The Scarred SEAL's Fake Fiancée

1. Emily

Emily

My life feels like a daytime soap opera.

A very bad one.

One with gunslinging villains, deadly secrets and a heroine on the run. I just wish whoever crafted this story didn’t end it with the heroine dead somewhere in a ditch or in a train station, because that’s where I’m standing now.

The train station smells like a mixture of burnt coffee, wet concrete, and bad pretzels.

The pretzel is probably my anxiety. Or the guy snoozing under the arrivals board with a newspaper over his face is munching some food gone bad under there—hard to say.

My sneakers squeak faintly as I shift on the polished tiles, keeping my head low and my gaze sweeping the room like I’m auditioning for a bad spy movie.

Which, honestly, feels like my life right now.

“Are you okay, Emily?” Detective Grant’s voice crackles in my ear through the phone pressed to my cheek.

“Has anyone in my situation ever said a yes to that detective?”

His sighs come across loud and heavy. “I’d have preferred you to be in normal witness protection, or at least handle things myself, but I’m working this case undercover and there’s not enough evidence to get you approved for witness protection with the NYPD.”

“And that’s why I’m jetting off to Harmony Springs to stay under the radar,” I finish for him.

“Yes. And I need you to keep calm, Emily. You’re safe for now.”

Safe for now. Words that would be far more comforting if “safe” didn’t currently hinge on some mysterious contact showing up to escort me to Harmony Springs. It’s a town so small it might as well be an elaborate prank on Google Maps.

“You’re sure about this?” My voice wavers, even though I try to sound calm. “Because I feel like I’m in a Hitchcock film, minus the Cary Grant charm and stylish wardrobe.”

Grant chuckles dryly. “Emily, trust me. My guy’s reliable. Green jacket. He’ll find you soon.”

That’s what he said about my career being a safe haven, too, and now I’m the starring act in a gang’s game of hide-and-seek.

Smooth sailing until someone decided I might have a flash drive I don’t even remember seeing, let alone stealing.

But facts don’t matter when you’re the one with a price on your head.

Sliding into a corner seat, I tuck my bag close, feeling the weight of stares that probably aren’t even there.

My paranoid brain has me pegging every cough, every shifty glance, as a hitman scoping me out.

The station bustles around me—commuters glued to their phones, teenagers laughing too loudly, and a grumpy ticket clerk glaring at the world from behind smudged glasses.

Normal people living normal lives. I wouldn’t know what that feels like anymore.

I rest my chin on my hand, letting my mind drift back to Manhattan. The hospital. The endless twelve-hour shifts. The comforting chaos of the ER where I felt like a superhero, patching up broken bodies with nothing but sheer willpower and too much caffeine.

And then, two months ago, the alley.

The memory rushes in, uninvited, like an old friend you wish had lost your number.

I’d been leaving work, bone-tired, the kind of tired that makes your thoughts slosh like soup.

And then I’d seen him—a man slipping out of the shadows with a glint of something sharp in his hand.

His snarl was feral, his movements jerky and unpredictable.

Run. My brain screamed it, but my feet didn’t listen until the first swipe of his blade tore through the air where I’d been standing. Adrenaline had propelled me into a sprint, sneakers pounding against the pavement, heart punching at my ribs like it was trying to quit on me.

I’d have been dead if Detective Grant hadn’t shown up.

He’d subdued the guy with a swift efficiency that still makes my stomach churn when I think about it.

Then came the explanation: Black Talons, a flash drive, a gang member who died on my operating table.

It was like the plot of a gritty police procedural, except it was my life.

“Emily, you good?” Grant’s voice snaps me back to the present.

“Define good,” I mutter, watching a guy in a too-big trench coat shuffle by, clutching a briefcase like it holds the nuclear codes.

“Look, this guy—Henry Walker—he’s solid. Navy SEAL. Trust me, you’re in the best hands.”

I snort, half-laughing, half-gasping. “Best hands? Did you just assign me to someone with a military background? Are you actively trying to make my trauma bingo card a winner?”

Grant sighs, the kind of sound that says he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Emily, not all military guys are—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I cut in. “Not all guys. Heard it. I’m just saying, maybe someone with less... experience in killing people might’ve been nice.”

“Just stay put.” He doesn’t sound amused anymore.

Before I can fire back, I spot him.

