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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.
Omg
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.
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.
She’s only twenty-three.
And hes 28, 5 years apart
Men that I will fucking take out before they breathe on Jane.
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.
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.
“Earlier today,” he answers. “During the whole celebration.” He cocks his head back to the sea. Referring to when Omega was horsing around. Shoving and tackling guys in the water. Because Farrow Keene was reinstated to the security team.
“Another day, another shitbag stares away,” Banks says, sounding indifferent. After twenty-eight years, we’re both used to it. Most of the time I forget that Banks and I look identical until someone eagle-eyes us to death, and then I remember I’m a twin.
“What I said—I can never take back,” I tell my brother. He cocks his head slightly. “Everyone knows the straight shot to Farrow is to go after his boyfriend.” I glare at the horizon. “And I’m the shitbag who took it, Banks.”
I should’ve been fired. I did try to quit. Just as I started signing the termination papers, Akara grabbed the pen out of my fucking hand and Banks locked me in a room until I promised I’d stay on. The main reason why I’m still here is… Jane.
Jane looks up from her spot near the fire, and her blue eyes crash against my brown. My chest lifts, but I hardly fucking budge.
I spot Maximoff heading towards Farrow. Leaving Jane alone. She wedges her empty bottle in the sand. I release my hold on my brother’s bicep. “I got this,” I tell Banks. He smacks the back of his hand against my chest. “Don’t nuke it, man.”
Jane spots me, just as she crouches at the cooler and collects a beer from the melted ice. She hesitates. Frozen in place. I watch her beautiful blue eyes dart to the bonfire where her whole family congregates. Don’t use the word “beautiful”.
Keeping the team informed of changes in positions is important. Only a couple bodyguards have consistent problems with this rule. Like Farrow. Figuring out where he’s fucking off at during regular days is like playing Where’s Waldo.
Her shoulders curve forward, goosebumps pricking her skin. We’re far from the fire now, and she didn’t bring a jacket or blanket. I unbutton my shirt. “Oh—” Her lips part. “I can’t take your shirt, Thatcher…you’ll be terribly cold.”
Before I became her bodyguard, Banks warned me that being around Jane would be hard on my end. Figuratively. And physically. I didn’t believe him. Not at the time.
Wait why
“You’re opening Pandora’s box by giving me free reign to all questions, you know?” I nod. I’m not even close to afraid. But that lack of fear almost stokes fear. Because I must want Jane to know more about me.
puts her nose to the collar and breathes in. I stiffen. Don’t think about her like that. She notices that I just noticed her sniffing my button-down. “Um…you smell wonderfully.” My dick strains against my slacks. I’m a brick wall. “Thank you.”
notice how she’s straining her neck to keep eye contact with me. “You can look away if it’s hurting your neck.”
She’s perceptive. Especially when her whole attention is on you. It’s like you’re the center of the fucking universe. Like now. I’m undeservingly the focal point in her blue irises.
“Second,” I tell her, “I want to make an oath with you.” Surprise catches her breath. “What kind of oath?” Her lips start to inch upward. What I’ve learned about the Cobalt Empire: the family of nine loves pacts, oaths, soul-binding agreements that put loyalty and trust to the test. “I want to make you an unbreakable promise,” I tell her. “Do you do blood oaths?” “Oh no, no blood.” She smiles. “These days, we Cobalts shake on spit.”
I grip her glittering eyes. “I’ll never break your trust again,” I promise, “and if I ever hurt Farrow or Maximoff, I’ll quit security.”
Omg
She tenses but then nods. “I accept the oath.” Jane cups her hand below her mouth and spits on her palm, no hesitation. I watch her for a second before I spit on my hand.
She ropes you in, Thatcher, Banks said. I didn’t believe him. Whenever you hear about a heckler railing on Jane, you look like you want to pop them between the eyes, Banks told me. And she’s not even your client. What do you think’ll happen if you actually join her detail?
Eight months later, I know I’m in deep, but I can control myself and my nine-inch cock. Hell, I’ve held her hand before where security is concerned. To draw her away from paparazzi. To protect her from crowds. And now to solidify a promise of trust and devotion.
“Bound to this oath, we shake,” Jane declares, and she clasps my hand and with one strong shake, we should let go. She holds a beat longer I hold an extra beat longer. Longer than I should.
When he was assigned to my detail, I wanted to exchange my Volkswagen to accommodate his…size, and he adamantly opposed the idea.
Thatcher turns slightly. And he catches my ogling gaze. Flush reaches my cheeks. Merde. “Thatcher.” I’ve greeted him five times today already. He crosses his arms. “Jane.” His deep tone is never scolding towards me. “You look…impressively big in my car,”
“I suppose there are worse stains like blood or jizz.” Jizz. I talked about cum on my sleeve in front of my bodyguard.
