My heartbeat has accelerated, but I’m excited more than scared. I always feel this way—every time I get the chance to make a real move against the enemy.
“All right,” I tell him. “It’s time. Let’s move.”
His expression is sober, but his eyes glint with an excitement that matches my own as he starts driving. “Yes, ma’am.”
He calls women he likes “darlin’” conversationally, a habit that has set far too many hearts aflutter. But he’s never called me that. I used to chide him for always referring to me as “ma’am.” I’d ask him to call me by name, Annabelle, or nothing at all. But I gave up on the resistance a long time ago.
When we first met, he was hired as a bodyguard by my then husband, and the deference was required by his role. But even now, so many years later, it hasn’t changed. He’s made it clear that his role is to support me as a leader, andone of the ways he does so is to model the kind of respect for me that he demands in others.
So “ma’am” I am to him and always will be.
We drive asclose to the outpost as we can get without being spotted by the perimeter guards. Then we park on the side of the road, get out of the car without a word, and retrieve a blanket and a bottle of homemade beer with two glasses from the storage compartment in the back.
After Ben has scoped out the vicinity, we walk quickly to our designated position in the shelter of a few trees on a hill tall enough to offer a pleasant view of the nearest settlement.
I spread out the blanket while he fills the glasses partway with the beer. We sit down on the blanket with our backs against the largest tree.
I check the time. Seven minutes.
The waiting is always the worst part.
Ben feels relaxed beside me, but I know he’s not. He’s as alert and primed for action as I am. The only sign of this is the way he occasionally twirls the ring on his right hand.
He’s worn it for as long as I’ve known him. It’s an antique signet ring—the kind rarely found anymore—with a tree with spreading branches and roots carved into a bloodstone.
He’s a no-nonsense, low-maintenance man, so the ring originally surprised me. When I asked him about it, all he said was that it was a gift.
Agift.
Probably from a woman. He’s a mature man, so of course he has a history. He likely has a love of his life somewhere in his past, but he’s never shared any details with me. He used to have sex recreationally. Not a lot. He was never a player, and I’ve never seen him make a move on a woman. Any woman. But a lot of women make moves on him, and he used to regularly accept their offers.
It’s not like I was making any special note of it, but it was impossible not to see the women entering his tent and staying there until morning, when they’d finally emerge looking very pleased with the world.
Something changed about a year ago though. I have no idea what it was. But since then, any woman who enters his tent comes out almost immediately.
If I were a different person, I’d ask. He’s always willingly answered my questions—even personal ones. But some things should be off-limits between people who work together the way we do, and sex is one of those things. I’ve never asked, and he’s never offered the information on his lost love who gave him that ring or on his shift in sexual habits.
“What’s up?” he asks now out of the blue, giving me a sharp look.
“What do you mean?”
“You got stiff and uncomfortable. What’s goin’ on?”
Damn it. He’s sometimes exasperating that way. Picking up vibes he has no business noticing. “Nothing is going on,” I tell him coolly. “I’m focused on our job here.”
He shakes his head, disbelieving. “If you say so… ma’am.” The last bit is tacked on as a dry addendum.
I roll my eyes at him but bite back my instinctive retort. I feel snippy at the moment, but it’s not a rational or helpful response.
“You told me you were fine with this setup,” he says after a minute of silence.
“I am fine with it.”
“Then why’d you get all uptight about it?”
“I didn’t get uptight about it.” It takes real effort not to snap at him. “You’re misreading my mood. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Annabelle.”
