Chapter 4

Tory

No one ever tells you that having a security guard while your life is in peril is a lot like being in prison. Sure, I’m not locked up—technically, I can go outside, stroll along the lanai, or even take a dip in the pool. But there’s always one condition: I have to stick close to Ranger.

And therein lies the problem.

I want to stick close to him. Too close.

It’s only been one day in this safe house, and I’m already losing my mind. Not because I feel trapped, but because he’s here . Everything about him—the way his dark, unreadable eyes flick over me when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his broad shoulders seem to fill every doorway, the quiet confidence in his movements—makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Right now, I’m sitting on the cozy white sofa in the living room, my jewelry supplies spread out on the glass coffee table in front of me. A crystal pendant rests cool and smooth against my fingertips, the soft light from the windows catching the stone’s facets and throwing tiny rainbows onto the table. Usually, working on jewelry is my escape. It calms me, grounds me, lets me channel my restless energy into something creative.

But not today. Not with Ranger in the room.

He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, his large frame nearly blocking out the hallway behind him. His arms are crossed over his chest, the fabric of his black T-shirt pulling taut over his biceps, and his gaze is locked on me with an intensity that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone commands the entire room.

I try to focus on the pendant, picking up a tiny silver clasp with trembling fingers, but my hands feel clumsy and uncoordinated. Normally, this would be second nature, but under his watchful eyes, I can’t seem to do anything right.

Why does he have to look at me like that? Like he’s studying me, trying to figure me out, peeling back the layers I’ve spent years building to keep people at arm’s length.

The worst part is, I want him to.

I sneak a glance up at him, hoping he’s turned his attention elsewhere, but no—he’s still watching me. His dark eyes are locked on mine, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My cheeks burn, and I quickly look away, pretending to focus on the necklace again.

This is ridiculous. I’ve always been composed, confident in my own quiet way. But one day with Ranger, and I feel like a nervous wreck. My pulse races every time he’s near, my thoughts scatter the moment he speaks, and the way his voice rumbles through the air? It’s like he’s rewiring my entire nervous system.

I grip the clasp tighter, trying to steady my hands, but it’s no use. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself around him. I feel… exposed. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before.

And the craziest part? I don’t hate it.

I glance up at him again, just for a second, and catch him shifting slightly, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His gaze softens—not by much, but enough to make my heart skip a beat. It’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he’s giving me just enough room to flail without drowning.

But it’s not just his presence that’s messing with me. It’s the way he makes me feel seen, like I’m more than just the overly protected, science-obsessed daughter of my father. Like I’m not invisible.

I take a deep breath, setting the clasp and pliers down and lean back into the cushions. The crystal pendant gleams on the table in front of me, unfinished, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when Ranger is standing there, a living, breathing distraction I can’t seem to shake.

The thought makes my cheeks heat all over again, and I drop my gaze to the pendant, pretending to examine it like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. But the truth is, there’s only one thing on my mind.

I try to keep my head down, pretend I don’t notice the way his gaze feels like it’s burning through me, but it’s no use. My pulse races, my hands tremble slightly as I think about it.

This is new.

This feeling is new.

Yes, I’m a virgin. Overprotective father, remember? But I’ve experimented. And that’s all it ever was—experimentation. I’ve kissed boys. Practiced might be a better word for it. Chris Henderson, my old lab partner, was the closest thing I ever had to a boyfriend, and even that was more about science than anything else.

I used to tell my dad I was off to study with Chris, which wasn’t a lie. We studied everything . Including making out.

We’d analyze each kiss, break down the specifics like it was part of a biology project. Which muscles were involved, the mechanics of head tilts, even the chemical reactions happening in our brains. We tried each step together like we were dissecting a frog in a high school lab.

It was weird. Too clinical.

There’s definitely science involved in attraction—hormones, neurotransmitters, pheromones—but what’s happening to me now? This isn’t clinical. This is chaotic, consuming, uncontrollable. Every time Ranger so much as glances my way, my stomach flips like I’m on the edge of a roller coaster. Butterflies? Oh, no. This is a swarm .

I’ve never felt this way before. Not even close.

Every time his dark, smoldering eyes lock onto mine, I lose the ability to breathe. My thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, leaving me speechless and flushed. It’s embarrassing how obvious it must be.

