Chap­ter 5: Rhys was a phrase that looped in my mind as rage sim­mered through my veins. Brid­get had once assured me she would be fine, but that mis­placed con­fi­dence had near­ly got­ten her killed, drag­ging me into a night I wouldn’t for­get any­time soon. I’d warned her about the shady con­cert venue, a col­laps­ing ware­house that screamed dan­ger, yet she defied every word of cau­tion and snuck out with­out back­up. That deci­sion led to her kid­nap­ping, along with Ava, by a mer­ce­nary whose loy­al­ty was bought by blood mon­ey. Even now, glanc­ing in the rearview mir­ror and see­ing her bruised but breath­ing wasn’t enough to erase the sick­en­ing ter­ror I had felt hours ear­li­er. I hat­ed dis­obe­di­ence, but even more than that, I hat­ed how close we had come to dis­as­ter. No mat­ter how com­posed I appeared, the fear had dug itself deep into my bones, refus­ing to let go.

The sit­u­a­tion esca­lat­ed quick­ly, drag­ging Ava and Brid­get into a web of revenge cen­tered around Alex Volkov and his crim­i­nal fam­i­ly dra­ma. Hon­est­ly, I didn’t give a damn about Volkov’s vendet­tas; all that mat­tered was get­ting Brid­get back in one piece. I had fore­seen the pos­si­bil­i­ty of trou­ble and installed a hid­den track­er in her phone weeks ago—a deci­sion that might have saved her life. Fol­low­ing the sig­nal to Philadel­phia was like chas­ing a ghost through the shad­ows, but even­tu­al­ly, I found them tied up and ter­ri­fied. Despite the suc­cess­ful res­cue, fury brewed inside me with every mile back to her town­house, each minute sharp­en­ing my anger. A part of me want­ed to scream at her the moment we crossed the thresh­old, but I clenched my fists and focused on Ava first. She need­ed Bridget’s com­fort more than she need­ed to hear my rage unleashed.

When Ava dis­ap­peared into the guest room, I wast­ed no time pulling Brid­get aside, my voice low but lethal. She tried to soft­en the blow with a whis­pered apol­o­gy, say­ing it all worked out because she was safe now, but that only made my blood boil hot­ter. I demand­ed she meet me in the kitchen, away from Ava’s frag­ile ears, and she obeyed, hug­ging her­self tight­ly. It wasn’t just the bruis­es on her wrists that angered me; it was the sheer reck­less­ness, the betray­al of my trust, and the cold fear that gripped my chest think­ing about what could have hap­pened. She claimed it had been a mis­take, but mis­takes didn’t land you at gun­point. As I cor­nered her against the wall, forc­ing her to acknowl­edge the grav­i­ty of her actions, I glimpsed some­thing raw and bro­ken in her eyes that tem­pered my fury just enough not to explode com­plete­ly.

There was no way to sug­ar­coat the truth: Bridget’s choic­es had put her­self and Ava in mor­tal dan­ger, and next time we might not be so lucky. Her protest that the attack wasn’t about her, but Ava, didn’t excuse the reck­less­ness that night. If I had been there, I would have neu­tral­ized the threat before a hand even touched her, and she knew it. It wasn’t ego speak­ing; it was fact, honed from years of mil­i­tary train­ing and a career built on sav­ing lives in the worst cir­cum­stances imag­in­able. When I remind­ed her what I had told her from day one—to do what I say with­out question—she vis­i­bly flinched but didn’t argue. That tiny moment of sur­ren­der lit a stub­born pride in me that even her glare couldn’t extin­guish. She could hate me all she want­ed; I’d rather her alive and furi­ous than dead and silent.

In an unex­pect­ed twist, Brid­get offered a com­pro­mise that I didn’t see com­ing: remove the track­er from her phone, and she would fol­low my secu­ri­ty orders with­out ques­tion. The log­ic appealed to me—having her coop­er­a­tion would be a tac­ti­cal advantage—but every instinct in me screamed not to loosen con­trol. Watch­ing her stare me down with fire flash­ing in her sea-blue eyes made it hard to think clear­ly. Against bet­ter judg­ment, I agreed to a four-month tri­al. If she failed once, all bets were off, and I’d revert to treat­ing her like a full-time hostage until I could guar­an­tee her safe­ty. Bridget’s accep­tance of the terms came with a con­di­tion of her own: to omit the inci­dent from my secu­ri­ty reports. While I should have refused imme­di­ate­ly, a tiny crack inside me widened, the thought of walk­ing away from her set­tling in my chest like a heavy stone.

The real­i­ty was simple—if the king found out, not only would my con­tract be shred­ded, but Brid­get would suf­fer even harsh­er con­se­quences. The media would devour the sto­ry, the palace would tight­en its leash, and she would lose even the frag­ile free­dom she clung to now. I hat­ed the idea of being forced into a lie, but see­ing the plead­ing in her eyes crushed my resolve more effec­tive­ly than any roy­al decree ever could. I told myself it was a strate­gic deci­sion: keep her close, keep her safe. But deep down, I knew the truth was far more com­pli­cat­ed and dan­ger­ous. Because some­where between the threats, the argu­ments, and the end­less stub­born­ness, Brid­get had become more than just a client. She had some­how become some­one I could­n’t stand to lose.

The moment end­ed with a reluc­tant truce, both of us tense, wary, and bat­tered from the night’s ordeal. Yet beneath the anger and exhaus­tion, a new cur­rent had formed between us, some­thing frag­ile and raw that nei­ther of us dared acknowl­edge out loud. Brid­get had sur­vived the night, but the bat­tle for her safety—and maybe some­thing far more com­pli­cat­ed between us—was just begin­ning. The sim­ple truth remained: as much as I hat­ed the risks, the argu­ing, and the temp­ta­tion she pre­sent­ed, there wasn’t a force on earth strong enough to keep me from pro­tect­ing her. Even if it meant break­ing every rule I’d ever lived by.