Prologue

PROLOGUE

RYAN

Don’t let a bear’s aloofness fool you—they feel emotions deeply. They may act tough, wandering solo through the wilderness, but inside? They’ve got hearts as big as their appetite for honey.

—Bear Facts for Insomniacs, Episode 13

The moment I truly learned what hubris meant was the moment I first met Zane Hendley.

Correction, it was the day I first met Zee Barlo , Grammy Award–winning rock star, headliner of sold-out arenas around the globe, and one of the Sexiest Men Alive… according to People magazine. I didn’t catch a glimpse of the real man behind the public persona until later.

“He’s the new Taylor Swift, if Taylor Swift was a beautiful man instead of a beautiful woman,” Violet explained as we made our way into the record label’s Los Angeles recording studio for our first client meeting. I was still getting used to seeing my new boss in person instead of on a Zoom screen, and I noticed a sparkle in her eyes when she referred to her newest client. “And this is a super-cush assignment. You’re welcome.”

“You mean there are no actual threats to his safety?”

Her heels made a clip-clip sound on the marble floor of the large corporate lobby as we crossed to the elevator bank. “No, no. There definitely are. But they’re from rabid fans wanting a piece of him more than sociopolitical agents hell-bent on his destruction.”

I must have winced because Violet immediately apologized. “Shit, Ryan. I’m sorry.”

After a deep, calming inhale through my nostrils, I attempted a reassuring smile. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. Here I am discussing assassinations when your previous employer is still lying in state. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Ventdestine for the funeral?”

My memories of Asger Salling and the rest of the Ventdestinian royal family were a mixed bag. While I’d deeply respected the king for the entire twelve years I’d worked on his security detail as a member of the royal guard, and we’d shared plenty of friendly moments, I hadn’t truly been his friend. I’d been more like very friendly wallpaper.

I’d also been skeptical of the king’s prediction that he’d be a target for assassination because he’d sensed “the winds of fate whispering ill tidings around the palace”—the kind of claim that only someone in the tiny, superstitious nation of Ventdestine could make with a straight face—but as it turned out, I’d been wrong.

My decision to leave the royal guard and return to the US had happened well in advance of his assassination, and the security failure hadn’t had anything to do with me. In fact, I’d already been comfortably ensconced at my sister’s place in Montana when I’d gotten the news along with everyone else that the king of Ventdestine had been shot and killed during a PR visit to the royal naval yard.

I still felt partially responsible for it, though. Maybe if I’d taken Asger’s concerns more seriously, if I hadn’t let my feelings about his superstitions affect my assessments, I could have better prepared my replacement.

In my new assignment, I’d make sure there were no feelings involved whatsoever.

“I’m sure,” I said, clearing my throat as I followed her into the elevator.

Violet grinned as she jabbed the button. “Good. Because I can’t lie, I feel like if you went back for a visit, you might end up staying. The new king is so eager to have you back his head of security reached out to ask if I’d subcontract you to them. And the salary the guy offered was… substantial.”

“I know,” I said gruffly. “Kasper contacted me directly, too. But as I told him, I’m not interested in going back to Ventdestine. I’m ready for a new assignment, and like you said, this one sounds great.”

Protecting a popular rock star from overeager fans when no one would be trying to take him out with sniper fire from across the red carpet… presumably? This would be a walk in the park compared to my previous assignment.

I was supremely confident about this. Perhaps, one might say, excessively confident. So confident I momentarily forgot that old expression about hubris leading to downfall.

Then I stepped out of the elevator and saw the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on… and hubris literally knocked the breath out of me.

Gorgeous face. Long, sun-kissed hair. Honey-brown eyes that regarded me curiously. A mouth so soft and sensual my gut went painfully tight in an instant.

I needed no Ventdestinian mystical woo-woo to know “the winds of fate were blowing ill” in regard to my ability to do this job without complications.

In fact, the real reason I’d quit my job in Ventdestine and moved back to the United States was even clearer than before.

I wanted to have sex with men.

Ventdestine was a beautiful country, full of wonderful people and charming traditions, but their laws and cultural expectations regarding LGBTQ issues remained locked in an earlier, intolerant era. I’d spent twelve years closeted and practically celibate because I couldn’t afford to get caught breaking the ancient law. The scandal it would have caused to the royal family would have been devastating.

I’d known what I was getting into when Asger bestowed the royal guard position on me. At that time, the opportunity to travel and make more money than I’d ever imagined had been worth the personal sacrifice. But now… now I was ready to have a life outside of work. To live a little and fuck a lot.

