Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 129027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I’m the perfect daughter—an heiress with a spotless reputation and a ring on my finger to prove it. But perfection is a fragile thing, and mine shatters the moment I meet Isaak.
My bodyguard.
Ex-military. Battle-scarred. All sharp edges and dark glances.
He’s the last man I should want—older, all grit and danger, and everything my family would never approve of.
Also, he hates me.
He thinks I’m spoiled, entitled, a rich girl playing pretend.
But there’s one thing he can’t fake:
The way his eyes darken when I walk into the room.
The way his jaw clenches when another man gets too close.
The way his touch—his bed—is the only place I feel safe.
I'm engaged to a man my family has chosen for me.
But my body betrays me whenever Isaak is near.
I thought my stalker was my biggest problem.
I was wrong.
Because every time Isaak says my name, it feels like a promise.
Content warnings: high steamy content, primal play, light BDSM, mental health issues discussed (OCD, PTSD, anxiety), mild references to EDs, drug use, references to physical and verbal abuse, references to date assault, stalking, gun violence, kidnapping
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ONE
ISAAK
“Take a load off, man. You’re not working tonight,” Caleb calls from behind Carnal’s sleek, obsidian bar, his voice threading through the low thrum of bass vibrating the floor beneath my boots.
I don’t respond right away. My eyes stay locked on the club, scanning with the precision of muscle memory. Even here, leaning against the bar instead of holding my usual post by the wall, my skin feels too tight. This angle leaves blind spots. I don’t do blind spots.
From my usual station, I can clock every asshole in the room, every twitch, every shift in posture that might mean trouble. But from this vantage point—leaning at the bar like some relaxed civilian—I can’t see the far side of the club.
It makes my skin itch even though I know there’s no real threat. Not tonight. It’s early, so there’s only a few regulars scattered in the booths. None of the private rooms in the back are occupied.
“Habit,” I finally mutter, eyes still sweeping.
Caleb snorts, drying a glass with an old rag like he’s auditioning for the role of "Bored Bartender #3" in some indie flick. “You’ve got to get a life.”
Marcus laughs beside me, his Coke sweating on the bar, his eyes bloodshot from too many late nights—or maybe just regular life with a toddler at home. “Can’t. Isaak’s allergic to fun.”
“Can’t,” I agree, voice flat. “Taking a new job.”
Caleb’s towel stills mid-swipe. “Right. Domhn mentioned. Figured we couldn’t keep you chained here forever. But bodyguard work? Really?”
“Personal protection officer work,” I correct without thinking, the words sharp, automatic.
Quinn’s sitting in the lounge area, her legs resting on the back of a man who’s on his hands and knees, acting as her footstool. She sips sparkling soda and otherwise ignores the collared man at her feet. Moira’s half-heartedly scene-ing with Big Rick in the corner. Big Rick is a dom who’s more talk than game. He comes here to get laid more than anything else. Just wears his leathers to look the part.
Moira looks bored while lying on her stomach in the sex swing. Big Rick stands behind her, holding her bent legs by her ankles, trying to fuck her like he’s got something to prove, all rhythmic thrusts and sweaty bravado.
Moira looks like she’s mentally filing her taxes. Her eyes catch mine. A flash of something—challenge, maybe—flickers there, but I don’t bite. Not anymore. Sure, Moira and I used to tangle sometimes before or after work. And she’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But wild. And dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with whips and restraints.
I’ve seen the fractures she pretends aren’t there up close. Everyone around here wants to deny it, but that girl is fubar’d.
I don’t need that kind of wreckage in my life. Not anymore.
“Adult babysitting?” Marcus leans in, his voice a low drawl. “Sounds like hell.”
“It pays,” I grunt. “I’m thinking of starting an agency with some buddies.”
Caleb arches a sarcastic brow. “Buddies? You’ve got friends?”
“Yeah. They just don’t live here.”
And even if they did, I’m not the kind of guy people keep around for laughs and late-night heart-to-hearts. I’m good for one thing—protection. And violence, I suppose, if it comes to that.
But this personal protection agency? It’s the first thing that’s made my blood stir in years. Since the sandbox, I’ve been stuck in this endless loop—wake, run, gym, work, fuck, repeat. Like I’m waiting for something to start, but nothing ever does.
When you’re there, all you can think about is getting back home. But when you finally do, home feels like stepping into a weird place where everything’s been taken over by aliens. It’s all the same but different.
And finally you realize, they aren’t the aliens.
You are.
Deep inside. And you don’t know if you’ll truly ever be able to get home again.
“Hey,” Caleb says, snapping me out of it. “You still in there, man?”
I blink, shaking it off. “Yeah.”
But the truth is, I’m not. Not really.
I haven’t been for a while.
So maybe this is it. Maybe this is what starting feels like.
Moira’s sharp squeal slices through the low hum of the club, and my attention snaps to her like a reflex. It’s definitely not Big Rick’s doing—he’s still grinding away, oblivious to the fact that her orgasm’s about as real as his dom credentials.
She untangles herself from the sex swing, slipping off his cock. She lifts her phone, grinning so big and wild, her teeth shine bright under the dim lights.
“Isaak!” she shouts across the room. Her high-pitched voice cuts through the thrum of bass. “They’re here!”
Quinn glances up from her sparkling soda, raising an eyebrow without bothering to lift her foot from the sub kneeling beneath her.
I push to my feet and my shoulders snap back. I can’t help it; my body slides into that familiar posture out of habit. Alert. Controlled. It’s not anxiety, exactly. It’s just that, when you know what I know, there’s a sharp edge to the air. Like the moment right before a fight starts. The shift before impact.