Green jacket, like Grant said. And built like a God decided to make a human tank just for kicks. His movements are sharp and purposeful, slicing through the crowd with the efficiency of a shark in a fishbowl. The kind of man who doesn’t move around obstacles—he moves through them.

When his gaze locks onto me, it’s like a physical thing, sharp and cutting.

His face is all hard angles, from the scar that bisects his left eyebrow to the firm set of his mouth.

Blue eyes—cold, piercing, and, if I’m being honest, terrifying.

This guy could crush a walnut between his thumb and forefinger and wouldn’t even flinch.

He’s the kind of man I’ve spent the last twenty-nine years of my life running away from.

He strides over, boots thudding against the tile, and stops in front of me. No hello. No “Is this seat taken?” Just a blunt, “Emily Carter?”

My throat goes dry. “Who’s asking?”

“Henry Walker.” He shifts slightly, and I catch a glint of dog tags hanging against his chest. His voice is low, gravelly, like he gargles with sandpaper. “I’m your husband.”

I blink. Twice. “You’re my what now?”

“Your husband,” he repeats, deadpan, as if that clears everything up.

“No, no, no,” I say, waving a hand like I can shoo away his words. “I think you’ve got the wrong damsel in distress. I did not order one husband to-go.”

The faintest flicker of a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, there and gone before I can even confirm it was real. “Relax, Doc. It’s a cover. You’ll survive.”

Oh, he did not just “relax, Doc” me. “Survive? That’s rich, coming from the guy who just declared himself my husband like we’re in some weird mail-order spouse situation.”

Henry raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Grant didn’t fill you in, did he?”

“No,” I snap. “He was too busy assuring me you’re some kind of war hero-slash-bodyguard extraordinaire.”

“Well, he’s not wrong.” He leans down, close enough for me to catch a faint whiff of cedar and danger. “Now grab your bag. We’ve got to get to my car.”

I gape at him, speechless for once in my life. My instincts scream at me to bolt, but something about his calm confidence keeps me rooted in place. Either that, or I’m too exhausted to argue anymore.

With a muttered curse, I grab my bag and follow him, wondering how I went from saving lives to needing someone to save mine. And if I’m going to survive this, it’s definitely not going to be by “relaxing.” Because something about Henry Walker tells me life with him is going to be anything but calm.

He heads toward a black, sleek, expensive-looking and mysterious SUV—just like the man himself. It’s parked at the far end of the lot, half in the shadows, as if it’s just too dangerous to sit with the rest of the other cars in the station.

He strides toward it, long legs eating up the pavement, as I hurry behind him, lugging two heavy bags that contain my entire existence, trailing along like a bedraggled contestant on a survival reality show.

In a sane modern world, I’d believe there is a sacred, unspoken agreement between men and women that if a woman is carrying heavy luggage, and there is a perfectly capable man within a five-foot radius, he will help her with it.

It’s the natural order of things, like gravity or the sun rising and setting.

Henry Walker, hero-slash-bodyguard and current pain in my ass, apparently missed the memo.

He stops beside the car and instead of doing the bare minimum and opening the door for me like a decent fake fiancé, he strides straight to the driver’s side, opens his door, and slides in without so much as a glance in my direction.

I stare at him. Then down at my bags. Then back at him.

Nothing.

I clear my throat. Still nothing.

The sheer audacity of this man.

He finally looks up, his fingers drumming lazily against the steering wheel, and cocks his head. “You getting in, or are we playing the world’s most disappointing game of freeze tag?”

I pointedly nod at the luggage in my hands, arching a brow in a way that clearly says, can you see?

His eyes flicker to my bags, then back to me. There is no movement, no shift of weight, no indication that he intends to lift even a finger to help.

Instead, he casually reaches over and pops the trunk. “There. Problem solved.”

Oh, I hate him. I hate him so much.

Muttering under my breath, I stomp over, toss my bags inside with dramatic flair, and slam the trunk harder than necessary. By the time I slide into the passenger seat, I have composed a mental list of at least fifteen reasons why Henry Walker is the worst.

The car hums to life. I fold my arms. “You know, if we’re supposed to be playing husband and wife, you could at least pretend to be a gentleman.”

He shifts the car into drive without even glancing at me. “I’m cosplaying as your husband, sweetheart, not your bellboy.”

