Chapter 4
RYA
Warmth. That’s the first thing I register.
A heavy, solid, comforting heat that wraps around me like a cocoon.
I haven’t felt this safe in… well, ever.
My mother was a whirlwind of colorful chaos, leaving me to anchor myself in the quiet corners of libraries and the digital certainties of code.
But this? This is different. This is a physical weight that grounds me.
I stir, blinking my eyes open. My cheek is pressed against something hard but yielding, covered in soft, black cotton. I inhale, and my lungs fill with that scent again: gun powder, cedar, and something purely masculine.
The edge of my vision is still blurry, like the last of a dream fluttering away before you can catch it. I stay suspended in this hazy moment between sleeping and waking, soaking in the grounding, steady feeling surrounding me. I know I have to wake up, but this is the best dream I’ve ever had.
As my brain slowly reboots, the reality of my situation washes me like a bucket of ice water.
The last thing I remember is being in the breakroom at the library…
Security breach… Miller. I was in the backseat of an armoured SUV, but now, I’m in a dimly lit room.
Even more shocking, I’m curled up on Miller’s lap.
My legs are draped over his massive thighs, and my arms are…
Oh, God, they’re wrapped around his neck.
“Eep!” The undignified sound escapes me as I scramble to get away. I’m so tangled in my own limbs and the thick wool blanket draped over us that I lose my footing. I tumble off his lap, landing in a graceless heap on the hardwood floor with a dull thump.
“Rya.” His voice is a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet room. He’s out of the chair in a flash, looming over me like a mountain of tactical gear and muscle.
Blue eyes pierce through the dark space, finding mine and silently pleading for me to trust him. I don’t know anything right now, plus, I just woke up. This is a lot to take in, especially before coffee.
The hulking man who claims to be my bodyguard reaches out a hand, his fingers splayed. Some part of me knows he’s trying to help me up, but I flinch and scuttle backward on my rear, kicking the blanket toward him like a makeshift shield.
“Stay back!” I pant, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What happened? When did I fall asleep?” Another question pops up. One I’m almost too afraid to ask. My stomach twists and my breath catches in my throat, but I push through the fear. “Did you… did you drug me?”
Miller freezes. The blue of his eyes seems to darken, a flash of genuine horror and offense crossing his rugged features. He holds his hands up, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t drug you, Rya. I would never.”
I narrow my eyes, looking for any sign of a lie.
He looks more hurt by the accusation than anything else, which eases the anxiety clouding my vision and threatening to suffocate me.
“Well, then why don’t I remember coming inside?
” I hedge. I’m trying to be strong and stare him down, but Miller’s gaze breaks through my defenses.
Before he answers, Miller rubs the back of his neck, his eyes shifting to the side for a brief moment.
Is the big, bad bodyguard actually… embarrassed?
It’s kind of adorable, which I’m sure he’s never been called in his entire life.
I bet even as a baby he was grumpy and exacting, sticking to a strict schedule of naps and bottles.
The image almost makes me laugh. I literally cannot picture Miller as a kid…
but I do wonder what his kid might look like.
Maybe a mix of his blue eyes and my strawberry blonde hair?
Oh my God, did I really just think that?
“You fell asleep ten minutes into the drive,” Miller says, his tone uncharacteristically soft.
His words break through my intrusive, impulsive thoughts.
“When we got to the safe house, I tried to wake you.
You wouldn't budge. I carried you in, but when I tried to put you on the couch…” He clears his throat, his voice dropping an octave.
“You wouldn't let go. You clung to me, buried your face in my neck, and started snoring. I didn't want to force you off.”
All of my blood rushes to my face, and I’m sure my cheeks are glowing red right now.
I clung to him? Like some needy vine? I ignore the part where he says I snored, which I definitely do not, and focus on standing up.
I take his hand this time, his rough palm swallowing mine as he pulls me to my feet with effortless strength.
I’m tiny compared to him, a little field mouse in the shadow of a grizzly bear.
“Oh. Uh, in that case… I guess, thank you?” I tear my eyes away from Miller, suddenly intensely focused on smoothing down my cardigan.
“Is that a question?” Miller asks. I look up into his ice blue eyes, surprised to see a twinkle of playfulness staring back at me. Everything else about him is rough, jagged, and imposing, but that spark… Good lord, it does something to me that certainly isn’t helping my romantic fantasies.
I clear my throat before I get myself spun up again. “I need a tour,” I declare a little too loudly. “I need to know the exits, the perimeter, and exactly how many weapons you’re hiding in the toaster.”
A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips, which is absolutely lethal when paired with the playfulness in his eyes. “No weapons in the toaster. It’s a fire hazard.”
He shows me the small, efficient kitchen, the single bedroom that looks more like a cell, and finally, the living area with an electric fireplace. It’s small, intimate, and feels like a fortress.
The kitchen is all cold, sterile stainless steel, utterly devoid of personality.
