Page 18 of Bound to the Bodyguard

Chapter 11

Raven

My fingers danced across the pages of the script, eyes scanning the dialogue I’d soon breathe life into. The home office, my sanctuary from the chaos of fame, was silent save for the occasional turn of a page or the soft whisper of lines I tested under my breath. I leaned back in my chair, pondering the motivation behind my character’s next move.

“Lines don’t read themselves, but you sure make it look easy,” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.

Startled, I looked up with a mixture of irritation and relief coloring my expression. Jerome stood there, leaning against the frame with an ease that belied his imposing figure. He was a wall of a man—over six feet of muscle honed through discipline and service, wrapped in the casual authority of someone who faced far more than Hollywood dramatics.

“Jerome, ever heard of knocking?” My voice held a teasing edge.

“Wouldn’t want to disrupt your process.” His lips twitched with a hint of a smile, not quite reaching his stern eyes. “Just checking in.”

“Always the protector, huh?”

“Someone has to keep an eye out. Especially with the premiere coming up. You’re about to be in the limelight again.”

“True. And it’s comforting to know you’re here.” I marked my place in the script and set it aside. “I’ve got enough on my mind learning these lines without worrying about what’s lurking in the shadows.”

“Leave the shadows to me,” he said, stepping fully into the room.

“Always so serious. You ever gonna relax?”

“Relaxing doesn’t keep you safe.”

“Good answer.”

“Back to work then,” Jerome said. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” I picked up the script once more.

Jerome assumed his post by the door, eyes never straying from me. He was like a silent sentinel, exuding a sense of security that permeated the room. With every subtle shift of his frame, there was purpose—each breath he took seemed measured, as if in sync with the cadence of my heart.

The sudden shrill of the phone pierced the tranquility of the office, causing my hand to jerk toward the sound. I casted a fleeting glance at him, seeking an unspoken reassurance before I fingers reached for the receiver. There was a brief moment where I considered not answering, the weight of recent events pressing heavily upon my resolve.

“Stay alert. You don’t know who’s on the other end.”

My thumb hovered over the answer button, the digital ring seemingly louder with each passing second. I drew in a deep breath, steeling myself with the knowledge that no matter what awaited me, Jerome was there. With a hesitance that contradicted my usual decisiveness, I finally pressed down, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

Jerome’s stance tightened, ready to spring into action should the need arise. My heart raced, waiting for a reply that would either allay or confirm my fears.

“Hello?” I repeated, a hard edge creeping into my tone. My eyes flicked to Jerome, who remained silent but vigilant. The line crackled with static, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of my own breath, quick and shallow.

“Who is this?” I demanded, fingers tightening around the phone. “What do you want?” The silence lingered, stretching out like a tightrope that threatened to snap under the weight of my pounding heart. “Talk to me!” My voice rose, an involuntary display of the anxiety that clawed at my insides.

Then, a whisper sliced through the silence, cold and deliberate. “I’m watching you.”

“How? Why?”

Jerome’s eyes locked onto mine, a silent signal not to reveal too much, to keep the caller talking—a game of cat and mouse where every word could be a clue or a trap.

The caller’s voice was almost amused, as if reveling in a private joke at my expense. “That cherry blossom blouse suits you—such a delicate pattern for such a determined woman.”

My breath hitched. I glanced down at my blouse, the fabric suddenly feeling like a traitor against my skin. How could they know? My office had become a stage with an unseen audience.

“Your concern should not be with who, but with how closely I can see you,” the caller said, their tone dropping to a sinister whisper. “The lace... your underwear, it’s quite becoming, isn’t it? Black lace—the choice of a woman who is both strong and sensual.”

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