A thought that should not have been at the forefront of my brain the moment I met my new client.

Violet performed the introduction. “Zee, this is Ryan Galloway. Ryan, Zee Barlo.”

“Hi, I’m Zane,” he said with a polite smile, surprising me since I hadn’t known Zee was short for anything. “I hear you’re my new close protection officer. Welcome to the team.”

We were standing in the reception area of the recording studio, and the morning sun had slanted in through one of the high windows, lighting up the golden strands in his long brown hair. The air-conditioning had even kicked on, making the strands blow in an artificial breeze.

Winds of fate, indeed.

“H-hi,” I stammered before reminding myself I was a professional. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Nice to meet you. I know you have a recording session today. Anything else you have planned?”

He shook his head. “No. The session will take most of the day, and they’ll order in lunch for us. Ready?”

I nodded and followed him toward a hallway while he walked and typed messages in his phone at the same time. Clearly, he didn’t take any personal responsibility for situational awareness, but maybe that was simply due to feeling safe in such a familiar space. Or maybe he was an entitled ass who left the pesky security shit to the hired help.

You can ignore a pretty face if it comes attached to a self-important celebrity , I told myself. There’s nothing sexy about that .

Zane pointed me to a chair against the wall between the sound booth’s door and the door to the editing suite. After glancing around both spaces to get a sense of who was in the room with us and what other exits there were and determining there were no active threats, I sat.

Violet had prepared me for how tedious a day in the studio could be, but I’d spent years keeping watch over a king whose favorite activity was watching the news on TV. This couldn’t be much different.

Then Zane began singing.

I sat up straight in my chair like I’d been jolted by a live wire.

That voice. Sweet fucking god. It was phenomenal.

It was also, I realized, familiar. Several younger members of the Ventdestinian royal family—Asger’s grandchildren—had been obsessed with Zee and had played his music nonstop out by the pool last summer.

Song after song, take after take, I let that glorious voice wash over me. For some reason, it felt like he was singing right to me, even though his eyes were closed in concentration most of the time.

When we broke for lunch, he was inundated with people who needed to talk to him. An assistant asking him questions, his manager, Micki, informing him of schedule changes, and a member of his band telling him a long, detailed story of how he’d spent his weekend. Throughout all of it, Zane listened as if the person he was talking to was the only person in the room.

He had the patience of a saint and the kindness of a damned Disney princess.

And that was when I came to a couple of mortifying realizations.

First, that Zane wasn’t just a gorgeous face and a captivating voice. He was a decent person .

And second, that I might possibly have a little bit of trouble maintaining my professional distance… though I would . I obviously would.

Hubris whispered, Don’t be so sure , but I ignored it.

I spent the next few days escorting Zane from his home in Malibu to the recording studio while he worked long hours performing music for a new album. Each day, I expected the music to get old, for the songs to begin to sound the same, or for me to wish for silence.

None of those things happened.

I found myself falling into a strange and easy obsession with him. Somehow, in the span of three days, I turned into one of the singer’s rabid fans, only I had to hide it as my own horrifying and dirty secret.

Zee Barlo became my idol. He had the voice of a fallen angel and eyes that melted my fucking heart.

Okay , I told myself. So I like his music and think he’s one of the few people in the world who truly deserves to be as famous as he is. I maybe even have a small crush on him. So what?

It was a good thing I was pleasantly obsessed with his voice since I’d be hearing a nauseating amount of it as long as he was my principal. And my crush simply meant that I was more aware of him. Better able to do my job. It didn’t have to be a big deal.

Hubris said, Hold my beer.

On the fourth day of my “super-cushy” assignment, I realized Zane wasn’t just a good person… he was maybe the best person I’d ever met.

Zane didn’t have a full-time PA because it was “stressful” and made him feel like a diva. Instead, he had a house manager who kept his fridge stocked and his laundry done, and he had an assistant named Kenji, who was based in New York and seemed to run Zane’s financial and legal life. On this particular day, Kenji flew out in the corporate jet, seemingly for the sole purpose of getting Zane’s undivided attention while Zane traveled to Toronto for a meet and greet.

We were the only three people in the cabin with the exception of the flight attendant, who was busy doing something in the galley at the front of the jet. Since I was sitting behind the pair, I wondered if maybe they’d forgotten I was there because they began discussing financials using very specific and very large numbers.

