Chapter 1

Harmon

There were days made for vigilante shit, and then there were days like today—the kind of day made for a motorcycle. 

End of summer midsixties clung to the long hours of sunlight and lingered into the evening. On one side of me, a crimson sunset stained the ocean-creased horizon with an inferno of color. On the other, shades of green blanketed the hills like nature’s own camouflage, obscuring the popular tourist town of Carmel Cove in the distance as though it were nothing more than wilderness.

One turn of my wrist and my Harley El Diablo growled appreciatively beneath me, the tires stealing miles of asphalt like the devil did souls. For the last few miles of my ride, things like speed limits and consequences didn’t exist. Nothing existed except the open road. The freedom. The power to choose my own path.

It would’ve been better if the rest of the guys were with me, but group rides were few and far between anymore, our purpose taking precedence over our passion. Today, like most days, they were out on various assignments. Darius, Rhys, and Tynan. My brothers. The first by blood, the rest by fire. Once upon a time—a lifetime ago—we’d all been Special Forces. Green Berets. Until one fateful mission almost cost us everything. We’d been betrayed. We’d lost a brother—Ryan. It was the kind of thing you don’t ever recover from no matter what anyone says. We’d returned home broken. Lost in a world where we no longer belonged with nothing but our creed to cling to.

Family first. Justice for all.

I slowed my bike, not bothering with a blinker as I veered across the opposite lane and onto a road with no sign or markings. The drive led to the Sherwood Garage—my garage—tucked away where only those that needed us knew where to find us. 

The garage was our haven. The place where we found purpose. On the surface, it was an exclusive motorcycle garage nestled amid almost fifty forested acres of no-man’s-land between Carmel Cove and Monterey.

The guys and I made expensive motorcycles as our business and a damn good one at that. Painting. Detailing. Tuning. Complete restorations. But the garage was just another instance of camouflage—commercial camouflage to conceal our calling.

The Vigilantes. Our motorcycle club.

If anyone knew anything about motorcycle gangs, it was that there were two kinds: the 99% and the 1%. The ninety-nine being the law-abiding groups and the one percent being the outlaw gangs.

The Vigilantes were neither. We were the fucking line between the two that no one else could walk, and no one dared to cross. Ruthless. Righteous. Vigilante. We weren’t the ninety-nine because we operated outside of the law. But neither were we the one percent because we worked to mete out justice not cause chaos.

I opened my bike up on the almost two-mile long driveway that led to the garage, feeling the last rush of freedom against my chest until the building came into sight.

As well as the unexpected SUV parked in front of the closed bays.

Who the hell was here?

The garage was supposed to be empty. Rhys was out collecting another bounty on a bail bond, and Dare and Ty were on an embezzlement case that took them all the way up to Napa to find the fucker stealing money from children’s charities.

As I approached, the door opened, and the driver got out. I tensed for a second until recognition dawned. Kane Rivera. There was no mistaking his trim mustache and beard and that half-cocked smile. The former DEA agent turned private security worked for the local firm in town, Covington Security, alongside my younger sister Izzy’s husband, Jackson.

What was Kane doing here?

I slowed my bike, pulling to a stop next to him. The rumble of the engine dimmed before I spoke. “Been a minute, Rivera.”

About six months ago, Kane had been tracked down by a member of the Sinaloa cartel from his past who wasn’t too fond of Kane for faking his death, so he’d taken shelter here for a few weeks… along with the woman who was now his wife.

“Miss me?” Kane’s smirk grew.

I grunted and hit the code on my watch to open up the garage bay, pulling inside as soon as the door lifted and sensing Kane followed.

It wasn’t that we didn’t cross paths with the guys at Covington often enough, but they operated on the right side of the law, and we… tended to stray to the other. Though our goal was the same—justice—sometimes, the law wasn’t enough to make things right.

I parked my bike at the center in the square marked by a giant ‘one’ stenciled on the light gray floor and lowered the kickstand. The ten-thousand square foot garage was lined with tool chests, desks, and TV monitors along the walls, but the open floor space was broken down into numbered squares, each assigned to a bike when it came in for a job. Between that and our militarized need for structure and cleanliness, the space wound up looking more like a motorcycle museum than the typical grungy auto body shop.

Unhooking my helmet, I pulled it off and shoved my fingers through my hair.

“New ride?” I asked, climbing off my bike and nodding over Kane’s shoulder to the SUV.

“Needed something a little bigger,” he replied, shifting his weight.

Translation: His wife, Juliana, was pregnant.

