Page 65 of Defending What's Mine

When we finally pause, breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together, I trace my fingertips along the line of his jaw, smiling softly. "I've never felt this way before."

"Me either," he murmurs, brushing his thumb across my swollen lips. His eyes search mine, earnest and tender. "I'm never letting you go, Charlotte. You're everything I've ever wanted."

I believe him completely. My heart swells with the knowledge that this is real. This is something true and powerful and unbreakable. No matter what comes next, no matter the threats that still linger, we'll face them together.

"Good," I whisper, pulling him down for another slow, intoxicating kiss. "Because I'm not letting you go either."

“I count on it.”

30

Asher

Three dawns have bled together since the lake-house rescue, each one marginally quieter than the last, but Wade Sinclair still floats somewhere in the periphery—an untethered threat. I feel him like barometric pressure behind my eyes. The air might look calm, but a storm cell hovers just out of view.

Checkout morning arrives gray and humid. Packing is finished—my tactical duffel, Charlotte’s luggage, a discreet med-kit taped under the truck’s rear seat. I run one last sweep of our suite: balcony door sensor armed, closets empty, no intel left behind. When I step into the corridor, Charlotte’s parents are waiting outside their door, anxiety etched into every polished line of their wardrobe.

“Mr. Hawke,” Margaret Lane greets, hands clasped. Her husband nods a silent echo.

“We appreciate everything you’ve done,” he says, voice rough. “But until Wade is in custody, we can’t relax. Where do we go from here?”

I keep my tone calm, firm. “I have a secondary secure location—undisclosed even to resort security. Off-grid, hardened, fifteen minutes from a regional trauma center. Charlotte and I will be headed there.”

Margaret’s eyes widen. “Just the two of you?”

“The fewer people who know the address, the safer she is. I’ll feed status updates through encrypted channels.”

She looks like she wants to protest, but schooling wins over maternal panic. She nods once. “We trust your judgment.”

Charlotte appears a moment later, suitcase rolling behind her, Melanie at her elbow chattering away about some new boyfriend she’s dating. I sidestep three paces to give them privacy but keep peripheral vision locked. The hallway’s empty, and the service elevator doors are closed.

Melanie hugs Charlotte tight, then turns to me, brow furrowing. “You text me the second you arrive, okay? And if she so much as sneezes wrong, hospital.”

“Understood,” I say, softening my stare. Melanie means well, I’m sure she always has. I hand her a contact card with a QR code for a one-time secure chat link. “This will ping me directly.”

Charlotte’s grandmother rounds the corner just then. Nana Peg. Her cane clacks on the marble flooring. She stops in front of me, shoulders stiff but eyes less glacial than usual. “Mr. Hawke.”

“Ma’am.” I incline my head.

“I misjudged you,” she says without preamble. “I saw a bodyguard. I missed the man willing to walk through gunfire for my granddaughter. For that, I apologize.”

Her contrition is so unvarnished it momentarily short-circuits my tactical checklist. I offer a small, genuine smile. “Keeping her safe isn’t a duty anymore. It’s personal.”

A faint shimmer brightens the old matriarch’s gaze. She pats my arm once— approval sealed—then returns to her suite.

Time to move. At the entrance of the resort, the valet offers to bring my truck. Negative. Charlotte and I walk together, making sure nobody is watching as we reach my truck in the lot. I double check to make sure everything’s secure before Charlotte climbs into the passenger seat. I stow the bags, and check once more to make sure nobody is watching. As I shut the liftgate, my phone buzzes. It’s Dean.

“Heading out now,” I answer, sliding behind the wheel.

“I’ve got your coordinates locked,” he replies. “I’ll stagger drone sweeps along your route—standard leapfrog grid. No eyes on Wade yet.”

“We’ll go radio-silent after mile marker ninety-two. Push any real-time hits to the satellite pager.”

“Copy that. Watch your six, Hawke.”

I kill the call, engage drive. Charlotte’s hand finds mine on the console—small, steady, pulsing warmth through layers of calculation.

We roll past manicured hedges and security kiosks, leaving the resort’s sanitized safety net behind. Every mile we cover feels lighter, yet I remain on edge, checking mirrors, calibrating escape angles.

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