Kenji’s voice was low and calm. “The original education fund in Barlo is growing faster than the fund manager expected. She wants you to consider splitting in two and possibly designating the second one as merit-based.”

“Instead of increasing the amount of need-based scholarships? I’m not sure, Kenji…”

“I told her you’d say that,” he said with a chuckle. “She said that the need-based applicants are fully covered at this time. But if you want to continue focusing on need-based kids, you can expand into the neighboring counties, or her team can research?—”

“Can’t we do both?” Zane asked. “I mean, didn’t we already talk about expanding into Terrell and Mitchell counties?”

Kenji’s dark hair flashed between the seats as he nodded. “Those funds have already been established, and the one in south Fulton is still running strong, especially with the corporate matching programs we have there.”

As they continued to discuss the scholarship funds, I learned that these were scholarships for kids in his home state of Georgia who were living in poverty. Instead of college scholarships, they were scholarships that fully funded elementary through high school projects, helping teachers with supplies, learning assessments, technology, field trips, and even additional teaching staff. His funds covered hot meals for all kids in those schools regardless of need, and he even made plans to visit each school once a year for a quick meet and greet to give the kids bragging rights.

Once he and Kenji had gotten through the topic of his education projects, Kenji went over contributions to local foster care systems in the cities where he was playing concerts.

Chest tight, I remembered the intel in Violet’s client file. Zane had lost both his parents to addiction. His father had been convicted of drug-related violence before dying in prison when Zane was in elementary school, and his mother had died of an overdose only a few months later. After that, he’d been raised by his grandmother and various other extended family members in a tiny town in Georgia.

I’d also learned that the town of Barlo, Georgia, had been dirt-poor until only a couple of years ago when Zane had begun funneling serious money into the town to revitalize it and bring much-needed jobs to the people there. Even his choice to use Barlo in his stage name had contributed to the town getting an influx of tourism money.

I’d had a pang of sympathy when I’d first read his story, as anyone would. Admiration, too, for what Zane had made of himself.

But that afternoon on the flight from LA to Toronto, listening to Kenji review what had to be millions of dollars in charity funds, I learned just how selfless and generous Zane Hendley was, and I…

I realized I didn’t just have a minor crush on Zee Barlow, the nice guy, killer performer, kick-ass singer, and hot single gay man who seemed to hook up with someone in every town he played.

I also genuinely liked and respected Zane Hendley.

Which was kind of a problem since I’d resolved to keep my professional distance and not allow any feelings to sway me whatsoever.

Hubris cackled, I told you so .

Zane was the kind of man who would pay to fix a backstage crew member’s flat tire when he overheard the guy couldn’t fix it till payday. Who’d stay up all night making sure his closest friends heard his voice first thing on their birthday. Who fell asleep every day listening to an animal facts podcast because his hairstylist’s brother produced it. Who’d stop halfway through a perfect take to encourage his drummer to take a call from his kid. And who asked me— me , the guy who was supposed to be worried about him— before every single concert if I had a comfortable place to sit while he performed.

Was it any wonder I wanted to be around him all the time, to soak up his presence, to protect him for reasons that had nothing to do with my job ?

And Zane Hendley needed my protection.

The man bordered on too nice. Sometimes he was late taking the stage because he couldn’t walk away from someone whose feelings might be hurt if he ended a conversation abruptly, so I became the heavy, growling at him to get a move on before he disappointed his fans.

He also refused to be treated like the VIP he was. He insisted on rolling with any punches. He didn’t want his actions to negatively affect anyone, which meant he pretended to be fine when he wasn’t.

Hundred-degree fever and chills? He’d say he was fine to perform the final long set in Detroit.

Suspected sprained ankle after slipping down a wet ramp? He was fine to do that night’s choreography in Anaheim.

Giggling teenager tried to turn a selfie into a make-out session by kissing Zane’s cheek just before she snapped the pic? He was fine to keep the meet and greet going and even dubbed me Bear —a nickname that stuck and managed to hit me in the solar plexus every time he used it—when I snarled at the girl and confiscated her phone to delete the picture.

Learning that his grandmother needed an urgent heart cath procedure right before taking the stage in Munich? He was fine to do the show… but could someone please arrange a quick flight home to be with her before the Zurich show in four days?

No matter what obstacles landed in his path, Zee Barlo made sure to tell everyone on his team he was fine.

But over time, I began to see that Zane Hendley was not fine. Zane Hendley was bending over backwards to look out for everyone except himself. Zane Hendley was killing himself to make sure to be fine so that everyone else around him thrived. Zane Hendley was terrified of letting anyone down.

