1
THATCHER MORETTI
First thing people know about me, I’m tall.
Second thing, I’m a twin.
Third thing, I’m a pain in your fucking ass. If you’re not giving a hundred shits at rest or in high water, I will hammer you.
One further, I’ll volunteer to be the bad guy if it means protecting lives and keeping minds right on the team.
But I didn’t imagine I’d lose her in the process.
I stare straight ahead and breathe hot breath out of my fucking nose. Can’t think about that now. I have a job to do.
She is my job.
And I need to unfuck this shit. I take full responsibility, and I’m going to shovel us out of the hellhole I’ve thrown ourselves in.
I have to.
A roaring beach bonfire lights up the sparkling night sky. The Aegean Sea calm and dark behind me, my boots sunk in damp sand on the shoreline. I stand still. Watchful.
Attentive.
Prepared for any hellfire.
This isn’t my first time in Greece, and that fact sits with me for an extra beat. I grew up in a one-bedroom South Philly apartment and shared a pullout couch with my brother. In my head, there weren’t many ways I’d see the world.
Eventually, Xander Hale happened. Becoming that kid’s bodyguard was a bright spot in my life. Not because I could see more of the world, but because I still had a hand in protecting someone else’s.
It’s what fuels me.
I’m strong to protect the soft.
I’ve felt that, even as a fucking teenager. I read The Iliad in high school. Men fighting on an ancient battlefield. Facing challenges that’d test their strength of will. Embarking on harrowing adventures while serving their country.
I wanted to be a Spartan warrior.
And I grew to look like one. Broad-chested and shouldered, muscled and toned, towering and relentless at six-foot-seven. Severity within hard lines of my body and face.
No matter where my boots land, I’m meant to fight for something.
And at twenty-two, I began protecting these three famous families. Cut to six years later, and this is still where I need to be. Where I want to be. I’d put my life on the fucking line for them. It’s more than a nine-to-five job, more than a career—this is a lifestyle meant for the men who aren’t going to quit and take the easy fucking out.
I’ve kicked exits open for bodyguards who thought private security would be a straight shot to luxury. This is about keeping people safe 24-hours a day, and we’re not entitled to anything. We fulfill our purpose. If we expect more, we’ve failed at our promise to these generous, loving families who just want to live in peace.
We should be humbled to be in Greece or wherever protecting them leads us.
Stay focused.
On her.
Jane Eleanor Cobalt.
She’s sitting about twenty meters away, feet buried in the sand. Light-hearted blue eyes concentrated on one of her many brothers.
Eliot Cobalt stands near the bonfire and rehashes a story or some play. Flames lick the air, and as he gesticulates theatrically, the famous families laugh and clap.
She taps her beer bottle in applause.
I catch myself about to skim her up and down. Don’t.
I remain stationary. I’m not supposed to be an active participant, but some surrounding bodyguards clap for Eliot. They’re the ones who’ve grown closer to the Cobalts throughout the years.
I wouldn’t place myself on that shelf.
Before transferring to Jane’s detail, I was attached to the Hale family. Xander Hale had been my only other client, and even if I were better acquainted with the Cobalt Empire, I’m not interested in joking around while on-duty. If I wouldn’t do it during an op, I’m not doing it on her detail.
Her safety comes first.
Jane sips a beer on the private beach, and she stays quiet while her brother quotes Shakespeare, or some other tragedy. I wouldn’t know which.
I keep a close eye on Jane and her surroundings.
It’s my job.
It’s also my job to know her well. Like how she’s been unusually quiet this summer trip, and it’s my job to know that I’m to blame.
Can’t worry about that now.
But I am.
Jane lets a beach blanket fall off her sunburnt shoulders, warmed near the bonfire. A pale blue tankini hugs her body.
I want to think some things I shouldn’t be fucking thinking. Put in some adjectives that I shouldn’t be using. All good things—don’t go there.
Don’t fucking do it.
I’m not overstepping the solid boundary.
I scan the beach with crossed arms, but eventually, my dark narrowed eyes return to Jane.
Long brunette hair frizzes around her freckled cheeks, and she smiles brightly at her brother. Applauding him again before she sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles loudly. She’s only twenty-three.
She’s only twenty-three. And she’s dealt with more harassment than any girl her age should—than any person should.
I’ve heard sacks of horseshit spew hatred and try to degrade her, and they actually believe they’re entitled to her body and time like she’s some fucking doll they can rip apart with no consequence.
They’re targets.
Men that I will fucking take out before they breathe on Jane. And after what happened with her recent friends-with-benefits, my duty to Jane is unquantifiable.
On the beach, I end up glancing back at her.
She leans some of her weight into Maximoff Hale, her best friend. He’s been scanning the beaches almost as much as security. Preparing for threats like he’s another bodyguard. Truth is, I’d welcome Maximoff on the team. But he can’t be on it.
Not when he’s a part of the famous families that we protect.
I try to scan the water, but my strict gaze drifts back to Jane, just as Maximoff wraps a strong arm around her shoulders. She whispers in his ear, a smile attached to her words.
He laughs back.
My stomach drops a bit.
For one second, I wish I could be in earshot. Don’t fucking wish that.
Her smile seems to fade faster than usual, and slowly, her gaze begins to wander across the beach.
To the dark sea.
And then, her big blue eyes land right on me.
I blow out another rough breath through my nose. Never breaking eye contact.
Call her over.
Point-blank, I’m not sure how. This feels personal on some level, and it’s against my fucking job to make a personal move. I can’t interrupt her time with her family.
There are rules in security. Rules that help her just as much as they help the team, and I won’t disobey them.
My jaw hardens, tendons in my arms and neck pulling taut. Muscles burning. I cement to the shoreline like the rest of the 24/7 bodyguards. Water rushes against the heels of my boots. I never shift out of my position.
Call her over, I’m still thinking.
But I’m immobile.
I can’t move.
Can’t disobey.
Jane quickly diverts her gaze, her neck reddened, frustration in her next hot sip of beer.
I breathe in another coarse breath.
We used to have a better working dynamic. She’d talk my ear off, and I’d listen. Now she says nothing, and I still say next-to-nothing.
Eight months.
I’ve been Jane’s bodyguard for eight months, and I’ve been put on a silent treatment for almost two of those. Any other client and it wouldn’t bother me, but I’ve grown used to Jane rambling to herself and filling the quiet.