Page 10 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

Audra

The next morning came too fast. I’d spent half the night listening to every creak and groan of the old shed, jerking awake at sounds that turned out to be nothing more than wind through the gaps in the walls.

My sleeping bag held the chill despite my layers, and my back protested the concrete floor’s lack of sympathy.

But I’d made it through another night. Alive. Undetected. That counted as a win.

I slipped out before dawn, moving through the trees back to where I’d hidden my car.

The walk took twenty minutes in the dark, every shadow a potential threat, every rustle in the underbrush making my heart slam against my ribs.

By the time I reached the logging road, sweat dampened my shirt despite the cold.

The car started on the second try. I drove toward town, then circled back the long way, approaching Pawsitive Connections from the main road like I’d just arrived. Like I hadn’t spent the night three hundred yards away in a drafty shed.

Beckett was already up and about. Of course he was.

He stood by the main barn, coffee mug in hand, watching my approach with those storm-gray eyes that saw too much.

The morning sun caught the angles of his face, highlighting the scar through his eyebrow.

He didn’t move as I parked, just tracked my progress with that stillness that made me think of predators waiting to strike.

I needed to be extra careful today. Yesterday’s comments about the shower had been too pointed, too knowing. The last thing I needed was Beckett Sinclair deciding to dig into my life.

I grabbed my backpack—lighter now without the sleeping bag hidden inside—and headed for the barn. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t engage. Just get to work.

“Morning.” His voice carried across the space between us.

“Morning.” I kept walking.

“Sleep well?”

My step faltered for half a second before I caught myself. “Fine, thanks.”

I ducked into the barn before he could ask anything else, my hands already reaching for the feed buckets. The dogs greeted me with enthusiasm that helped steady my nerves. Duke shoved his massive head against the kennel door, demanding attention. Rosie’s whole body wiggled with joy.

“Hey, guys.” I measured out kibble, focusing on the routine. “Ready for breakfast?”

Jet watched me from his kennel, tail wagging in those slow, hopeful sweeps I was starting to recognize. When I reached his door, he sat politely, brown eyes fixed on mine.

“Good boy.” The words came out without thinking, warm and genuine in a way I hadn’t been in months.

I fed him, then moved on to the others. Focused on the work. Ignoring the weight of Beckett’s gaze through the window.

By the time I finished the dogs and moved to the cats, my stomach was cramping with hunger. I’d eaten the last of my bread last night, nearly scraping the peanut butter jar clean. Even the horses’ grain was starting to look appetizing, which probably meant I’d hit a new low.

“Fernando’s looking judgmental this morning.” Beckett’s voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway of the cat building, shoulders filling the frame.

I forced myself to keep working, scooping litter with practiced movements. “He always looks judgmental.”

“Fair point.” He stepped inside, and the space immediately felt smaller. “Lark called. Said the conference is going fine. Wanted me to check that you had everything you needed.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure about that?”

Something in his tone made me look up. He was studying me with those too-knowing eyes, taking in details I didn’t want him to see. The way my jeans hung looser than they had even yesterday. The tremor in my hands from low blood sugar.

“I said I’m good.” I turned back to the litter boxes.

Princess Whiskers meowed imperiously from her perch, demanding attention. I reached up to scratch behind her ears, grateful for the distraction.

“When’s the last time you ate?” His question hit like a physical blow.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not.” He moved closer, and I caught his scent—coffee and something outdoorsy, like cedar. “But Lark asked me to look after things while she’s gone. That includes you.”

“I don’t need looking after.”

“No?” He leaned against the wall, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “I’m just—I haven’t been to the store yet. I’ll go this afternoon.”

“Right.” He pushed off the wall and reached into his pocket. “Here’s an advance on your wages.”

He held out a hundred-dollar bill. I stared at it like it might bite.

“I don’t need?—”

“It’s not charity. You’re working, you get paid. Simple as that. Lark would be paying you daily if she were here. She’ll pay me back.”

The money dangled between us. My pride screamed to refuse, but my stomach cramped again, and I thought about trying to make the few dollars I had last for another week and a half.

I took the bill. It felt heavier than it should have.

“Thank you.” The words came out strangled.

