Direct hit. His expression shutters completely, green eyes going flat.
"We're not doing this."
"Not doing what?"
"The ‘getting to know each other’ thing. You don't need my life story to survive. You need to follow protocols and stay alert."
"I'm a prosecutor. Understanding people is how I survive. How I build cases, read juries, anticipate opposing counsel." I lean forward slightly. "You're asking me to trust you with my life. I'd like to know something about the man I'm trusting."
"You're not trusting me. You're trusting my capabilities. My training. The security infrastructure I've built here. Personal connection has nothing to do with it."
"Except you already told me something personal." I watch his face carefully. "Earlier. You said people you're supposed to protect die. That it's happened before. That's not a capability assessment. That's trauma."
His hand tightens around his fork until his knuckles go white. For a long moment, I think he might get up and walk out.
Then he releases a breath, and the tension drains from his shoulders.
"Five years ago, I was commanding officer for a Delta Force unit. We received intel about a high-value target in Kandahar. The intel was wrong. We walked into an ambush."Flat. Emotionless. Recited like a report. "Six of my people died because I trusted the wrong information."
I've spent years reading people on the witness stand. The pain beneath his clinical delivery is unmistakable.
"That's why you're here. In the mountains. Away from everything."
"I built something useful out of the wreckage. Guardian Peak exists because my people deserve work that matters, security that doesn't depend on bureaucratic incompetence, and a commander who won't lead them into another trap."
"And what about you? What do you deserve?"
The question catches him off guard. He stares at me, those green eyes searching my face.
"I deserve to not get people killed." He stands abruptly, collecting his plate. "Finish eating. I'll show you the security protocols, then you should sleep. Training starts at oh-six-hundred."
"Six in the morning?"
"Problems don't wait for you to be well-rested. Neither does training."
He disappears into the kitchen. Water running. Dishes clanking.
I finish my meal in silence, processing.
Deck Cross built this fortress because he couldn't save his people. He lives out here alone because he can't forgive himself for their deaths. And now I've landed in his carefully constructed isolation, forcing him to be responsible for another life when that's clearly the last thing he wants.
No wonder he looks at me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
After dinner, he walks me through security protocols with methodical precision. Sensor placement. Camera angles. Communication procedures. Where to go if the perimeter isbreached. How to access the panic room. Which weapons are staged where, and how to use them.
"You know how to shoot?" He asks it like he already knows the answer.
"I qualified with my service weapon. All federal prosecutors in organized crime divisions are required to."
"Qualified isn't proficient. Tomorrow we fix that."
"You keep saying you're going to train me. Shouldn't your priority be patrolling or monitoring or whatever bodyguards do?"
"Patrolling and monitoring are passive. Reactive. If someone breaches this property, I need you to be able to defend yourself while I handle the threat. That means you need to be more than a liability."
"A liability." My hackles rise. "Is that what I am to you?"
"Right now? Yes." Blunt. Unapologetic. "You're a city prosecutor in four-inch heels who's never spent a night outdoors. You're smart and you're tough, but you're not prepared for what happens if things go sideways up here. Making you prepared is how I keep you alive."
