Page 5 of A Guardian for Christmas

I turn and stare out the window. That same rough hand that was touching my hair now thrusts a delicate teacup in front of my face, the hot, pleasant-smelling liquid forcing me to lift my head off the pillow.

The cup is at my lips. And if it’s poisoned? So what.

“Good girl,” he says as I take a drink.

I turn away again and close my eyes, my hands reaching for the blankets that this stranger won’t allow me to burrow under. I know I won’t win a game of tug-of-war with this man, but I grip my favorite fuzzy throw all the same.

“Nope. Not time for night-night. The next thing we’re going to do is have a shower. OK?”

That’s…not what I was expecting a personal trainer to say.

When I don’t respond, he pushes. “Baby, I can’t force you. I’m gonna need you to tell me if I can help you with that.”

The voice is deep and rough, like a person who might have shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. The friction of that gravelly bass hardens my nipples.

Baby.

He called me baby.

And “good girl”?

What the hell is going on here?

Is this … a sex thing? Did Frye finally lose his marbles completely and hire me a sex worker?

And what if he did? He wouldn’t be the only person in this house who has lost their grip on reality. Never mind that I’m not supposed to have sex because it’ll be too much stress for my heart.

The “not supposed to” part makes me eager to jump the bones of any damn person even close-ish to my age who barges into my room unannounced.

A small part of me likes the feel of this stranger’s weight in the bed behind me. He smells good, too. The leathery scent is mixed with wood chips and pine, like someone who’s just spent all morning hiking through the cold woods.

“Hm,” I muster.

“What was that?” The bed creaks as he leans in closer. “I can’t hear you, baby.”

My fingers release their vise grip on the blanket at my knees, as that dangerous voice liquifies my core.

“Yes,” I croak, barely audibly. It takes everything in me to push out that one syllable. Silently, I add: as long as you don’t mind me lying here like a dead fish while you do whatever it is you’re going to be paid to do because I don’t have it in me to fight back.

He responds with, “Alright. Here we go.”

In the next moment, I’m pulled to sitting up, the man’s arm reaching around my back to hook under my right armpit.

“Good girl. Can you stand?”

Good girl? I did nothing.

And…I don’t know, can I stand? I take a moment to think about that—didn’t I stand up earlier to put socks on? I can’t remember—I’m being lifted. The man’s arm supports my back, and his other arm hooks under my knees. I’m being carried like a bride on her wedding night.

I have no choice but to hug my arm around this man’s ham-hock shoulder.

My eyes are even with his neck, and they finally focus on the sharp-edged calligraphy that spans the side of his corded throat.

Non timebo mala.

Chapter Two

Sagan

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