I box her in. I crowd her space until she has no choice but to take a stuttering step backward.
“Move, Principessa.”
She bristles instantly at the nickname. Her spine snaps straight. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I point a gloved finger toward the arched doorway leading to the massive chef’s kitchen. “Walk.”
She lifts her chin. She spins on her heel and marches toward the kitchen like she is leading me to a firing squad.
I follow right behind her. I don’t bother hiding where my eyes are looking.
I track the aggressive sway of her hips. The silk slides over her ass with every step she takes. The friction is agonizing. I want to rip the emerald fabric right down the middle.
The kitchen is massive. Cold granite, stainless steel, and stark white cabinets.
She stops behind the center island. She crosses her arms tightly under her breasts, pushing up her cleavage in a way that tests my last shred of sanity.
I lean against the opposite side of the counter. I cross my arms slowly over the heavy Kevlar plating of my tactical vest.
“Phone,” I demand.
She clutches the device tightly to her chest. “It’s private property.”
“Nothing is private anymore. Not when you’re under my detail.”
“My brother hired you to watch the exterior doors. Not to play hall monitor.”
I laugh softly. It isn’t a nice sound. It is dark and utterly devoid of humor.
“Dominic hired us to keep you breathing. Your brother doesn’t know the first thing about what my men and I actually do.”
She tilts her chin up. Her eyes flash with pure, unfiltered annoyance.
“And what is it you do?” she shoots back. “Stand around looking ridiculously broody while wearing way too much Kevlar inside a perfectly safe house?”
She doesn’t flinch. She stares right back at me. The fire in her eyes completely eclipses her fear.
She is cornered by three lethal operators. She is trapped in her own house. And she is busy throwing daggers with a razor-sharp tongue.
Smart. Sassy. Completely unbothered by my size.
That is the exact moment it happens.
The older guys in the Broken Halos MC call it the Thunderbolt. I always thought it was absolute bullshit. A fairy tale for romantic idiots.
But looking at her right now?
The sheer, unadulterated grit of her. The sharp edge of her wit wrapped in that impossibly lush, curved body.
It hits me like a runaway freight train. The instantaneous, gut-wrenching realization punches the air straight out of my lungs.
She isn’t just a target. She isn’t just a mission objective.
She is mine.
Every sharp word. Every curve. Every breath she takes.Mine.
I take a slow, deliberate breath to steady the sudden roaring in my ears.