What’s worse is, I think he knows.

Ranger is nothing like Chris or any guy I’ve ever known. Chris was awkward, scrawny, and sweet in a way that made him feel safe. Ranger, on the other hand, is pure danger wrapped in a body so perfect it defies reason. He’s tall, broad, and muscled in a way that seems impossible. His voice is deep, a rumble that makes me shiver every time he speaks, and when he’s close, the air seems to shift, charged with something electric.

And it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he moves, the way he watches me, the way his mere presence fills the room. There’s a confidence about him, a quiet strength that makes me feel simultaneously safe and completely unraveled.

I try to distract myself, to focus on the necklace I’m making, but my hands shake too much to keep going. I set the pendant down on the coffee table and let out a soft sigh.

Ranger shifts slightly in the doorway, his gaze never leaving me.

I bite my bottom lip, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. If just one look from him does this to me, how am I supposed to survive being around him every day?

The logical part of my brain knows I should focus on staying safe, on getting through this ordeal without letting my emotions—or my hormones—get in the way. But every time Ranger is near, logic goes out the window.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to analyze it. I just want to feel it. I return to my work, focusing on the pendant.

He must think I’m a twit, the way I mumble random, nonsensical things every time he looks at me. Every time his dark eyes flick in my direction, I lose my train of thought, babbling about crystals or some obscure scientific concept no one cares about.

Let’s face it—Ranger isn’t interested in science girls like me. He’s probably traveled the world, experienced more than I can even imagine. He’s had women— countless women—fall at his feet, because any man who looks like that is bound to.

He’s tall, but not intimidatingly so. Just over six feet, the perfect height that doesn’t make him tower like a skyscraper but still makes him feel solid, unshakable. His body isn’t overdone—he’s not one of those beefed-up bodybuilder types who can barely move—but his muscles are hard, compact, and powerful. He’s built for action, for taking down threats with precision.

Then there’s his jaw, strong and sharp, framing an enviable set of lips. Full, perfectly shaped lips that I can’t stop staring at, no matter how hard I try. Lips that I know— just know —would know exactly what to do with me. Unlike Chris Henderson’s mouth, which had all the finesse of a science experiment gone wrong, I’m sure Ranger’s would be devastatingly skilled.

Not that I’d know what to do in return.

But looks aren’t everything, right? Personality is an important scientific factor. And wouldn’t you know, Ranger’s got that too. He’s funny, with a dry sense of humor that sneaks up on you. He’s patient—at least with me—and he’s caring in a way that feels genuine, not forced.

I enjoy being around him. Crave it, actually.

I peek up from my work to find him sitting on the sofa now, a book in his large hands. At some point, he moved from the doorway, his quiet strength filling the room without a word. He’s leaned back, legs spread slightly, completely at ease, as if the plush couch was made for him. His fingers are wrapped around the spine of the book, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along the edge as he reads.

The ache that settles low in my belly is immediate and undeniable. I can’t stop imagining those big hands of his, strong and rough, working their way over my skin with the same careful precision. I clench my thighs together, trying to banish the thought, but it lingers, hot and unwelcome.

It would be a novel experience, that’s for sure. Chris Henderson’s awkward fumbling in the name of “experimentation” no longer counts in my mind. This… this would be something entirely different.

I bite my lip, focusing intently on the Tanzanite crystal in my hand. My fingers tremble slightly as I try to attach a delicate metal clasp, the motion far more challenging than it should be with my current state of mind.

My gaze flicks up to him again, just for a second. He’s still engrossed in his book, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The way the muscles in his forearm shift as he turns the page shouldn’t be attractive, but somehow it is.

God, I’m a mess.

I force myself to look back down at my work, my face heating with embarrassment. He’s completely focused, oblivious to the effect he has on me, and yet I feel like my every thought is written on my face.

I just need to finish this necklace. Focus on the work. But even as I try, my mind keeps drifting back to the man sitting just a few feet away—the man who’s quickly becoming the center of my very distracted universe.

“That’s cool you make jewelry,” Ranger says, his deep voice pulling me out of my concentration. I glance up to find him putting his book down on the side table, his dark eyes locking on mine with a kind of intensity that makes my stomach flutter.