Zane Hendley was the walking definition of a person who set himself on fire to keep everyone around him warm.

And it began to make me angry. So angry, in fact, that I could no longer keep it to myself .

About six months after I started the job, hubris finally won.

I lost the ability to remain calm and professional with my principal.

We were in Tulsa, Oklahoma, for an appearance at a fundraiser to benefit the victims of recent tornadoes in the area. Zane was joining a group of five local bands as the concert headliner. Not only were the ticket and concession sales going to the cause, but the streaming rights would also produce significant income to help those families and communities devastated by the storms.

It was a last-minute idea pitched to him as we’d finished up a performance in Oklahoma City. He’d immediately insisted on helping any way he could, even though it meant scrambling to fit the event into his already crushing tour schedule.

Halfway from the airport to the concert venue, the SUV we were in was sideswiped on the interstate and sent careening into two other cars in the next lane. The accident happened so fast it was over before my brain caught up with what was happening.

I’d been through simulated vehicle attack training many times during my years with the royal guard, so I immediately went into response mode with my principal, checking his breathing and pulse.

“B-bear?” he asked weakly. “What happened?”

My heart gave a crazy leap at hearing that name on his lips. I loved all the things it represented—the teasing, the familiarity, the trust we’d built, the knowledge that I’d do anything to keep him safe—and I hated it, too. Because I wanted it to mean even more.

I forced myself to focus on my training.

Breathing good. Pulse strong. But there was a trickle of blood streaming down the side of his face. “Car accident.” I stabilized his neck and ignored my own pain. “Stay still and tell me what hurts.”

Suddenly, he let out a heart-wrenching keening noise, and my heart rate went into full panic mode, wondering what possible life-threatening injury I’d overlooked. I scrambled to pat him down gently, trying desperately to figure out what I was missing. “Zane! What hurts? Tell me what it is.” I couldn’t see any blood other than what was on his face.

“All the people hit by the storms,” he said, tears starting to fall and mix with the blood on one side. “The fundraiser, Bear. We won’t get there in time to help them.”

I stared at him. We were lucky to be alive—in fact, I wasn’t sure yet if everyone involved was alive—and this man was worried about raising money for people in need.

“Who gives a fuck about that right now?” I barked at him. “We need to get out of this vehicle. Can you move? Are you hurt?”

“What? No. I’m fine.”

Fine.

The man had blood down his face and into the collar of his shirt. I didn’t know it at the time, but he also had serious thoracic contusions from the seat belt that made him breathe shallowly for several days and a severely bruised elbow from where it had been smashed between his body and the door, and he ended up getting six stitches in a cut by his hairline.

“You’re not fucking fine!” I shouted as I hustled him out of the crushed vehicle and onto the side of the highway. “Why do you always say you’re fine when you’re not? You drive me absolutely fucking batshit with your ‘I’m fines’! Why can’t you allow yourself to be hurt for once when you’re… oh, I don’t know… actually hurt?”

He was pale and shaky, eyes white in shock and fear. I wanted— needed —nothing more than to take him into my arms and comfort him… but I couldn’t.

Zane was my principal. This was my job . And the man deserved to know there were people in his life who would put his wants and needs before their own.

Cars sped past us despite the angled presence of the three scattered vehicles that had been involved in the accident. Thankfully, emergency vehicles were almost to us, and their lights and sirens began slowing down traffic approaching the site of the accident.

After insisting he be transported in an ambulance to the nearest emergency room where he was treated for his injuries, I watched him ensure everyone else involved was okay, too.

When we finally got to a hotel in the early hours of the morning and they asked for a name for the reservation, I was so filled with frustrated need, so angry and outraged on Zane’s behalf, I couldn’t remember the fake name we always used for Zane’s hotel reservations.

“Last name?” the receptionist asked, blinking at Zane in disbelief. Even with a bandage on his forehead, blood on his shirt, and a tangled nest of hair, he was the most beautiful man within several city blocks.

“He’s fine,” I snapped, wishing I could burn the world to make it so. “He’s Mr. fucking Fine.”

And the horrifying truth hit me in that moment—a truth I could never tell Zane without losing my right to stay by his side and protect him.

Somehow—through my own hubris, or chance, or the fucking Ventdestinian winds of fortune—Zane Hendley had crawled under my impenetrable professional walls… and burrowed himself claws-deep in my heart.