Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Sawyer’s posture changes—steel straight, hand dropping to his concealed weapon. “Riggs.”
Riggs cocks his head, listening. “Not on the schedule.”
I step toward the foyer arch, but Sawyer blocks me with one arm. “Stay here.”
Vanessa pauses mid-sip. “What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing,” I lie for her. But icy dread crawls my spine.
Riggs slings the mop, strides to the hall console where his rifle case leans, and unlatches it fluidly. Sawyer pulls a tablet from his belt, and taps through the security cam feeds. The closest feed freezes with pixelated static.
“Cam six offline,” he mutters. “Four and five still live.” He flicks to another view.
I inhale sharply. “Cut lines?”
“Looks that way.” Sawyer’s voice is low, controlled, the same tone he probably used while diffusing bombs. “Riggs, you cover north window lines. I’ll check cartons.”
“I have pepper spray,” Vanessa offers weakly.
Sawyer spares her half a glance. “Stay behind the island.”
Riggs tosses her an actual canister from his belt. “Pull pin, press nozzle. Don’t spray us.”
Edgar appears, eyes wide. “Mr. Maddox—is everything okay?”
“No,” Sawyer and I answer simultaneously.
A muffled thump hits the veranda—heavy footfall. Another. My heart sprints into my throat.
Sawyer presses a finger to his lips, and motions me backward until my spine kisses the refrigerator. His palm lingers at my hip, anchoring me there. Heat floods, absurdly out of place with danger spiking, but that’s adrenaline for you.
Riggs kills the kitchen lights, and moonlight pools through the skylights. The house holds its breath. Another thump. A scrape of metal at the lock.
“Edgar, security code red,” Sawyer whispers. Edgar darts to a hidden panel, keys a sequence. Somewhere, shutters thunk closed.
I can’t stand behind refrigerators when burly strangers invade my home. I grab a cast-iron skillet—thank you, Le Creuset—and grip the handle. Sawyer sees, and tightens his jaw but doesn’t argue.
He whispers, “Stay behind my right.”
The front door bangs open, wood splintering. A figure bursts inside wearing dark clothes, a ski mask, and something metallic in his hand. The timing is too perfect. They braved cameras, locks—this is choreographed aggression.
Sawyer steps into the foyer with the fluidity of water turning to blade. “Drop it,” he barks, weapon trained.
The intruder hesitates. Wrong move. Riggs flanks left through the parlor arch, his rifle leveled. The man spins, sees two, and stumbles.
Sawyer advances, pivoting to keep his body between me and the threat. “On the ground, hands wide.”
Instead the man lobs the metal object—something small, round—toward the hall. Flash-bang. I recognize it too late. Light swallows sound, or maybe it’s the other way around. My vision flares white, and every nerve screams static.
Sawyer’s body crashes into mine, driving us down behind the island just as the device detonates—bang!—deafening. His arms wrap around my skull, tucking it into his chest. The scent of gunpowder and cedar slams home.
For endless seconds I hear nothing but my heartbeat. I see nothing but afterimages. Sawyer’s weight blankets me. It’s solid and reassuring. Slowly sounds edgeback—a ringing, then Riggs shouting, “Moving!”
Sawyer lifts just enough to look down at me, hands framing my face. “You okay?”
“I—I think so.” Everything wobbles, but no pain. Ears hiss. My fingers clutch his shirt, refusing to let go.
He stands, pulling me with him, and positions me in the corner behind the island. “Stay.”
I do. Because his tone leaves no room, and because my knees are tapioca. From my vantage I watch him and Riggs sweep forward—a coordinated ballet of lethal efficiency. They clear the foyer, and find the flash-bang still fizzing. There’s no intruder. The hall camera feed flickers then steadies, and shows a figure sprinting back through the open gates onto the street. Sirens wail in the distance. Edgar must have tripped the silent alarm.
Minutes stretch. Sawyer finally holsters his weapon, returning to me, hands running over my arms for injuries. His pupils are blown wide as his chest heaves. The energy rolling off him is molten.
“I’m fine,” I rasp, then curse the tremor in my voice. “Really.”
He cups the back of my head, foreheads touching, our breath mingling. “He breached the yard.” Fury vibrates through every word. “I will not let that happen again.”
The intimacy of the moment—his body still half-caging mine, Vanessa and Edgar whispering somewhere in the dark—should feel absurd. Instead it feels inevitable, like a note finally resolving after bars of tension. My palms slide up his ribcage, feeling the unyielding muscle beneath.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For being the wall.”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone, softer than a sigh. “You make it worth guarding.”
Lightning forks through me—need, fear, gratitude, lust inextricably woven. I sway closer, nearly brush his lips, when Vanessa’s voice slices through. “Um, guys? Police are at the gate.”
Sawyer steps back, his mask of professionalism slamming down. He turns to Riggs, issues crisp directives. The lights snap back on, and the moment is lost.
Later there will be statements, sensor audits, sleepless hours. But right now his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me gently toward the study where we’ll wait for the detectives. The touch says mine to protect, and my body answers so loudly it nearly drowns out the sirens.