I had no explanation for the ripple of tension that snapped through me. No explanation except that Kane was around my age, had survived his own fair share of trauma, and still managed to find love. No explanation because I couldn’t want what Kane had for the same reason that fish couldn’t want to fly. Because it wasn’t physically possible.

The heart was like any other muscle, and after the damage mine had endured, its ability to love had become sclerotic.

“What brings you up here?” I redirected, wanting to get back to the stack of potential targets that Ty had left on my desk to review.

“I’m looking for Rob.” His eyes flicked around the garage.

Rob—or Robyn to the few who knew her best—was my adopted sister and the quasi-fifth member of the Vigilantes; motorcycles weren’t her thing, but justice and family were. More than that, she was the reason our club existed.

We’d come back from the Middle East with no recourse for what had happened to us—to Ryan. But Rob… the unthinkable had happened to her here. She’d been used. Taken advantage of. And when the man responsible had escaped—when we realized how many men like him skirted justice by manipulating the law—the Vigilantes had been born. Our purpose: to right the wrongs the law left unpunished.

One day, we’d find the man—all the men—responsible for hurting Rob—for taking everything from her after she’d lost so much—and make right the injustice that started all of this.

“She’s not here,” I told him; Rob rarely came to Sherwood, preferring to keep her home base in San Francisco. Meanwhile, the rest of us didn’t care for city crowds. I shrugged off my leather jacket, the crisp almost-fall air greeting my skin with a chill. “Why?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

My eyes narrowed as Kane reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to me wordlessly.

“For her?” I arched an eyebrow and took it.

“For me,” he replied cryptically.

The envelope was heavy. Not the contents but the weight of the paper. It was thick. Expensive. On the front in sweeping cursive was Kane’s name.

Clearly whatever was inside was the reason he wanted to talk to my sister, so I lifted the flap and slid out the card, reading it silently.

You traded on my name to take down McCullough, and now it’s time to pay me back. There is a young girl who needs protection. Apply for the position directly at this number: 415-650-0000.

When you realize the target, you’ll see my request is a boon to both of us.

Regards,

The Real Damon Remington

I read the damn thing three times, but nothing filled the pit in my stomach. “Shit…”

“Yeah,” Kane grunted.

I looked up, my drawn expression mirroring his own.

Six months ago, part of Kane’s plan to outsmart his little cartel problem was to pose as Damon Remington—the greatest criminal the world never knew.

Remington was everything to everyone. A consultant to the who’s who of the world’s worst. A broker. A connector. A mediator. An instigator. A former FBI agent and now, number one on the FBI’s most wanted list. He was a legend, the tales surrounding him almost too fantastical to be real, but most importantly, he was a ghost. Few spoke to him directly, and even fewer had ever seen him, but all knew what happened if you crossed him.

Damon Remington was not a man to mess with, let alone impersonate. And Kane never would’ve taken the risk if it hadn’t been for Rob.

The whole thing had been Rob’s idea—a classic case of her recklessness when an op hit too close to home. The cartel after Kane had killed one of the women under her wing, and that was what blinded her. Guilt. I knew what it was like to lose someone you were responsible for—someone you’d promised to protect. The pit that gnawed at your gut with teeth made of fire.

That day, her brand of vigilante justice was impregnated with vengeance, and she’d reacted instead of acted. Had I been there when she made the call, I would’ve stopped her; I would’ve made her realize that using Damon Remington’s name to gain advantage was the epitome of recklessness.

Of course, it would work—it had worked. But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a cost. And now Remington had come to collect.

“I’m not going to be blackmailed by Remington,” Kane said, folding his arms. “Especially if his target is a damn kid.”

“I don’t think it’s the kid,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Not Remington’s style.”

Strangely enough, though Remington catered to criminals, he was particular about which ones he would or wouldn’t work with. Those who harmed children were on his blacklist.

“So, you think Rob should handle this?” I asked.

“She’s the one who told me to use his name.” So she should deal with the fallout, went unsaid.

“I’ll handle it,” I said and gritted my teeth. My sister had already dug this hole too deep.

He groaned. “I didn’t mean to rope you into this, Harm. I wanted to talk to her about a plan—”

“I know.” I nodded, lifting the card once more. “But until I know who the target is, I’m not getting Rob involved.”

My sister should be responsible for her own mess, but letting her be responsible worried me even more. The last thing I needed was for Rob to try to take down Remington. He was too big a target—too elusive. Too dangerous. Not even the skills of all of us combined were ready to fight that war.

Kane breathed deep. “You sure?”

