Chapter 1

I shouldn't be here.

Shouldn't be watching her from the shadows, watching her through her bedroom window.

It's disgusting—me being a fucking Peeping Tom, not the beautiful woman curled up in her pajamas, her son beside her as the two of them watch Great British Bake Off on the big screen TV mounted on the far wall.

But I am here.

Soaking in every single moment of her, of this glimpse into her life.

Lauren pastes a smile on her face, pretends to be perfectly happy when she's in the outside world, always putting on a brave face for her son, but I've watched her holding him as he cries. I've seen the tears streak down her own cheeks. I've even heard her tell him it's okay to cry, to miss his dad.

Who fought for them but died anyway.

Fucking cancer.

But though she's given that slice of vulnerability mixed with strength to her son—something that's a fuckton better than any of the buck-up-and-move-on parenting advice good old Mom and Dad gave me, the rest of the world only gets an impenetrable wall.

Or maybe that's just me.

Because she's close to Lucas, the fucker.

She talks to him.

And Sara. And Blane. And most of the other fuckers on the Gold hockey team.

Me, on the other hand?

Brick. Fucking. Wall.

Sighing, I tuck the binoculars away—a set that I can't technically get legally on the free market, but a pair that I have access to because I have connections. Connections that I don't want to have, connections that I've tried to distance myself from, but also connections that allow me and my company of specialized security to get our hands on equipment that makes our job safer and easier.

Equipment that allows me to play Peeping Tom.

On a woman who's so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away, and her son, who has been through more than he should at his young age but has the same core of brightness his mother possesses.

Drawing me in like a moth to the golden flame.

"It's only because she's alone," I mutter, turning away from the house, finding it harder than it should be to slip into the shadows. But I manage to pull back, cutting across a couple of back yards, winding my way to my car that's parked several blocks over. "Her being alone is the only reason I do this."

A lie.

But it's a lie I have to tell myself, otherwise I'll look too closely, think too much, be too...

"Shut the fuck up," I grumble under my breath, yanking myself out of my head as I check behind me, searching for tails. It's standard operating procedure for me—the checks, the extra measures of safety. It's why my profession is security, is putting myself on the line to protect good people.

People who are untouched by those connections I hold.

I slip out, confident that—as usual—no one has seen me.

I'm fucking good at my job.

I have to be.

Otherwise people get dead.

So, when I unlock my car, the soft bleep pairing with the lights flashing, and I see something tucked under one of the wiper blades, my gut clenches.

It could be an advertisement, one of those bullshit fliers some asshole likes to paper every car in the neighborhood with.

But I know it's not.

All my precautions, my safety measures—living carefully, constantly looking over my shoulder...none of that fucking matters.

Because of those goddamned connections.

"Fuck," I mutter, moving forward, my boots clipping on the pavement now that I'm not bothering to be fucking sneaky. I yank the folded paper out, get one glimpse of the handwriting and I know.

Fucking know.

That a barrage of shit is about to rain down on my life.

I look around, searching the darkness surrounding me on all sides, searching for the one person who's always been able to hide from me, who's always been able to track me down, no matter how hard I fought to remain in the shadows.

But, like always, I don't find him.

I just...know he's there.

Crumpling the paper, I make a show of tossing it into the passenger's seat, like I don't give a fuck what's inside. But my heart is pounding as I sit in the driver's seat, start up the engine and drive away. My body is tense as I take the long way back to headquarters, using my alternate routes, zigzagging through city streets, before finally slipping into a nondescript warehouse that serves as my team's command center and the only home I've ever had—because I cobbled it together, secured the fragile, ugly pieces together with duct tape and twine.

The reinforced metal panel rolls closed with a clang behind my car and I get out, punch in my code at the first door, making sure it locks behind me before I start winding through the hallways. I have to punch in two more codes, the last one paired with a retinal scan, before I make it fully inside and walk by the rows of desks, each loaded with top-of-the-line equipment. But at this time of night, those desks are empty, and the screens are all off—none of our clients are currently requiring twenty-four-hour video monitoring.

So, my guys are either traveling one-on-one with our clientele, providing security for various actors and athletes and professional sports teams, or—in rare cases—are taking some much-needed time off.

Even though I'm the only one here, I still don't unfold the note, don't read the words written in a hand I know better than my own—not until I'm inside my office with the door closed.

The paper crinkles as I flatten it out.

My heart sinks as my eyes move across the page, as I see what's written there.

Because it confirms all the fears that knotted my fucking insides the moment I saw the note tucked underneath the wiper blade.

And now—because of me—Lauren is in danger.