Page 207 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Let’s just hope it holds out until the repair guy gets here,” Jenna sighs. “Otherwise, it’s manually pressed coffee for everyone.”

“Could be worse,” I shrug, grinning mischievously. “At least we know how to work with our hands.”

Malia groans. “And we’re back to inappropriate workplace comments.”

But she’s laughing.

I widen my eyes, all faux innocence. “Would you expect anything less?”

Outside, late afternoon light spills through the expansive café windows, painting long golden streaks across the countertops. The sharp scent of espresso and baked goods lingers in the air, curling around the comforting murmur of conversation.

The lull between rushes is settling in—the sweet spot where regulars unwind, filtering in one by one for their caffeine fixes.

Or at least, that’s how it usually goes.

The first sign of trouble—or, more accurately, ofthem—isn’t the door opening.

It’s the shift in the air.

Like a pressure drop before a storm.

Then comes the unmistakable sound of masculinity in motion—deep, rumbling laughter, the solid thud of boots on hardwood, and the sheer presence that alters the space before they even cross the threshold.

Guardians don’t just walk in.

They occupy a room.

Big bodies, heavy footfalls, warm skin, and rough edges, their arrival an undeniable force that ripples through the café like heat before a summer thunderstorm.

I glance up just as the door swings open, the late-day sunlight backlighting them in a way that would be cinematic if it weren’t so damn familiar.

Here comes chaos.

Chapter 55

First comes Ethan.

His presence is immediate. Anchoring.

The calm at the center of the storm.

He moves like a man who’s lived through fire and learned how to breathe in the smoke. His gaze sweeps the room—steady, sharp. Calculating threats out of instinct, not fear.

He exhales once, quiet and controlled.

And just like that, you know—he’s already cataloged every danger in the space… and dismissed them all.

But then he sees her.

His expression doesn’t change much. It doesn’t have to. The only shift is in his shoulders—just the slightest drop of tension. The way a soldier stands down when he sees home.

Rebel doesn’t look at him. Not right away. But she knows. The awareness between them is electric. Grounded. A connection forged in fire and grit and sealed with choice.

He’s the commander. The tactician. The man who makes life-or-death calls without hesitation.

But with Rebel?

There’s always that split second of softness.

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