I nod once, sharp. “Copy that. Send me everything you have.”
He taps his phone, and mine buzzes on the bench. Files come through—crime scene photos, Isabella’s statement summary, the threatening text screenshot, and a picture of her. Even in the small image, her hazel eyes look intelligent and determined. Dark hair swept up, elegant features, that emerald dress clinging to her figure. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that could become a distraction if I let it.
“Her cottage is at the end of Marshview Lane,” Cal says. “White trim, wide porch facing the marsh. She’s still awake. I told her you’d be there soon. Introduce yourself, set the perimeter, and keep her calm. Rhea is already running background checks. We’ll brief at oh-nine-hundred.”
“Understood.”
I head straight for the showers. Ten minutes later, I’m dressed in a black shirt and cargo pants, sidearm holstered at my hip, and sliding behind the wheel of my truck. The drive through Tidehaven’s quiet streets feels too peaceful for the kind of trouble that just landed on Isabella Monroe’s doorstep.
I park a block away and approach on foot, moving silently through the side yard. Lights still burn inside. I knock firmly on the front door with three measured raps.
The door opens. Isabella stands there in a simple white robe tied at the waist, her dark hair falling loose over one shoulder. The fresh bandage on her upper arm is visible where the sleeve has slipped. Even exhausted and shaken, she carries herself with quiet strength. Her hazel eyes meet mine without hesitation.
“Jax Harlan,” I say, voice low and steady. “Salt & Steel Security. Cal sent me. Most people call me Reaper.”
A faint, wry smile touches her lips. “Reaper. That’s not exactly the most reassuring name for a bodyguard.”
I don’t smile back. “I’ll be outside keeping watch tonight. No one gets near this house without going through me. Try to get some rest, Miss Monroe. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
She lifts one elegant brow. “You’re really going to stand out here all night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Something flickers across her face. “Suit yourself, Reaper, but if you’re going to guard me, the least you can do is come inside for coffee when the sun comes up.”
I give a single nod. “We’ll see.”
She closes the door and I hear the lock click. I melt back into the shadows beneath the large oak at the side of the property. The rest of the night passes in quiet vigilance. I move between the marsh edge, the quiet street, and the deep shadow of the porch. Every shadow is checked twice. Sleep is not part of the plan.
Dawn paints the sky in soft pinks and golds over the marsh when I finally knock again. Isabella opens the door dressed in a simple cream blouse and fitted jeans that accentuate her curves in a way I try to ignore.
“Morning,” she says, stepping onto the porch with a confident tilt to her chin. “I assume you’re still determined to follow me everywhere today?”
“Yes,” I reply. “We start with breakfast at Nettie’s Bait & Biscuit. Good visibility, public place, and Captain Sunday sometimes drops useful intel there. I want eyes on the town while we talk through the plan.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods. “Lead the way, Reaper.”
We walk the short distance together. The small dockside diner is alive with the smell of fresh biscuits, strong coffee, and sizzling bacon. Locals glance our way as we enter. Nettie waves us toward a corner booth. I take the seat with my back to the wall, scanning the room out of habit.
Isabella slides in across from me. The early sunrise filters through the windows, catching warm highlights in her dark hair. She orders shrimp and grits with a side of biscuits while I stick to black coffee and eggs. When the food arrives, she breaks open a steaming biscuit and looks at me with open curiosity.
“So, Reaper,” she begins, her voice carrying a soft lilt mixed with unmistakable challenge. “Is that name supposed to make people feel safe, or is it more of a warning label?”
I grunt, lifting my coffee mug. “It’s a call sign. Means I finish the job. Nothing more.”
She laughs softly, the sound warm. “Well, it’s not exactly ‘Guardian Angel.’ Having a man named Reaper as my personal shadow feels a little on the nose after last night.”
Her gaze holds mine across the table. I set my mug down and pin her with a look.
“Last night was a professional job. They knew the layout, the blackout timing, and exactly which piece to take. This isn’t over. You can sass me all you want, Miss Monroe, but when I give a command, you follow it. No arguments. Your life depends on it.”
She doesn’t look away. Instead, she leans forward slightly, gold flecks in her hazel eyes catching the morning light. “I’m not in the habit of following orders blindly, Reaper. I built my career on knowing my collections inside and out and protecting what matters. I can admit when I need help. That doesn’t mean I’m going to sit quietly while you brood and treat me like I’m breakable.”
The tension crackles. Her sharp wit slices through my usual walls. I want to shut this down, keep everything strictly professional, but the way she holds my stare stirs something deep and dangerous in my chest.
My phone vibrates.
Rhea: How’s the pretty curator this morning, Reaper? Don’t scare her off with that death glare.
