Page 27 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

Audra

I stretched my hand across the mattress, searching for warmth that wasn’t there. The sheets were cold. I jerked upright, heart already racing before my brain caught up with why.

“Beckett?”

Nothing. Not even the sound of the shower running or coffee brewing in the kitchen. I threw off the blanket and padded barefoot through the house, checking the bathroom, the living room. Empty. All empty.

I pressed my palm against my chest, trying to slow my breathing. There was no need to panic. Beckett was fine. He had to be fine. Just because last night had been rough?—

The memory crashed back. Him thrashing beside me at two in the morning, shoulders rigid with tension, mumbling broken words about covering fire and three seconds and Rodriguez.

I’d rubbed his back until the tremors stopped, whispered that he was safe, that he was in Montana, that it wasn’t his fault.

He’d finally told me more in those dark hours—how his K-9 partner had alerted, hackles raised and growling low, but he’d been watching the wrong sector.

Three seconds of attention in the right direction, and Rodriguez would still be alive, home with his wife and two kids in Texas.

The weight of his guilt had been crushing to witness. No wonder he carried it like shrapnel embedded too deep to remove. Eventually, he’d fallen back into a fitful sleep, but now, he was gone.

I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and padded to the window.

I saw him outside, near the dog training ring, his body moving through push-ups with mechanical precision.

Atlas, Duke, and Rosie lounged nearby, watching him with the patient devotion only dogs could offer.

Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the controlled violence in each movement.

This was how he dealt with it—physical exertion to burn off the excess energy, the adrenaline his body produced even when there was no real threat. The animals helped ground him too, their simple presence a reminder of the here and now rather than the there and then.

I pressed my fingers against the glass, wanting to go to him.

To smooth the rigid lines of his back, to kiss away the shadows that haunted him.

But that wasn’t what he needed. Not right now.

He’d been so patient with me—never pushing for answers about my past, accepting my fears without judgment.

The least I could do was give him the same space to process his demons in his own way.

Besides, we were out of coffee. Again. Beckett went through the stuff like it was water, and I’d developed my own dependency over the past couple of weeks.

I’d run over to Lark’s house to grab some.

Beckett had mentioned she kept a pot going constantly, industrial-strength stuff that could wake the dead. I could replace whatever I borrowed.

The morning air bit at my exposed skin as I jogged across the dew-soaked grass. Lark’s house sat like a cheerful yellow beacon against the mountain backdrop. I retrieved the key and let myself in, heading straight for her pantry to get the coffee.

The landline rang, sharp and sudden, and I froze.

Would the sound of an incoming call haunt me forever?

I glanced at the caller ID and saw Lark’s name.

She must be calling from wherever her conference was being held.

I wasn’t sure if I should pick up the cordless phone, but in the end decided to see what she needed in case it was some sort of emergency.

“Pawsitive Connections.”

There was a pause, and I braced for Lark to ask why I was answering her phone at seven in the morning. But her voice, when it came, was pure panic.

“Audra, is that you?”

“Yes, I?—”

“I’ve been trying to call Beckett, but he didn’t pick up his phone.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how much she knew about Beckett’s PTSD. She had to at least know it was an issue. “Beckett is out with the dogs. He’s having a rough morning.”

A beat of silence. “Yeah, that happens. Better to let him work it out in his own way. But maybe you can help me. I’m still working with the owners of this new therapy animal facility and have back-to-back meetings all day.

I just realized I completely forgot to send out the press release for next month’s Pawsitive Connections’ event, where we’re partnering with the veterans’ hospital for a big fundraiser.

I thought I’d be home before now and could send it out.

If it doesn’t go out today, we won’t get any media coverage, and the whole thing will be a disaster. ”

“Okay. It’s okay. Lark, slow down. Take a breath.”

I heard her inhale shakily. “Sorry. I’m just— This is so important. We’re counting on the fundraiser to cover our operating costs for the next quarter. But I don’t have my laptop, and I can’t write a press release on my phone, and?—”

“I can help.” The words came out before I could second-guess them. “I used to work in public relations. I know how to write a press release.”

“You do? You did?” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Woman, you’re a lifesaver. My computer’s in the home office, second door on the left. Password is Fernando2019, after that ridiculous llama.”

I took the phone with me into her cozy office space with photos of animals covering every surface. The computer hummed to life, and muscle memory took over. This was something I knew how to do, something from before that didn’t hurt to remember.

“Okay, I’m in. Tell me about the event.” I put the phone on speaker and set it beside me.

“It’s called Healing Hearts and Paws. Saturday, November fourth, from noon to five. We’ll have demonstrations of our therapy animals working with veterans, a silent auction, food trucks— Oh, and the photographer from the Montana Tribune said she might come if we send her something compelling.”

My fingers flew across the keyboard as she talked, the familiar rhythm of crafting a story soothing something inside me. This was what I’d been good at once—taking scattered information and weaving it into something that made people care.