Lmao
Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.
He adjusts his seat again. “My mom remarried, so her wife is with her too.” He hawk-eyes the paparazzi behind us. “She’s openly bi. Been that way since she was a teenager. She dated girls before she met my dad—take
“Your dad isn’t still here then?” “No.” Thatcher shakes his head. “He hasn’t been in Philly for a while. He trains SEAL recruits in Coronado.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe underneath my breath. I just checked out my bodyguard’s ass. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re most surely going to hell, Jane,” I whisper more softly to myself. Two out of my five brothers will certainly be there, so at least I won’t be alone. But knowing Tom and Eliot, those two menaces will destroy all eternal pits of fiery damnation the second they enter.
Lmao
Jackie laughs. “She bought her way to Princeton with her last name and notoriety.” “I did do that,” I admit aloud. Because I will never truly know if I would’ve been accepted to Princeton based on academics and merit alone. I’m very conscious of how much of a leg up I have in life.
“—and Jane hasn’t even come close to him. What is she doing with her time now? She’s living off Mommy and Daddy.” Thatcher grumbles an Italian word that sounds like a curse, but I can’t be certain.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself. My mom is brilliant and beautiful. And so am I. Just in my own way.
I start to unzip my purse. Thatcher gifted me a new bottle of pepper spray for my 23rd birthday when he read the expired date on my last one. I also have a switchblade.
Longish hair tucked behind his ears, Thatcher is uncapping a water bottle while he blocks the entrance of the aisle. He hydrates often, and until Thatcher, I never knew the act of drinking water could look that unbelievably sexy.
“If your mom wants you to quit, why hire you in the first place?” He slowly screws the cap onto the water bottle. He’s asking me a question. Surprise inches up my brows. Hard lines crease his forehead, and he sets the water on a shelf. “I didn’t mean to overstep—” “You’re not at all,” I interject.
“It’s not checkmate yet,” I say to myself. I’m not a sad little cub about to be eaten. I’m a motherfucking lion.
Thatcher was only twenty-two. Good ole twenty-two. And after he greeted me, these were the first words I ever uttered to him: “I’m seventeen—I mean, I’m Jane.” Six years later and he’s still one of the few people who tongue-tie me.
“I don’t mean to pry—that’s a lie, I do mean to pry.” I smile more at him. I swear to all that is holy, his lips almost twitch into a tiny, fragment of a smile.
Skin between his brows pleats, his confusion like cracking cement. “Why?” You’ve always fascinated me. I open my mouth, those words trapped for a full second. I end up saying, “…I suppose those years, eighteen to twenty-two, make up who you are, and I’d like to know you better.”
“You must’ve known an older bodyguard. From the first or second wave?” “Second,” he says. “Bruno Bandoni recommended us to the Tri-Force.” Uncle Loren’s current bodyguard. Moffy even had Bruno on his detail for a short period this year. “We’d known Bruno since we were kids,” Thatcher explains. “He served with our dad.” Of course. “Bruno was in the Navy too.”
“All the current military bodyguards are Navy…” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Except two bodyguards. But no one has a fucking clue that we served.” My mouth keeps dropping. “Wait…are you saying you and Banks are…” I frown deeper. “Your background isn’t in martial arts?” “I box.” He nods to me. “But Banks and I learned to box in the military. You asked what I was doing when I was eighteen to twenty-two. I was in the Marines, Jane.”
Eliot just moved to New York with our eighteen-year-old brother Tom, and both fire-obsessed menaces are now living with Charlie and Beckett in Hell’s Kitchen. Moffy and I have a bet on how long until they burn down the apartment.
Thatcher hardly bats an eye. He stays behind me, but with his height, he’s able to stretch over to the elderly storeowner. “I’ll make sure they clear out when we leave. It’s nice to see you.” He cups her face tenderly and kisses her cheek in greeting. “You look good.” I glance keenly from her to him, him to her. I’m seeing much more of Thatcher today than I would’ve ever expected.
Ms. Ramella tries to lower her voice, but she’s still very audible. “You take care of that famous girl, you hear? What’s her name?” “Jane,” Thatcher says, nearly cradling the one syllable like he’s protecting all four letters from harm. My lips ache to rise. Why do I love that so much?
“It’s so odd,” Jane mutters. “You’d think if this were an elaborate prank—‘make Jane Cobalt look like a snobby heiress with shallow taste’—that they’d choose an unflattering photo, not Photoshop me to look prettier.” “You’re prettier without it,” I say without thinking. Goddammit.