Not a single frivolous item, not a magnet on the fridge, just rows of packaged, non-perishable food.
The bedroom he calls "mine" is just as stark: a queen-sized bed with military-crisp sheets and walls bleached white, without a single painting or photo.
This entire space screams function over comfort, a machine built for efficiency and survival, which makes sense.
I try to imagine where Miller lives when he’s not kidnapping innocent librarians.
Does his actual house look like this? Bare, stark, stripped down to the essentials?
I can’t picture him surrounded by clutter or color.
He’s too focused, too elemental. He seems like a man who has perfected the art of solitude, just like I have.
But if his life is as stripped down as this safe house, could he be as lonely as I am?
Miller is this huge, imposing brute and a brilliant hacker-slash-tech-nerd, but behind those intense blue eyes, there’s an emptiness I recognize; the ache of being utterly alone.
The thought of him carrying that same weight of solitude is both intensely saddening and fiercely attractive.
Maybe, just maybe, he needs an anchor as much as I do.
I turn around to ask about the Wi-Fi, because I have priorities, after all, and realize he’s moved much closer than I anticipated.
My heel catches on the edge of a rug, and I teeter backward.
Miller’s arm is around my waist in a heartbeat, his other hand gripping my shoulder to steady me.
I’m flushed against him, my chest rising and falling against the hard planes of his torso.
The air between us thickens, charged with a magnetic, heavy tension that makes my toes curl.
He doesn’t let go. His gaze is locked on mine, intense and searching.
Slowly, he raises his hand, his thumb grazing my lower lip.
The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
I shouldn't want this. I should be worried about the threat on my life. But in this moment, the only thing that matters is the heat radiating from his body and the way his eyes darken with a hunger I’ve never seen before.
My bodyguard leans in, his breath warm on my skin, and I find myself tilting my head back, my lips parting in silent invitation.
My skin is prickling with a thousand tiny electric shocks where his rough hands touch me, and the scent of him, cedar, gunpowder, and raw male, is intoxicating.
I’m twenty-four years old. A bona fide, curvy, lonely nerd who has never been kissed. Not once.
My life has been one long series of digital connections and averted gazes.
I’ve been overlooked my whole life, but Miller doesn't just see me; he claims me with his eyes.
This terrifying, magnificent, mesmerizing man is looking at me like I'm the only thing in the universe he wants to devour.
I want him to be my first. My first kiss, my first touch, my first taste of passion.
I want Miller to be all of my firsts. The realization is a burning, desperate truth that makes my lips tremble.
Suddenly, he clears his throat and takes a giant step back, the spell breaking so abruptly I almost lose my balance again. “I need to check the cameras,” he grunts, his voice sounding more like a gravel pit than usual. “Get some more sleep, Rya. You’re safe here.”
He disappears into the small office nook before I can even process the rejection. I stand in the center of the room, my fingers tracing the spot on my lip where he touched me, wondering if I just imagined the fire in his eyes.
I stumble toward the bedroom, my body heavy with the residual adrenaline of the last few hours.
As I step into the sterile, prison-like room, I notice that besides the bed and dresser, there’s a small door leading to a surprisingly sleek, modern en suite bathroom.
I move on autopilot, splashing cold water over my face and trying to scrub away the grime of the whole evening.
I open the dresser drawers, hoping for something to change into that isn't soaked in sweat. I’m greeted with a collection of oversized, worn-in sweatshirts and sturdy workout gear.
They smell faintly of Miller, cedar, something metallic, and that raw, underlying heat that seems to cling to his every movement.
I know this is just a safe house, not his personal clothes, but I wonder if he stays here sometimes anyway. How else would they smell so damn good?
Instead of dwelling on my potential obsession with my bodyguard, I pull on a massive hoodie, the fabric swallowing me whole. Though the bed doesn’t look particularly comfy, I’m too exhausted to care. I collapse onto the mattress and pull the covers all the way over my head.
However, sleep is as cruel and evasive as ever.
Even more so in this strange environment and the whole running-for-my-life thing.
As soon as I close my eyes, my brain starts to race, spiraling into a frantic, staccato rhythm.
Who are they? Why me? What do I tell my boss?
The logistics of my life are unraveling in real-time, and the mounting pressure of the unknown threatens to crush me.
I’m drowning in "what-ifs," mapping out worst-case scenarios where I’m exposed, fired, or worse, found by the very people chasing us.
The panic begins to rise, sharp and suffocating… until I think of Miller.
The image of him, standing just outside this door, shifts the landscape of my fear. My pulse, which had been racing only seconds ago, begins to slow. His presence is a physical weight, an anchor dropped into the churning sea of my thoughts.
I don't know how I ended up here, in the middle of a nightmare, but the terrifying reality of our situation is eclipsed by the certainty of him.
Knowing he is right on the other side of that door, lethal and focused and utterly mine, acts like a shield against my fears.
Peace, warm and absolute, wraps around me like a blanket, pulling me down into a sleep that is finally, mercifully, deep.