I smile shyly, setting down the Tanzanite crystal in my hand. “Thanks. When I was younger, I used to get bored traipsing across the globe with my father.” I twirl the edge of my necklace chain between my fingers, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

Ranger shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Are you bored now?” His question feels loaded, as if he’s not just asking about the moment but about something deeper.

“No, I’m okay,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain me or anything.” I set my stones on the coffee table, hoping to keep my hands busy before I do something stupid—like reach out and touch him.

The way the late afternoon sunlight filters through the glass doors behind him only adds to the effect, making him look like a Greek god descended straight from heaven.

“What if I want to entertain you?” he asks, his tone low and teasing, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

My eyes widen slightly, and I feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. “Oh?” I manage, my voice higher than I intended. “And how would you do that?”

Say by kissing me, I think desperately, though I know better than to hope for it. Ranger isn’t thinking about me like that. He’s probably imagining some harmless distraction—a board game or a cheesy card trick. Something light and silly.

But then he rubs his hand over the scruff on his jaw, the slow motion drawing my attention to those maddeningly perfect lips. “I can think of a few things,” he murmurs, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long.

My mouth opens to respond, but no sound comes out. My brain stumbles over itself, caught somewhere between Did he mean that the way it sounded? and Stop being ridiculous, Tory.

He lets the silence linger for a moment before rescuing me. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach,” he suggests, his voice steady and calm, as though he hadn’t just set my imagination spinning.

I nod quickly, standing from the couch and heading toward the door. “Okay, sure.” My voice is a little too eager, but I don’t care. I move toward my shoes, which are neatly placed by the door, ready to slip them on.

“You don’t need shoes for the beach,” he says, his tone amused.

“Oh, um… I knew that,” I stammer, hesitating with one shoe in my hand. Great, I think bitterly. Just add that to the list of reasons why I feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.

I can recite the entire periodic table from memory. I can identify the molecular structure of dozens of compounds without blinking. But sometimes, when it comes to the simplest, most human things, I feel hopelessly out of my depth.

I set the shoe down awkwardly, turning to face him. He’s already waiting by the sliding glass doors, his posture relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, watching me like he sees more than I’m willing to let on.

He slides the door open, stepping onto the lanai, the ocean breeze immediately rushing in to fill the space. I follow him out, the warm sand already calling to my toes, the rhythmic crash of the waves soothing and electric all at once.

As we step off the deck and onto the beach, I glance over at him, the salty air tugging at his dark hair. There’s something about him—something grounded yet untouchable—that makes me feel like I’m walking beside a storm. Calm on the surface, but powerful just beneath.

“I enjoy coming onto the beach at this time of day,” Ranger says, his deep voice blending with the rhythmic crash of the waves. “The sun’s not scorching hot, and there’s a nice breeze off the Atlantic.”

I smile up at him, feeling the soft sand shift beneath my toes. “I rarely go out much,” I admit, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

He glances down at me, his expression thoughtful. “It’s always good to get outside and breathe in some fresh air,” he says, sounding eerily like my father.

“I know,” I reply with a small shrug. “I sit outside to read sometimes.”

His lips curve into a slight smile, one that makes my stomach do a little flip. “What do you like to read?”

“Right now, I’m reading about epigenetics.”

“Epi-what?” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that seems to reverberate through my entire body. I blush, the heat creeping up my neck as I process how his voice can have such an effect on me.

“It’s nothing,” I mumble, feeling self-conscious about my nerdy interests.

He stops walking suddenly, turning to face me. The movement is so abrupt that I nearly bump into him. His dark eyes lock onto mine, his gaze steady and piercing. “Don’t do that,” he says, his tone firm but not harsh.

“Do what?” I ask, blinking up at him, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice.

“Downplay that you’re probably the smartest woman on the planet.”

His words hit me like a bolt of electricity, but it’s not just what he says—it’s the way he says it. The slight growl in his voice when he calls me a woman sends a shiver down my spine, igniting something deep within me that I don’t fully understand.

I can feel my cheeks burning now, not because of the compliment—I’ve been called smart before—but because of the way he said it. Like it was undeniable. Like it was something to be proud of. And the way his eyes linger on me… it’s almost as if he sees me as more than just someone to protect.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, my voice softer than I intended. A small, shy smile tugs at my lips as I add, “I am kind of smart.”

