Page 9 of Guarded from Treachery

Dante's fiancée, Sarah, went through some pretty traumatic stuff not too long ago, so I understand his concern. Even though she’s perfectly safe—one of the perks of working for B and A is an apartment right on the premises, and there’s no way anyone is getting to her here—it’s still hard for him to leave her. And he worries every time.

So instead of ribbing him on it, I quickly type out a reassuring response.

Sarah’s fine. I checked on her first thing this morning. Everything’s secure. Don’t worry.

The three dots blink again.

Ha. Easier said than done.

We’re wrapping things up here, should be back tomorrow night. The convention in Houston is over on Wednesday, so Niall, Xavier, and Rhiannon should be back on Thursday.

After a brief pause, another text appears.

Also, Sarah wants to cook dinner for everyone this weekend. Enchiladas. So save Saturday night if you’re interested.

At the thought, my stomach makes a hopeful rumble. Sarah makes the best Mexican food I’ve ever had, and I would never,everturn down her cooking.

My response is immediate.

Absolutely. I’ll be there.

An unexpected benefit to living right on the Blade and Arrow property—a renovated ranch about thirty miles northwest of San Antonio—is things like this. Having big dinners and impromptu game nights and movie screenings out in the barn. And our new holiday traditions, like Secret Santa and potluck Thanksgiving.

Once I wrap up the text conversation with Dante, I glance at the time, realizing there are less than fifteen minutes until Lucy said lunch would be ready. Rather than making her bring lunch to me, trying to juggle a plate of grilled cheeses and a steaming bowl of soup as she makes her way from her apartment to the other wing of the ranch where our offices are located, I decide to head to her instead.

The break will be good, anyway. I’ve been holed up in my office for hours, so I’m due a change of scenery. I’ll have lunch with Lucy, maybe do a perimeter check of the property after, and then I can get back to work, recharged and refocused.

Just as I’m pushing up from my chair, my phone rings.

Swiping it off my desk, I glance at the screen, seeing a number I don’t recognize.

But it has a Dallas area code, which immediately sets my inner alarm bells ringing. Could it be the police, following up on Isla’s case? Is it possible they found the guy?

Please tell me he didn’t hurt another woman.

Or could it be?—

Stop speculating. Just answer it.

So I tap the screen to answer the call. “Hello?”

For a few seconds, all I can hear is soft breathing.

Irritation floods through me. Is this a telemarketer? Spam? Do people evendoprank calls anymore?

“Hello?” I repeat, more gruffly this time. “Who’s calling?”

Another pause.

And then, “Matt? Matt Cross?”

My heart stutters.

“Isla?”

“Yes.” Through the line, I hear her take a shaky breath. “Um. I’m sorry for bothering you. But…” Another pause. “You said to call if I need help. And… I think I do.”

My inner alarms start blaring. All my muscles tense. “Isla. What’s wrong?”

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