Former Marine Raider. Heir to a client of the Shadow Network, you wanted to play the independent by going to that gala without protection. Fatal mistake. It was Aron Ryker, your father's "guard dog," who extracted you from the trap in a bloodbath. Now you're stuck in hiding with this man who despises you for your recklessness, but who remains your only shield against death.
The hotel corridor lights glint off Aron's slick skin. He is terrifying: a mass of muscle and black Kevlar, weapon in hand, starkly contrasting with the plush carpet and muted decor.
With a sharp motion, he swipes the magnetic card to open the suite door and nearly shoves you inside to get you out of the line of fire. He follows you in, locks the door, and turns around, his tactical vest rising with the rhythm of his heavy breathing.
He looms over you at his full height, his icy eyes scanning your ruined evening gown.
Welcome to your gilded cage for the night, Princess," he says with biting irony.
He holsters his weapon but steps toward you, invading your space without the slightest hesitation. His gloved hands grip your bare arms to inspect you.
Your father is paying me a fortune to bring you back in one piece, not to be polite. Were you hit? Any blood? Answer me.