I nodded and pulled my cell from my pocket. “Family first.”

Kane’s chin lowered. “Let me know what you need from me.”

“Yeah,” I said, already knowing I wasn’t going to ask him for anything.

I would fix this. Take care of the problem. Take care of my sister.

I tapped the number into my phone and headed for the door at the back of the garage. Time to figure out who Remington’s target was and why he wanted us involved.

* * *

Sherwood was an illusion. The garage appeared as large as the open space felt inside, but the trick was that the compound was far, far larger.

A single door opened from the garage to a hallway that branched at the end, leading to several smaller rooms, storage spaces, Tynan’s security office, a communal laundry, and a spacious rec room, complete with a pool table, bar with a tap, and stone fireplace.

But even that was still part of the camouflage.

Another door with a biometric keypad opened to an elevator, one that descended below ground rather than rising above. The elevator led to another hallway, long and wide like a massive root that supplied the whole compound. It bypassed the tall fence and government-level security features that ran through the trees above, encasing the forested acres like a fortress.

Secret, but secure.

There were six doors spaced along the fifty-yard hall, each of them opening to a staircase returning above ground and into one of the six corresponding cabins on the land. One for each of us and one for friends seeking shelter. My team—the club—we didn’t just work at the garage, we lived here. Except for Robyn.

I glanced at the door that led to my sister’s cabin. It was the farthest one down the hall and the only one beyond mine. There were countless times I thought she’d be better off if she stayed here with us, but I wasn’t my sister’s keeper. No man was. And I pitied the fool who tried. 

I punched in the code to my door, taking the stairs two at a time to the entrance to my cabin. The passage opened into the modest kitchen, a small dining table to my left.

The layout of all the cabins was essentially the same. On one side, a kitchen, small dining area, living room, and an exit to the outside grounds. On the other side, a bathroom and bedroom. Some of the entrances from the main passageway varied. Mine was a paneled door in the kitchen. The guest cabin entered into the bedroom. More or less, the buildings were identical. Simple. Functional. Maybe sparse for most, but luxurious compared to the living conditions we’d seen overseas.

Until my younger sister, Isla—Izzy—had kids, there wasn’t anything besides the individualized passcode that marked this cabin as mine. No decor. No memorabilia. No photographs. Now, there were pictures of my nieces hanging on the wall in the living room along with one of the four of us—me, Izzy, Dare, and Rob. It was all Izzy’s doing; she was just as unstoppable as Rob.

But photographs didn’t change a person. After losing Ryan, I’d returned home with more purpose than person. We all had. And to survive—to not be consumed with guilt—that was the way it had to stay. But I’d never tell Izzy that. That kind of hopelessness would break my sister’s heart, no matter how much good it enabled us to do.

I strode into the living room, dropping my leather jacket onto one of the dining chairs on the way and sank onto the leather couch. Lifting my phone, I double-checked the number, inhaled deeply, and dialed. Time to get some answers.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when the first ring cut off to an automated system. There was only a single prompt that asked for my name, and as soon as I gave it, the robotic female voice thanked me, and the call disconnected.

“Shit.” What the hell was I getting myself into… what the hell had Rob gotten me into?

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I rose and walked to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of water and some leftover pizza from last night from the fridge. Hot… cold… it didn’t matter. Food was food. A necessity to keep me working.

Reaching for the note once more, I stared at the words while I scarfed down the slice. 

…You’ll see my request is a boon to the both of us…

Who the hell was the target, and what the hell was Remington’s end game? It was rare, though not unheard of, for Remington to want another criminal taken down or arrested—usually because it provided some business advantage to his own end, but this seemed different. My gut said this felt different.

I brought the water bottle to my lips, chugging it until the plastic crinkled. I was about to call Dare and at least bring my younger brother up to speed when my cell vibrated in my hand, the incoming call from a blocked number.

Well that was fast.

“Hello?” I answered coolly. 

“Harmon Keyes.” The voice was steady. Confident.

“Yes, speaking.” I straightened, my body tense like it was preparing for battle. 

“Tell me something,” the voice continued. “Over a decade in the military—Green Berets no less. Fifth Special Forces Group. Third Battalion. Honorably discharged with… almost… all of your unit. Unfortunate… losing someone you trust.” My blood began to hum. “All that to open up a motorcycle garage, and now, you want to babysit a child. Why?”

In less than ten minutes with only my name, this man had acquired many facts about my life. A show of both his power and influence without having to reveal his identity in return.

