they killed him," I choke out, gesturing wildly toward the back.

"I know. We were tracking them, but we were too late to stop the hit. But we aren't too late to save you." He pulls me to my feet, his body heat radiating through my thin apron. He feels like a fortress, solid and unbreakable. "The Syndicate saw your face. That makes you mine to protect now."

"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice trembling.

He stares down at me, his possessive gaze sweeping over my face. "It means you don't leave my sight. Not for a second. From this moment on, you are under twenty-four-hour protection. Where I go, you go. Where I sleep, you sleep. Let's move."

Before I can protest, he has his jacket around my shoulders and is ushering me toward a blacked-out SUV. I should be terrified of him, but as he shields my body with his own, all I feel is a strange, overwhelming sense of security.