“She drove him out.” Almost a compliment.
I gear up—GPS, pepper spray, taser, two burners, a revolver I don't think I'll ever fire—and drive west. The Munro ranch is three miles past the highway, marked by a white rock arch. The house looms ahead: dark Texas limestone trying to pass itself off as a working ranch home, but the floor-to-ceiling windows and three-car garage give away the game. Security cameras nestle in custom-forged iron brackets shaped like horseshoes. A silver Jeep sits in the circular drive, its pristine finish suggesting it's never seen an actual ranch road.
Jennifer Munro opens the door, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that would give most women a headache. Her navy dress suit is tailored in a way that suggests old money, not flashy new wealth. She looks me over with eyes the color of expensive bourbon, then steps aside with a kind of superiority I hope her daughter didn’t inherit. "She's upstairs. My husband insisted on hiring someone with your experience." Her voice softens, the way mothers sound when they’re trying not to worry. "Delilah's not as bad as you might have heard. She’s just restless. If you’re smart, you’ll figure out how to give her some freedom."
Mothers always know things we don’t. I keep that in mind as I climb the marble stairs, my boots echoing against stone that probably came from an Italian quarry centuries ago. Red wine glints like liquid rubies in a crystal glass before I even knock. "Ms. Munro?"
"You can call me Lila." Her voice pours out like aged whiskey over ice—smooth, smoky, with an undercurrent that burns.
She's perched on a midnight-blue velvet couch, one leg draped over the arm, her delicate silver ankle bracelet on display. Her phone dangles from manicured fingers, screen glowing blue against her skin. Her thick hair, dark as freshly split pecan wood, falls in waves past shoulders wrapped in a cashmere cardigan. Her skin hasn't seen enough Texas sun to build any defense against it. I keep my distance on the Persian rug, both of us recognizing the dance we're about to begin—two fighters circling, looking for weaknesses.
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of wine, then runs her tongue along the rim where her lipstick left its mark. "Are you my jailer, or did Daddy hire you to be my new distraction?"
"I'm your bodyguard." I keep my voice flat. "Nothing more."
She tosses her hair over one shoulder and leans forward, her cardigan slipping just enough to be calculated. "Did they tell you I made the last one cry? After I bit him, of course."
I nod once, feeling my jaw tighten. "They mentioned it."
Her grin widens, revealing perfect teeth that could cut glass. A dimple appears in her left cheek like a warning sign. "Good. Saves me the trouble of establishing my reputation." She tosses her wine back in one gulp, then deliberately licks a drop from her bottom lip. "Though I could always demonstrate if you're curious."
I let a small smile crack through my professional mask, the kind that doesn't reach my eyes. "Biting someone isn't exactly a high bar for rebellion."
"Oh?" She sits up, energy taut behind her eyes. She stretches, arching her back like a cat. "What would impress you then, soldier boy? Should I steal Daddy's Ferrari again?"
"I keep you alive. You do whatever rich girls do when they're bored."
She sets down her glass with a deliberate clink and stares at me. "And if I decide to run?" Her foot brushes against my ankle, testing.
I step back and meet her gaze. "Then I try to keep up."
She pouts, bottom lip jutting out. "God, you're no fun at all. I'll make your life hell."
"I've had worse jobs."
I’ve seen this story before: a wealthy daughter with too much time and not enough attention. But something in her eyes doesn’t fit the usual pattern. There’s calculation there, not just rebellion. Most people in her position play a simple game with obvious moves. I have a feeling Delilah is twenty steps ahead, seeing patterns I won’t notice until it’s too late.
Her mother leads me away on a grand tour while Delilah flips me off behind her mother’s back, then blows me a kiss before her thumbs start flying over her phone, setting something in motion far away. A cold weight settles in my gut. This isn’t just a spoiled rich girl. This is a reckoning. And as I close that folder, I know this job could ruin me.
But I'm already on thin ice. No turning back now.
CHAPTER TWO
DELILAH
Men think we don’t notice them staring, but I can always tell what’s behind their eyes—hunger, boredom, calculation—especially when I’m being myself. Cade Walker isn’t like most men, but right now he’s scanning the pool behind his Ray-Bans, pretending I’m invisible as I pull myself up from a tumble turn.
He’s only been at my parents’ estate for three days, but he already knows my routine better than my mother ever did. No matter where I go—tennis courts, paddocks, art studio, library—he’s always there, just out of sight, quietly noting every threat, weakness, and my mood. He’s efficient in a way that almost feels respectful. He’s open about his job, which I should appreciate. Still, there’s something about a man who stands like a fortress that makes me want to find the cracks. I don’t need to break in; I just want to see if those walls can shake.
I start another lap, the first ten meters a careful breaststroke, just enough to stay afloat while I split my focus. Part of me notices the light breaking through the water, the cold on my skin, and the sting of chlorine in my ears, but most of me is focused on Cade, tracking him closely. I watch not for his glances, but for the pauses, the slight tightening of his jaw eachtime I come up for air. I could show off if I wanted, but it’s more fun not to.
At the far end of the pool, I rest my forearms on the deck and fix him with the look I reserve for men too disciplined to unwind. “You don’t have to stand at attention,” I call, smiling without teeth. “Pretty sure if anyone was going to kill me, they’d wait until after I finished swimming. Less of a mess in the papers.”
Cade doesn’t smile, but his eyebrows notch up half a degree. “Not in my job description to speculate on the creative habits of assassins, Ms. Munro.”
“One, now you’ve jinxed us. And two, do you always call people by their last names, or is that just an affectation?”
He shrugs, just enough to concede the point. “It’s about respect.”