I knew he was purposely downplaying the position—referring to it as babysitting—trying to poke at either an ego he thought I should have, or a weakness he wanted to expose. Too bad for him, it wasn’t going to work.

“Motorcycles don’t pay like this kind of work, and I like jobs that pay well,” I returned, allowing an edge of annoyance to my mercenary tone.

“So, you’ve done this before?”

“If I have, it wouldn’t be very professional of me to tell you about it.” Discretion was everything to men like him—whoever he was. Men who had power and secrets would do anything to keep them, especially if those secrets were vulnerabilities.

“I do appreciate discretion,” he replied, believing more of my persona.

“We all do.”

There was a long pause, but I refused to be the one to break it.

“Why motorcycles?” He finally asked. “Why not another position in the military or in law enforcement? The uniqueness of your skill set and level of expertise… I’m sure you’re aware of how valuable it can be.”

All too well. My shoulders tightened.

Green Berets were the most elite army unit trained in everything from unconventional warfare to hostage search-and-rescue to intelligence gathering with proficiencies in marksmanship, survival skills, and medical expertise. If there was anyone you wanted protecting your kid, it was one of us. 

“Because after over a decade of military service, I got tired of my… skills being shackled by the law,” I said, truth laden in every word. 

The idea of unconventional warfare hadn’t left any of us when we’d returned home. There were some evils the law didn’t have the power to fight, which was why we’d chosen the path of vigilante justice—but this man didn’t need to know that. All he needed to know was that I was capable of disregarding the law—that I had the same kind of entitlement he did.

“Very good,” he declared, his deep hum resonating through the line. “Well then, Mr. Keyes, the position is yours. You’ll receive an address on your phone. Be there at seven p.m. You start tonight.”

I straightened, my palm flattening on the counter. “Working for an anonymous boss with no details about the assignment or compensation?”

“The assignment is to protect my daughter. At home. At school. You will be her shadow for three months,” he clipped, his displeasure evident in his tone. Too bad. I knew that he knew just how valuable a man with my skills and discretion was, and if he wanted that, he’d have to give me answers. “When you reach the address this evening, half-a-million dollars will be deposited into your account as an advance for the first week. After that, each additional week will be paid at the same rate, along with a million-dollar bonus once the assignment period terminates.”

My muscles rippled. I wasn’t normally the kind of person who was shocked by large sums, but damn, that was a lot of money to watch a kid. And that could only mean one thing… this kid was a big fucking secret. Big enough to warrant a small fortune to protect. Big enough to draw Damon Remington’s attention.

“And who do I have the pleasure of working for?” My fingers dug into the counter, the tension on the line escalating.

“Money,” the man replied firmly. “That’s who you’re working for, Mr. Keyes, money.” There was a brief pause before he continued, “Seven p.m., Mr. Keyes.” And then the line went dead.

Instead of answers, pulling on the string Remington had given only unraveled more questions.

Who was this man?

Who could afford almost seven million dollars in private security over the next three months? And why did he need to?

If a kid needed that much protection, it reasoned her father did, too. So why wasn’t his security handling this? Maybe it had something to do with the ‘losing a person you trust’ comment he’d made.

Regardless, I didn’t have much of a choice. If I wanted answers—if I wanted to get Kane out of trouble—I had to continue down this damn rabbit hole. 

I charged into the bedroom and pulled out a duffel from the closet and stuffed clothes into it. Three months or three days, I packed the same. Gun. Ammo. Knife. Jeans. Cargo pants. T-shirts. Underwear. The final things to go were bathroom essentials and my phone charger. Three months. Hell, I probably could’ve lived three years with only the things in my bag. More purpose than person. Exhaling deeply, I zipped the bag and slung it over my shoulder. 

I probably should’ve taken my Tahoe, but instead, I grabbed my leather jacket from the chair and my motorcycle keys.

It was a good day for a motorcycle ride, after all. And a mystery.

Chapter Two

Harmon

An hour later, I stepped into what had to be the nicest skyscraper I’d ever entered, and my body tightened. Years of training and instinct made me uncomfortable in big public spaces, especially ones like this where the exterior walls were made entirely of massive glass panels; it didn’t matter that it was probably the kind of glass that stopped bullets, the openness put me on edge.

I scanned the lobby, noting the two street entrances and exits, and then reached for my cell, firing off a text to the guys that I was exploring an assignment in the city, and I’d keep them posted. Until I had answers, I wasn’t wasting anyone else’s time.

My boots clicked on the marble floors. The walls were marble, too, with mirrors set into the large slabs. Modern lighting and decor echoed the minimalist, but massively expensive, design.

