Page 18 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

Audra

Dawn painted the Montana sky in shades of pink and gold, colors that spilled through the small window. The cabin was mine now. Yeah, I’d been in here for less than twenty-four hours, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t know how long I’d be here, what staying would involve, how many days or weeks I had before I’d need to run again.

But right now, in this moment, that didn’t matter.

What mattered was that I had a door I could lock, a bed that was only mine, and walls between me and…

the rest of the world. Including my stalker.

I didn’t want to think about him. He wasn’t invited into this place. I pushed myself up from the narrow bed, muscles protesting after last night’s deep-cleaning marathon. But it was good pain. Earned pain. The kind that meant I’d accomplished something instead of just survived another day.

The floor creaked under my bare feet as I padded to the tiny kitchen area.

Everything gleamed in the morning light— scrubbed surfaces, organized shelves, the chipped porcelain sink I’d attacked with baking soda until my knuckles were raw.

Pride swelled in my chest. It had been over a year since I’d felt anything close to this.

Over a year since I’d had a space that was truly mine, where I could leave a coffee cup on the counter without calculating escape routes.

I filled the ancient kettle with water, setting it on the single working burner.

While waiting for it to boil, I surveyed my handiwork.

The cabin wasn’t much—one room with a kitchenette, a bed that had seen better decades, and a bathroom so small I could touch both walls at once.

But I’d transformed it from abandoned to livable with nothing but elbow grease and determination.

The sheer scarf draped over the window caught my eye, its deep blue fabric softening the harsh morning light.

I’d bought it at a thrift store in Wyoming six months ago, back when I still had hope that pretty things might make running feel less like dying by degrees.

Now it served as curtains, adding color to weathered wood walls.

And there, on the small table by the window—Beckett’s flowers. Grocery store carnations and daisies, nothing fancy, but they sat in an old mason jar I’d found under the sink like they belonged there. Like this was a real home where people brought flowers.

My throat tightened. When he’d grabbed them at the store yesterday, casual as anything, I’d almost asked why.

But the answer was obvious even if neither of us acknowledged it.

They were for me. For this place. To make it feel less like a hideout and more like somewhere a person might actually choose to live.

The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden. I jumped, heart hammering before logic caught up with instinct. Just water boiling. Not danger. Not him .

I made instant coffee—the good kind Beckett had insisted on buying despite my protests about the price—and wrapped both hands around the mug. Steam rose, carrying the rich scent that still felt like luxury after months of gas station swill or nothing at all.

Three sharp knocks at the door sent the mug crashing to the floor.

Hot coffee splashed across my bare feet. I barely felt it. My body had already shifted into flight mode—weight on the balls of my feet, ready to run, calculating if I could make it to the back window before?—

“Audra? It’s me. Beckett.”

The relief hit so hard my knees nearly buckled. Of course it was Beckett. A stalker wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t announce himself in that steady, unthreatening voice.

“I— Hang on just a minute.” My voice came out thin, shaky. I grabbed a dish towel, hands trembling as I mopped up the coffee. Ceramic shards scattered across the floor. One had drawn blood from my heel, leaving red smears on the clean wood.

Deep breath. Another. I pulled on jeans over my sleep shorts, ignoring the sting in my foot, and finger-combed my hair into something resembling normal. When I opened the door, Beckett stood on the narrow porch with Jet beside him.

The German shepherd’s entire body wiggled with barely contained excitement, tail creating its own weather system. But he stayed put, haunches quivering with the effort of obedience.

“Morning,” Beckett said, gray eyes taking in everything—my bare feet, the coffee stains on my shirt, the tension I couldn’t quite hide. “Thought Jet might help you feel more secure.”

I blinked, confused. “Help me…?”

“He may not be an attack dog, but he can keep you company. Bark at everything that moves.” His tone stayed conversational, but those eyes saw too much. Always watching, always cataloging. “Figured you might sleep better with him around.”

My chest tightened again, differently this time.

He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. The way I startled at sounds, checked windows, never fully relaxed, even when we were just talking about dog training or farm chores.

And instead of pushing, instead of demanding explanations I couldn’t give, he’d brought me a solution.

A seventy-pound German shepherd solution currently straining against invisible restraints, desperate to launch himself at my legs.