I gape at him. “Oh, well, excuse me, darling. Didn’t realize that lifting my bags would be too emotionally taxing for you. Wouldn’t want to strain those big, scary military muscles.”

His lips quirk, just the tiniest bit. Not a smile, but close. “That supposed to be sarcasm or flattery? Because it needs work.”

I scowl at him. “No one is going to believe we’re remotely in love if you can’t even do the bare minimum. Fake couples help each other with things. Fake couples hold hands. Fake couples—”

“No one said we’re in love.” He cuts me off, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other tapping a steady rhythm against his thigh. “We’re supposed to be engaged, not starring in a rom-com. And, for the record, you’re not exactly my type.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. Heat creeps up my neck. “I—wait—your type? Are you saying I’m not your type?”

He flicks me a sideways glance, and there it is—the smugness. The absolute nerve of this man. “You sound offended. You fancy me, Doc?”

Oh, absolutely not. My brain misfires. Skin burns, and soul briefly exits my body.

“First of all!” I sit up straighter, waving a hand because I need emphasis—he’s at least a foot taller than me and, as it turns out, very difficult to argue with when slouched like a very irritating gargoyle. “You are the absolute opposite of the kind of man I’d go for. Secondly—”

I start listing things. A ridiculous, unnecessary, spiraling list of all the reasons why Henry Walker is not my type. The gruffness, the whole resting murder face thing, the way he moves like he’s always expecting an attack. His barbaric smugness.

He listens. Quiet, composed, watching the road as I dig my own grave.

Then, abruptly, he slams the brakes.

"What the hell?!"

My entire body lurches forward, a strangled gasp ripping from my throat as my hands fly out to brace against the dashboard.

Before I can demand an explanation, he leans toward me.

The air shifts.

His scent invades my space—warm, masculine, faintly woodsy. His dark hair falls slightly over piercing blue eyes, which lock onto mine with an intensity that drains every coherent thought from my head.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

My heart lurches.

He’s too close.

My heart’s now racing like a dynamite fuse hissing toward an explosion. His face moves closer—so close that the heat of him is tangible. My lips part slightly,

And for the first time in my entire life, I do something I will never forgive myself for.

I close my eyes.

I wait.

Like some hopelessly naive, terminally stupid idiot, I wait for a kiss that does not come.

Instead, a sharp click echoes in the space between us.

"You can open your eyes now."

I do.

And I immediately want to launch myself into oncoming traffic.

Because he is not kissing me. That wouldn’t be embarrassing. Henry Walker—human nightmare—has just buckled my seatbelt instead.

“You should buckle your seatbelt,” His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough to infuriate me. "Can’t have you dying before I even get you into town."

I seethe. "You—"

"Relax, Doc. It was a safety hazard." He pulls back, the heat of his presence disappearing just as quickly as it came. "Also, you might wanna work on your reflexes. If you flinch every time a guy leans in, people are gonna wonder about our very real, very loving relationship."

I am going to murder him. Slowly. With precision.

Through the sheer force of will, I keep my voice even. "As soon as you drop me off in town, I’d appreciate it if you left me alone."

"Yeah, not happening."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs. "You’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”

The conviction in his voice makes my stomach twist unexpectedly.

“So, you’re just... some guy who shows up claiming to be my protector, who can’t even be a gentleman,” I say, turning toward him, my voice sharper than before. “And I’m supposed to what? Trust you?”

His fingers tighten around the wheel. “I’m the only thing standing between you and very real, very dangerous people who want you dead.” His eyes flick toward me, something dark and serious settling behind them. “So, yeah. Trust me.”

For a moment, the car feels too quiet, like the space between us has swallowed up all the air.

His words should terrify me.

And yet…

I don’t know what it is about him—the way he says it with absolute certainty, or the fact that, despite everything, some small, irrational part of me does believe him.

But that’s ridiculous.

Because trusting men like him—strong, commanding, used to solving problems with their fists—that’s how my mother ended up dead. I’d learned, young, that love and violence go hand in hand with men like Henry Walker, and it is best to never give his type control over your life.

I swallow the lump in my throat, turning back to the window. “Just drive.”

And he does.

As the city fades into dark stretches of highway, as the streetlights blur past like fireflies in the night, I can’t help but wonder:

Have I just traded one kind of danger… for another?