Page 6 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“The hostile takeover security detail?”

“That’s the one.” His words were easy, unbothered, and absolutely throwaway. Lance could make anything sound like nothing. That was his gift. It was also the reason most of his relationships ended the same way—throwaway.

“She seems sharp,” I said, certainly not testing how Lance would react.

Not at all.

“That she is,” he said, the words feeling every bit as throwaway as the rest.

Chapter 3

Gwen

Five men stared back at me from the Round Table Security website. Arthur, Lancelot, Tristan, Galahad, and Merlin. Call signs, but no bios and no credentials. Just headshots against a dark background and a sparse list of services on the next page.

I leaned back in the desk chair and stretched my neck.

My suite at the Brenton Arms was quiet around me, the only sound the low hum of the heating unit beneath the window. Research notes littered the desk in overlapping layers. After the conservation team had left for the day, I’d gone back to the hotel for a nap before dinner.

But my brain hadn’t slowed down enough to sleep. So, I’d pulled out my laptop to run an image search on the inscription. One search became five, and now I had scribbled notes about Anglo-Saxon lapidary texts, sketches of the inscription, and a stack of high-resolution photos I’d taken of the pommel before I left Ferraro’s. The inscription photos sat on top, three different angles of the worn lettering I still couldn’t fully decipher.

Then I’d had the bright idea to prepare for dinner with more research.

I scrolled back up to the team page. Most of them could have been brothers. Dark hair, close-cropped beards, and piercing gazes. But there were differences, too. Tristan had a lopsided grin, Galahad wore a frown, and Merlin’s eyes were so blue they looked like someone had turned up the saturation. Lancelot looked like Lance—annoyingly handsome and completely at ease in front of a camera.

Then there was Arthur.

In a suit jacket but no tie, he looked like he’d spent his life posing for formal portraits, right down to the set of his jaw. But there was something in his face that didn’t match the polished exterior. A warmth, maybe? Guardedness?

I should have closed the laptop.

One search, Gwen. It won’t hurt anything. He won’t catch you.

After glancing at his perfect photo one more time, I opened a search tab and entered Arthur’s name.

The first page of results included the company website, a few mentions in trade publications, and a short profile in a security industry journal. Nothing personal. But halfway down, a headline caught my attention: “Round Table Security: Camelot or Mercenary Outfit? Inside the Pendragon Connection.”

Posted an hour ago.

I clicked through. The article was long and thorough. It claimed Round Table Security was financially backed by Pendragon Security, a large defense contracting company owned by Arthur’s father, Gerald Penn. The piece laid out a detailed money trail, including how Pendragon had provided Round Table’s startup costs. It also described an operation in Prague a couple of months earlier, involving Pendragon operatives and hush money paid to the local authorities.

In the end, it questioned whether the men were legitimate security consultants or mercenaries operating under a pretty name, bankrolled by family money and trading on connections rather than experience.

Arthur Penn, the article noted, was a Naval Academy graduate who’d been a SEAL, a Pendragon operator, and a CIA contractor. It wasn’t stated outright, but the implication that all of his accomplishments—right down to founding Round Table Security—were on his father’s dime was clear.

When Lance and I had dated, he hadn’t talked much about his work. All he’d said was that he was a security consultant, and he didn’t want to focus on his job when we were together. I’d let it go because I liked him and because everyone has parts of their life they keep private. But what, exactly, had I let go?

My eyes snagged on the clock on the laptop.

“Shit!” It was 6:34, and the reservations were for seven.

I leaped out of my chair and took in the mess I’d made. The inscription photos needed to go back in the folder. The printouts needed stacking. I’d tossed my notebook onto my bed at some point, frustrated I couldn’t figure out anything more than “clavis.”

You don’t have time to clean up, girl!

I ran for the bathroom and took the shortest shower of my life, keeping my hair out of the water. Towel. Moisturizer. Minimal makeup. The black dress I always traveled with went on in under a minute, and I pinned my hair up because that was my fastest option. I grabbed my phone and opened the rideshare app as I pulled on my coat. Three minutes out. Close enough. I’d only be ten or so minutes late.

Before I left, I stopped in front of the mirror by the door, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything critical—hair, earrings, necklace, shoes, perfume. The dress worked for anything, whether I paired it with a suit jacket for a conference or a necklace for dinner. Tonight was my big flower necklace.