Page 30 of Bound to the Bodyguard

“Stay behind me.”

“Jerome,” I started, my pulse still racing from the nightmare’s tight grip, “do you think—”

“Shh.” One finger to his lips was all it took to silence me. There was a method to his vigilance, a pattern to his gaze as it swept from one corner to the next. No shadows went unchecked, no space unaccounted for underneath the sparse light filtering in through the distant window.

His hand found its way to my shoulder, warm and steady. The simple contact seemed to seep into my bones, easing the tension that had coiled like a spring within me. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that I had someone who would stand between me and the unknown.

Jerome’s silhouette sliced through the darkness, a black outline against the backdrop of my dimly lit hallway. The quiet was profound, disturbed only by the whisper of our cautious breaths and the distant hum of the house settling into the night.

It was a nightmare, just a nightmare, but the fear felt so real.

I trailed behind him like a shadow, watching as he moved with purpose toward the control panel nestled in the corner of the living room. His fingers danced over the touchscreen with an ease that spoke of countless hours spent mastering the technology. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the readiness in his stance—always on guard, always prepared for whatever might come our way.

“See here?” Jerome pointed at the screen where multiple windows displayed different angles of the property. “Everything seems clear, but I’ll double-check outside. Can’t be too careful.”

There was something deeply reassuring about his efficiency, how each movement was measured and precise. He wasn’t just going through the motions; he was committed to ensuring my safety.

As he scrutinized each feed, toggling between camera views with practiced swipes, I was grateful. This man, who had walked into my life with his stoic demeanor and unwavering loyalty, had become my anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

“I’ll be right back. Lock the door behind me.”

“Be careful,” I called out as he disappeared into the night, already missing the reassuring solidity of his presence. Alone again, I leaned against the cool wall, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. In my mind, I replayed the calm certainty in Jerome’s words, the unwavering confidence in his gaze. Yes, I was afraid, but with Jerome by my side, I dared to hope that we would face whatever came next together.

Every second he was gone, my stomach was in knots. Protecting me was dangerous, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened to him because of me.

“Everything’s clear,” Jerome announced, waiting for me to unlock the door and let him inside. “Windows are secure, no signs of tampering.”

His thoroughness was more than professional—it felt personal, as if my safety was his sole reason for existing in this moment. It brought an unexpected warmth to the cold dread that had been pooling inside me.

“How about we make you some tea and get you back to bed?” he offered, crossing to me with measured strides and leading me to the kitchen. He made the tea and handed me the cup.

The steam wafted up, carrying the comforting scent of chamomile and mint. I took the mug, fingers brushing against his, and a jolt of awareness shot through me. His touch was fleeting but electric, grounding me to the here and now.

“Drink. It’ll help.”

“Always so sure of what I need.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. “It’s my job to anticipate, Raven. And right now, you need rest.”

“Rest,” I echoed, taking a sip of the tea. It was perfect—neither too hot nor too sweet—and I wondered briefly how he’d managed to get it just right. But then, Jerome Dawson was a man full of surprises.

I followed him up to my bedroom.

“Try to sleep,” he urged softly. “I’ll be right outside your door. Nothing will get past me.”

As he stood to leave, I caught his wrist, surprising us both. “Stay,” I whispered, the plea unintentional yet undeniable. “Just until I fall asleep.”

For a moment, he hesitated, the soldier warring with the man. Then, slowly, he sank back down beside me. “Until you fall asleep,” he agreed, and I knew in that instant, I wasn’t the only one seeking comfort in the silent vigil of the night.

“You always seem to be watching over everyone else. But who watches over you?”

He glanced away for a fraction of a second before meeting my gaze again, the shadows dancing across his stoic face in the dim light. “I’ve learned to watch over myself.”

“Must be lonely.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, and I caught a flicker of something akin to wistfulness in his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough to tell me there were depths to Jerome Dawson that few ever saw.

“Did you always want to be a soldier?”

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