Page 1 of The Forbidden Bodyguard

CHAPTER ONE

DECLAN

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“Declan Sloan, welcome to the team.” Ryder St. James, General Manager of Private Security, holds out his hand as I drop my bag to the floor.

I shake his firm grip.

It’s damn firm, but I’m not surprised; the guy is former Delta Force. We bumped into each other over the years when I was on the teams.

The SEAL teams, that is.

Which is how I know Josh Hawke, one of the founders of Black Hawke Security, the private security firm I’ve joined.

While he and Aidan—the other founder and US Marine—are based in Los Angeles, I’m told they’re in New York for a few days so will join us this morning.

It’s day one, and I’m already impressed with the sleek, high-spec offices. Facial recognition allowed me access to the building, which is rich in charcoal and beige tones, brushed metal and glass finishes, polished blond wood floors and layered lighting.

Glancing around, I take in the lofty ceilings, private offices dotted along the edges of the large room, a pool table, a few smartly designed acoustic private spaces and an open-plan cafe with stools and tall tables backed far into the corner.

“Thanks. Great to be here.” I survey the exits and do a quick analysis of all the people inside the office.

Out of habit.

I left the US Navy six weeks ago to join BHS after lengthy conversations and negotiations with Josh. I wasn’t sure if paramilitary was the path for me, but at a certain point you need to decide what your next career is going to look like. No one’s ever heard of a fifty-year-old active SEAL.

No one should.

Our bodies take a beating serving in the Special Forces branch of the Armed Forces. More than just our bodies.

Some of my pals have gone into law, politics, engineering, sales, podcasting, and written books.

Trouble is, their father wasn’t Commander Matthew Sloan, a decorated SEAL.

Mine was.

“Let me show you around.” Ryder then calls out to a young administrator who races over and blushes when she sees me.

I’m impressed with how quickly she hides it.

“How can I help you, sir?” she grins and gives me another quick look, her eyes going straight to my biceps.

I suppress an eye roll.

I’m used to it. That and being called a brick shithouse. At two hundred and forty pounds and six feet five, I deserve the title.

“For the two hundredth time, I told you not to call me sir, Raven. Ryder will do just fine.”

“I know, Mr. St. James but driving you crazy is literally in my job description.”

“It literally isn’t.” He crosses his arms.

“Are you suuuure?”

Raven is sassy and cute but clearly looking for trouble.

Ryder glances at me, seeking patience, and the corner of my lip twitches. I’m not the most smiley person in the world—ask anyone—but the sassy little firecracker sure is amusing.