He nodded once, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused. “There’s a general store about ten minutes toward town. They’ve got decent sandwiches. Hot food too, if you ask at the deli counter.”

Then he was gone, leaving me standing there with money in my hand and shame burning in my throat.

I finished the morning chores on autopilot. The cats seemed to sense my mood, even the normally aloof ones rubbing against my legs as I worked. By the time I moved to the horses, the hunger had evolved from cramping to a hollow ache that made me light-headed.

I needed to go to town. Needed food. But the thought of leaving the relative safety of Pawsitive Connections made my chest tight. Town meant people. Cameras. Records of purchases that could be traced.

But starving to death would defeat the purpose of running.

I ate an apple then mucked out stalls, arguing with myself the whole time. The horses watched with patient eyes, occasionally nudging me with velvet noses.

Around noon, I was cleaning the rabbit hutches when Beckett’s shadow fell across the wire mesh. I looked up to find him holding a plate with a sandwich and apple slices.

“Figured you might be hungry since you haven’t had a chance to get into town for lunch.” He set the plate on a nearby fence post. “Turkey and Swiss. Nothing fancy.”

My stomach chose that moment to growl audibly. Heat flooded my cheeks.

“I’m fine. I was going to?—”

“Eat.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’ve been working since dawn. Even soldiers need fuel.”

The sandwich sat there between us, ordinary and somehow monumental. When was the last time someone had made me food? Not restaurant food or gas station food, but something made by human hands specifically for me?

“Thank you.” The words came out smaller than intended.

He nodded once and turned to go, then paused. “There’s more in the house if you’re still hungry. Lark keeps the kitchen stocked.”

I waited until he’d disappeared around the barn before reaching for the sandwich. The first bite almost made me cry. Real turkey, not the processed stuff. Actual cheese. Fresh bread that wasn’t the end pieces. Crisp lettuce and tomato.

I ate slowly, savoring each bite, trying not to think about how this simple kindness made something crack inside my chest. The apple slices were perfectly tart, probably from the same batch the horses got but somehow better for being cut and arranged on a plate.

By the time I finished, my hands had stopped shaking from low blood sugar. The hollow ache in my stomach had quieted to something manageable.

I washed the plate at the outdoor spigot and left it on the porch steps, not brave enough to actually knock and return it directly. But I made sure it was spotless, a tiny thank-you for an act of generosity I couldn’t repay.

Reenergized, I threw myself back into work. The afternoon tasks were lighter and flew by, mostly checking water and doing a second round of kennel cleaning. I was in the process of refilling Duke’s water bowl when movement caught my eye.

Beckett sat in the grass near the training area, a tiny orange kitten in his lap.

The kitten was all needle claws and tiny fangs, attacking Beckett’s hands with fierce determination.

But Beckett just chuckled, a low rumble I felt more than heard, letting the kitten gnaw on his fingers without pulling away.

“You think you’re tough, huh?” He held the kitten up, and it mewed fiercely, paws swiping at air. “All eight ounces of you?”

The kitten latched on to his thumb, biting with enthusiasm. Beckett didn’t even flinch.

“That’s it. Get all that energy out.” He lowered the kitten back to his lap, where it immediately attacked the hem of his shirt. “Better my clothes than someone else’s furniture.”

I’d seen him work with the dogs—patient but firm, establishing himself as the alpha without ever raising his voice. But this was different. Gentler. The kind of careful softness reserved for fragile things that needed extra time to trust.

The kitten climbed his shirt, tiny claws finding purchase in the fabric. When it reached his shoulder, it mewed triumphantly before launching itself at his ear.

Beckett laughed. Actually laughed, warm and genuine, catching the kitten before it could fall. “Okay, warrior. You win this round.”

Something in my chest loosened at the sound. When was the last time I’d heard genuine laughter? When was the last time I’d laughed?

I tried to back away quietly, not wanting to intrude on the moment. But my foot caught a bucket, sending it clattering across the concrete.

Beckett’s head snapped up, soldier’s instincts engaging before recognition settled in. “Audra.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not.” He stood in one fluid movement, the kitten cradled against his chest. “Come meet Chaos.”

“Chaos?”