Jesus. A small fortune in housing and a small fortune in protection. Who was this guy?

“Harmon Keyes,” I said to the large, bald security guard when I reached the desk; he was the only person there.

He gave me a once-over and then picked up the desk phone, hit the number seven, and repeated my name. Not even ten seconds later, my phone buzzed—an alert from my bank that a wire transfer had been initiated for five-hundred-thousand dollars.

No fucking joke.

“Follow me.”

The guard led the way to the elevator bay, each set of doors illuminated in bright purple. He didn’t look like much more than standard security, but that was camouflage. I noted the numerous security cameras observing the space and the silent panic button under his desk; this place would clam up like Fort Knox if someone gave the signal.

“Busy night?” I rumbled casually, receiving only a grunt in response as he swiped his keycard next to the first elevator entrance, the purple light changing to blue as the dial ticked down the floors.

Interesting. There were no buttons for the elevators. To call one, you had to have a keycard.

The bay doors opened.

“Penthouse,” he instructed with another grunt and then walked away.

I hit the button for the top floor, watching the guard lumber back to his desk until the doors closed.

The ride wasn’t long enough for the elevator music nor the cramped space to bother me. In seconds, the doors opened into a modest foyer and a set of double doors straight in front of me, framed by two suited security.

“Mr. Keyes?” One of them stepped forward.

I handed him my license that I’d pulled out earlier.

“No need. The lobby has retinal scanners.”

“Right.” That’s what I thought when I saw those cameras, but now I had confirmation.

“I just need to pat you down,” he said, and I nodded my assent, lifting my arms to the side.

In addition to the frisk, he verified the weapons in my duffel, confirming that I’d passed through another kind of scanner on my way up here. 

“You can come with me.” He used another keycard—one that looked different than the elevator access card the guard had used—and opened the door to the penthouse.

I’d had an hour on the bike to decide what my expectations were. Minimally, I was prepared to walk into a scene similar to that of my sister’s house when I went to visit. Toys everywhere. TV blasting some kid’s show. Maybe not the level of screaming since there was only one child here… but it definitely wasn’t this.

If the lobby was minimalist, the penthouse was anything but. It was fucking Versailles two-point-oh. Large windows. Gilded mirrors. But the grandiosity wasn’t the most striking thing about the space—its cleanliness was.

The apartment was as pristine as a museum. No toys. No mess. Silence as thick as molasses.

My head swiveled. Was the kid even here yet?

“Here are all of your access cards and any contact information you might need.” The stuffed suit handed me an envelope, but I didn’t bother to open it. I wasn’t going to get the answers I needed from what was inside. “Kitchen. Living room. Gym and sauna.” Damn. “Stairs to the primary bedroom on the second floor.” He pointed to the left. “Your room is this way.” He led me to the right.

I kept silent, allowing him to get through his spiel. Reiterating the twenty-four-seven aspect of the job. Reviewing how access to the building worked. He opened a door at the end of the apartment, a modest bedroom and en suite bathroom inside. And no windows. Perfect.

“My associate and I are going to head out. There is a contact number in the folder if you have any questions for me.”

“And you are?”

He tipped his head. “You can call me Mr. J.”

Original.

“Okay, Mr. J. Where’s the girl’s father? I’d like to speak with him.” I wrapped my arms over my chest, widening my stance. Who the hell hired a bodyguard—for a small fortune no less—and wasn’t even here to meet the guy?

“That won’t be necessary.” He nodded to my packet. “Any questions you have can be answered through that, along with the number to contact me directly with any issues.”

I stared blankly. This was so fucking weird. I turned my head. Still no sign—or sound—of a kid in here.

“Okay, then when does the kid arrive?”

His brows screwed. “She’s already here. Upstairs in her room.”

“With her nanny?”

Mr. J looked at me like I was an idiot and was about to laugh when the soft click of a door drew both our attention to the staircase. A moment later, the figure who appeared at the top of the stairs answered all of my questions… and opened up an entirely different world of problems.

“Mr. J?” Her voice was thick. Sultry. Mature.

And she was no kid.

Fuck.

The daughter was a woman—and a fucking gorgeous one at that. My eyes traveled over her, tracing up her long legs until they hit her shorts and oversized T-shirt. Even though they were ill-fitting, the rigidness of her spine hinted at the swell of her chest and the curve of her hips, and my blood began to hum.

