Page 54 of Beckett
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For making me feel human again. For reminding me I’m more than just someone running. For seeing me as someoneworth protecting even when I can’t tell you what you’re protecting me from.”
He tightened his arms around me. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready. Until then, I’ve got you.”
I wanted to warn him, to explain the danger he was inviting into his life. But selfishly, I stayed quiet. Tomorrow would come with all its harsh realities, its necessities of distance and defense. Tomorrow, I’d have to figure out how to protect him from the truth I carried.
But right now, wrapped in Beckett’s arms with his heartbeat steady under my ear and his promises still warm between us, I let myself believe. Not in forever—I wasn’t naive enough for that. But in this moment. In this man. In the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I’d found someone strong enough to stand against whatever came next.
The thought terrified me almost as much as it gave me hope.
Chapter 17
Beckett
Two weeks. That was how long Audra had been in my life, turning everything sideways with those hazel eyes that held too many secrets and a gentleness with animals that made my chest do things I didn’t want to examine. Two weeks, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
And who could blame me when yesterday morning she’d woken me with her mouth, working her way down my chest with lazy kisses until she’d taken me deep in her throat. I’d barely been conscious when she’d started, but by the time she’d hollowed her cheeks and hummed around my cock, I was gripping the sheets hard enough to tear them. She’d kept me on edge forever, pulling back every time I got close, those hazel eyes wicked as she watched me fall apart. When she’d finally let me come, swallowing everything while her hand squeezed my thigh, I’d seen stars.
That hadn’t been the only time either. Three days ago, I’d taken a break from ranch work and had been going oversecurity protocols in the guest house’s makeshift office when she’d brought me lunch. Leftover pot roast she’d reheated, with carrots and potatoes still swimming in gravy. The domestic gesture had meant something.
Or would’ve meant something if one minute we weren’t talking about Jet’s progress, and the next I somehow had her bent over the desk, her jeans around her ankles while I took her from behind. She’d had to bite her hand to keep quiet, the dogs just outside in their kennels. The image of her like that—back arched, fingers gripping the desk edge, trying so hard to stay silent while I drove into her—was permanently burned into my brain.
Every night since that first one, we’d slept all night together—once at her cabin, but usually at the guest house since my bed was bigger. We hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t defined it. She just showed up after evening chores, Jet at her heels, and I let her in. We’d fall asleep tangled together, her back against my chest, my arm around her waist like I could protect her from whatever haunted her dreams.
She still hadn’t told me what she was running from. Hadn’t explained the nightmares that sometimes had her crying out in her sleep, or why she still checked exits everywhere we went. Part of me wanted to push, to demand answers. The security specialist in me needed to know what threat we were facing.
But the man in me—the one who was falling for her harder than I wanted to admit—knew she’d tell me when she was ready. Until then, it was enough that she was here. That she was getting healthier, filling out those sharp edges on her body with regular meals and proper sleep. That she smiled now, real smiles that reached her eyes when Jet did something ridiculous or when she successfully got Duke to heel on command.
“Focus up,” I told Atlas, who’d gotten distracted by a bird. The Belgian Malinois immediately snapped back to attention, waiting for the next command.
We were in the middle of defensive positioning drills, the kind that would make or break a security dog. Atlas had it down perfect—controlled aggression, precise movements, absolute focus. Duke and Rosie were getting there, each session showing improvement.
From the barn, I could see Audra working with Jet on basic obedience. She’d taken to the training naturally, picking up techniques I’d shown her and adapting them with an instinct that couldn’t be taught. Her movements were confident now, sure. She held herself differently than she had two weeks ago—spine straighter, shoulders back. Still alert, still watchful, but not hunched like she expected a blow.
“Good boy, Jet! Yes!” Her praise carried across the yard, warm with genuine delight. The German shepherd had just held a stay for a full thirty seconds, which for him was practically a miracle.
She had a gift for this. A natural feel for reading dogs, for knowing when to push and when to ease off. In just a few days of working together on training, she’d gotten more out of Jet than I had in three months. Maybe because she saw him differently—not as a failed security dog but as something else entirely. Something that didn’t need to be dangerous to have value.
The thought hit me then, watching her reward Jet with enthusiastic scratches behind his ears; she could do this professionally. Not security training work—that required a different temperament—but companion training, therapy dogs, service animals. The gentler side of what Pawsitive Connections offered. She had the patience, the instinct, the ability to connect.
Warrior Security kept me busy enough that I couldn’t take on all the training Lark needed. Sometimes a protection detailwould keep me away for days, leaving the training schedule backed up. If Audra stayed—and God, I wanted her to stay—she could fill that gap perfectly.
If she stayed.
“Atlas, Duke, Rosie—break,” I commanded, releasing the dogs from their positions. They immediately headed for the water bowls, tongues lolling.
I walked toward where Audra was practicing recalls with Jet, the shepherd actually coming when called three times out of five. Progress.
“He’s getting it,” I said, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to catch the lavender scent of the shampoo she’d started using, far enough to keep my hands to myself. Barely.
“He wants to please so badly.” She scratched under Jet’s chin, earning a look of pure adoration. “He just gets distracted by, well, everything.”
“Some dogs are like that. They’ve got good hearts but scattered focus. Doesn’t make them less valuable, just means they need different jobs.”
She glanced up at me, something flickering in her eyes. “Different from what they were supposed to be?”