“Can I?” I gestured to Jet.

“He’s all yours.”

The second I crouched down, Jet exploded forward. His solid weight knocked me back onto my haunches, tongue finding every inch of exposed skin, while his tail threatened to take out the porch railing.

“Easy, boy. Easy.” But I was laughing, genuinely laughing, as I tried to contain the hurricane of fur and enthusiasm. “Yes, I missed you too. Yes, you’re such a good boy.”

When I glanced up, Beckett was almost smiling. Not quite—I wasn’t sure his face knew how to fully commit to the expression—but the corners of his mouth had definitely shifted upward.

“I brought his crate.” He nodded toward his truck. “And his food, bowls, the basics.”

“A crate?” I stood, Jet immediately pressing against my leg like he was afraid I might disappear. “Isn’t that a little…mean? He’s used to the kennel where he has more space.”

“Dogs like crates. Gives them boundaries, makes them feel secure. Like a den.” He headed for the truck, returning with a collapsible wire crate that looked big enough for a small pony. “It’s not punishment. It’s structure.”

I watched him set it up in the corner of the cabin, efficient movements that spoke of repetition. Military-precise in everything he did, from folding the metal joints to positioning it where Jet could see both the door and window.

“But what if I want him on the bed with me? I guess that’s not okay.”

He paused, straightening slowly. “Sure, it’s okay. But it’s your choice, not his. Let him know it’s an invitation, not his right. You’re the one in charge.”

“Right.” I looked down at Jet, who was gazing up at me with pure adoration. “I’m definitely the one in charge here.”

“He knows commands. Sit, stay, down, come. He’s getting better at heel.” Beckett pulled a bag of dog food from the truck, setting it by the door. “Feed him twice a day, morning and evening. He’ll try to convince you he’s starving in between. Don’t fall for it.”

“Any other warnings?”

“He likes to steal socks. Can’t explain it. Just does.” He handed me a leash, worn leather soft from use. “And he’s afraid of the vacuum cleaner, which shouldn’t be a problem here.”

I glanced around the bare cabin. “Yeah, my Dyson’s in the shop.”

That almost-smile appeared again, there and gone like a bird’s shadow. “He’ll bark at everything at first. Squirrels, wind, his own shadow. But he’ll settle once he learns the normal sounds.”

“Beckett.” I had to say something, had to acknowledge what he was doing without actually acknowledging what he was doing. “This is really… Thank you.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with gratitude the way I was uncomfortable with kindness. “Lark’s always looking for foster situations for the dogs. Helps socialize them. You’re doing us a favor.”

We both knew that was crap. Jet might have been a failed security dog, but he didn’t need fostering. This was for me. Because Beckett had noticed I was scared, and instead of pressing for answers, he’d found a way to help.

I wanted to tell him everything in that moment. About my stalker. About the months of running and the constant fear that followed me like smoke. But the words stuck in my throat. Telling him would mean dragging him into my nightmare, and hadn’t I destroyed enough lives already?

“Besides,” Beckett continued, filling the silence I couldn’t, “he’s good company. Dogs don’t judge. Don’t ask questions. Just…are.”

Something in his voice made me look closer. That bone-deep understanding of needing companionship that didn’t require explanations. It made me wonder what had driven him to choose animals over people, what ghosts haunted his precise movements and careful distance.

“Do you want coffee?” The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them. “I just made a fresh mug. Well, I did before I dropped it, but I can make more.”

He checked his watch, a practical digital thing that probably did everything short of launching missiles, then his gaze dropped to my foot. A thin line of blood marked where the ceramic had cut my heel.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch from the mug.” I shifted my weight, trying to hide the injury. “About that coffee?—”

“Sit down. Let me look at it.”

“Beckett, really, it’s?—”

“Sit.” The command was gentle but firm. Even Jet obeyed.

Before I could protest, he grabbed the small first aid kit from the counter—one of the basic supplies that came with the cabin. I sat on the edge of the bed while he crouched down in front of me, opening the kit with efficient movements.

“It’s not deep,” he said, tearing open an antiseptic wipe. The sting made me flinch, but his touch was surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the cut. He peeled the backing off a bandage and applied it carefully, smoothing the edges to make sure it was secure.