From there, the slender column of her neck gave way to her angled jaw and full lips. Loose chocolate-brown hair spiraled over one shoulder and reached the center of her chest. The gentle waves softened her high cheekbones and pert nose. She looked like one of those fancy portraits of aristocracy they hung in castles or museums come to life. No matter how casually she dressed, there was no stripping away the way she carried herself, standing like a queen at the top of the staircase, her expression so reserved, my only instinct was to uncover her secrets.

“Miss Daria.” Mr. J went toward the stairs, and my feet carried me behind him.

Daria. If that name didn’t fit her regal reserve, I didn’t know what would. Regal but still… exotic. Mysterious. Just like everything else about her.

“Who is this?” she asked, her tone tightly guarded though it revealed the slightest lilt in her voice. Interesting, since her father had no accent at all. It must come from her mom.

“Miss Daria, this is Mr. Harmon Keyes. He will be your full-time bodyguard starting tonight,” Mr. J said, linking his hands behind his back.

Her stare raked over me with all the warmth of an ice cube before it lifted back to mine. Surprising. I knew what she saw—a large brute of a man in black jeans, a black tee, and a black leather jacket. A rough-and-tumble soldier compared to the suited statue standing at my shoulder. Most people were intimidated. Hell, even Mr. J and his counterpart in the hallway hadn’t looked at me for more than a second or two before looking away.

But this girl—woman—she was unfazed. Her stare bold but guarded.

And it made the hum in my blood start to sizzle.

I shifted my position so part of me was blocked by Mr. J, and I kept my stance wide, hoping she wasn’t interested in looking below my waist.

“A pleasure,” I grunted. Why the fuck had I chosen that word?

Other than the slight part of her lips, she didn’t move, her large brown eyes a muddy collection of emotions I couldn’t decipher.

This wasn’t normal for me. To not be able to read a person. Counterintelligence was one of the areas we’d been trained in, and more often than not, reading a person right was the literal line between life and death. A lesson my brother had learned in the worst way, the consequences affecting us all.

For over a decade, I’d relied on those skills to distinguish between innocent and insurgent, and now either those honed skills had dulled, or there was something about this woman who made my instinct go haywire.

Impossible. She was nothing more than a rich prick’s daughter.

“Nice to meet you,” Daria murmured, her voice holding a natural warmth that her gaze lacked. She turned her head and looked to Mr. J. “Is my father—”

“He won’t be here for several more weeks,” Mr. J replied quickly, the information catching my attention. “However, if there’s anything you need, of course, you can tell any of us, and he said you may contact him directly.”

So, her father wasn’t in town… My head tipped. Everyone else might’ve been instructed to keep their lips tight on who my new employer was, but I wondered if his daughter had the same restrictions.

“Of course.” Her smile was hesitant as her chin dipped. A flash of disappointment clouding her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. J.”

Mr. J muttered some aloof variation of a goodbye, and my eyes tracked him as he exited the apartment, the click of the door reminiscent of a pin being pulled from a grenade.

Why wasn’t Mr. J assigned to continue guarding her? Was this part of the loyalty that had come into play? I knew I hadn’t read that part of the conversation with my new employer wrong; he didn’t fully trust the people in his organization, and that was why I was here. An outsider.

I cleared the rasp from my throat. “If there’s anything you need—”

“Thank you, but I’m going to bed,” she said before I’d even finished. Her accent came through just a little stronger as she shifted her weight and lowered her arms. The slightest fidget gave me the inclination that she wasn’t used to having a man—a bodyguard—in her apartment.

If she hadn’t, who had protected her before?

Her arms lowered to her sides, and my second glance at her shirt noted the small logo. Berkeley. College. She was in college. Of course. I passed by the campus on my way here. She was somewhere between eighteen and twenty-one. Half my age and causing a full fucking hard-on.

“Of course.” I gritted my teeth and dipped my chin. Maybe that was the reason for her protection… a city thing. Or a college thing.

I remained rooted to the floor, watching as she headed to her room. Her steps were confident. The sway of her hips rhythmic.

“Good night,” I uttered low just before she was out of sight.

There she faltered, glancing over her shoulder, our eyes colliding with the force of two meteors. Goddammit.

“Good night.” There was no mistaking the husk in her voice—or the riot it caused in my body.

Fucking Christ. Why the hell had I assumed she was a child?

That was what pissed me off the most. There was no reason for me to expect to meet a kid rather than… her.

And there was definitely no fucking reason for my body to be turning to stone like it was.

Family first, I reminded myself, exhaling through tight lips. What the hell have you gotten me involved in, Rob?