Ranger’s lips twitch, his almost-smile making my heart skip a beat. “Kind of?” he teases, his tone lighter now. “You’re reading about… what’s it called again? Epigenetics? I can’t even pronounce it.”

I laugh softly, the tension between us easing just a little. “It’s just about how environmental factors can influence DNA. Like how trauma or diet can affect gene expression and be passed down to future generations.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “So you’re telling me what my great-grandparents ate could be affecting me right now?”

“Exactly,” I say, feeling a spark of excitement that someone is actually interested in what I’m passionate about. “It’s fascinating when you think about it. Our DNA isn’t just fixed—it’s a living, evolving part of who we are.”

Ranger tilts his head slightly, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. “And you just sit around and casually think about this kind of stuff, huh?”

I shrug again, biting back a smile. “It’s what I love.”

“Well, I think it’s impressive,” he says, his voice dropping a little, making my heart flutter all over again. “I think you’re impressive.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning, and I feel like the world has slowed down. The sound of the waves fades into the background, and all I can focus on is him—his eyes, his voice, the way he makes me feel seen in a way I never have before.

“Thank you,” I say again, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, the corner of his mouth curving into that faint, almost-smile of his, and we continue walking down the beach. But as we move, the warmth of his words stays with me, curling around my heart like a soft, comforting blanket. And for the first time in a long time, I feel not so invisible after all.

After a few minutes of walking, he stops with a quick laugh, a rich, warm sound that feels like it vibrates through me, and his dark eyes light up as they roam over my face. There’s something different in his expression—softer, maybe, but no less intense. It sends a flutter through my chest, and I can’t help but smile back.

“I have to admit something to you,” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for me.

“Okay,” I reply, my curiosity piqued.

He rubs the back of his neck, a subtle gesture that makes him seem almost boyish despite his towering presence. The vulnerability in that small movement is unexpected and wildly attractive. Why is that so hot?

“You’re a little intimidating,” he confesses, his lips curving into a sheepish grin.

My jaw drops, and I blink up at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’re intimidating.”

He tilts his head slightly, his brows furrowing as if he genuinely doesn’t understand. “How am I intimidating?”

I let out a soft laugh, my nerves bubbling over as I step a little closer. The warmth radiating from him is magnetic, drawing me in despite the million reasons I should keep my distance. My hand hesitates for just a moment before I reach out, my fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve.

“How are you not?” I ask, running my hand up the hard curve of his arm. His muscles are solid beneath my touch, and I swear I feel the faintest tremor as I move my hand upward. “All these muscles,” I say, my voice softer now, almost reverent. “You are enormous.”

His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t stop me as my hand roams higher, over his shoulder and across the broad expanse of his chest. His pectorals flex beneath my palm, and the motion sends a thrill racing through me.

My cheeks flush hot as my thoughts betray me, veering into territory I’ve never dared tread before. What else about him is big? The question strikes like lightning, and before I can stop myself, my eyes flick downward, settling on the buckle of his pants.

I linger there for a second too long, my imagination running wild, before I snap my gaze back up to his face.

His dark eyes are locked on mine, the intensity in them even stronger now. His jaw tightens slightly, and there’s something unreadable in his expression—something that makes my breath catch.

“Careful, Tory,” he says, his voice low and edged with warning. But there’s something else in it too, something that makes my stomach flip.

“I—” I start, but the words die in my throat. I’m frozen, caught between embarrassment and something far more dangerous.

His gaze dips to my lips for the briefest moment before returning to my eyes. “You think I’m intimidating?” he asks, his tone softer now, almost teasing.

“Yes,” I whisper, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

His hand moves, slow and deliberate, reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair away from my face. His fingers linger near my cheek, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re the one who’s dangerous,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”

I shake my head slightly, my breath hitching. “What do you mean?”

He leans in, just a fraction, and my pulse skyrockets. “You’re not just smart, Tory. You’re stunning . And that combination? That’s what makes you dangerous.”

I’m completely undone. My thoughts scatter, leaving nothing but the overwhelming presence of him, his closeness, his voice, and the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters.

And in this moment, I think maybe I don’t mind being dangerous. Not if it means this. Not if it means him.