“What’s your key message?” I asked, falling into professional mode. “What’s the one thing you want people to remember?”

“I don’t know, something about healing and nontraditional therapy. The dogs. Ugh, I’m terrible at words.”

I smiled, already seeing the angle. “Perfect. What about success stories? Do you have a veteran who’d be willing to be quoted?”

“Yes! James Morrison. He’s been coming for six months. His seizure-response dog helps him during episodes—stays with him, alerts others if needed, and helps him reorient afterward. Says the dog gave him his independence back. I can text you his quote.”

The door opened behind me, and I turned to find Beckett standing there, hair damp with sweat, a towel draped around his neck. He’d changed into a clean T-shirt that clung to his chest in ways that made concentration difficult.

“Heard voices,” he said, then noticed the phone. “Lark?”

I nodded, holding up a finger as Lark continued rattling off details about sponsorship levels and donation goals. Beckett moved closer, close enough that I could smell the clean soap scent of him. His hand settled on my shoulder, thumb brushing the curve of my neck.

I tensed. He was too close to that scar. I was always careful to redirect his hand away from my neck during lovemaking, usually pulling it down to my breast. But I couldn’t do that now.

“The graphic needs to include our logo,” Lark was saying. “It’s in the shared folder marked ‘Branding.’ And make sure to mention that all donations are tax-deductible.”

I turned and looked up at Beckett, forcing a smile. “Coffee?” I mouthed.

He nodded and winked at me, thankfully none the wiser.

“Got it,” I said to Lark, clicking through the folders, finding everything exactly where she said it would be. Organized chaos, just like Lark herself. “What about contact information?”

“My cell and email. Oh, and add that people can register online at our website.”

Beckett leaned over my shoulder, reading the press release as I typed. His breath tickled my ear. “Looks professional,” he murmured, quiet enough that Lark wouldn’t hear.

Heat bloomed where his hand touched my arm.

That touch, I adored. These past few days, I couldn’t get enough of casual brushes with his skin.

The way he’d hold my hand while we watched the dogs play.

How he’d pull me against him on the porch swing after dinner.

The careful way he’d kiss me goodnight, like I was something precious that might break.

I wanted more. Wanted everything.

The thought crept in sideways, dangerous in its hope. It had been over two weeks since I’d arrived. Two weeks of no strange cars, no threatening letters, no signs that my monster had found me.

Maybe he’d given up. Maybe he’d found some other poor woman to terrorize. Or maybe—please God—maybe he’d never find me here in the middle of Montana, protected by mountains and distance and a man who’d already proven he’d stand between me and danger.

“How’s this?” I asked. “FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Healing Hearts and Paws—Where Veterans Find Hope on Four Legs. Garnet Bend, MT—Pawsitive Connections announces their first annual fundraising event connecting veterans with therapy animals, proving that sometimes the best medicine doesn’t come in a bottle—it comes with a wagging tail. ”

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Lark’s voice brightened. “You’re absolutely brilliant at this!”

I kept typing, adding quotes from James Morrison about how his service dog helped him through his seizures, statistics about animal-assisted therapy for PTSD, details about the silent auction items donated by local businesses.

“I made a simple graphic too,” I said, dragging and dropping elements in the design program. “Clean, professional, but with enough visual interest to stand out in an inbox.”

“Hey, Lark,” Beckett said, making his presence known.

“Hey, Beck. You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, rough night, but I’m getting through it. And before you ask, everything else is fine here.”

She chuckled. “You know me too well. Audra is helping me with some PR stuff.”

“You really know what you’re doing.” Beckett’s voice held a note of admiration that warmed me more than the mug of coffee he handed me.

“I was good at my job,” I said quietly. “Before.”

Before the stalking. Before the fear. Before I became someone who checked locks obsessively and flinched at shadows. But here, doing this work, I felt like myself again. Like Audra Cartland, who’d had a career and a future and reasons to believe tomorrow would be better than today.

“The veterans’ hospital is sending their people?” I asked Lark, refocusing on the release.

“Yes! At least twelve confirmed, plus their families. Oh, and the therapy team from Billings is doing a demonstration with their seizure alert dogs.”

I added it all, crafting the narrative that would make editors take notice. This wasn’t just another fundraiser—it was a story about healing, about second chances, about the bonds between humans and animals that could rebuild what trauma had broken.

“Send it to the media list in my contacts,” Lark instructed. “It’s labeled ‘Press Montana.’ And could you post it on our social media too? Same password for everything.”

“Already on it.” I navigated between windows, uploading the release and graphic to every platform. “Want me to schedule posts throughout the week to build momentum?”

“You can do that?”

“Public Relations 101. Create anticipation, then deliver.” My fingers flew across the keyboard, scheduling teaser posts, behind-the-scenes content, countdown reminders. “You should also reach out to that Montana Tribune photographer directly. Personal touch always helps.”

“You’re incredible. Seriously. I can’t thank you enough.”

Beckett squeezed my shoulder gently. “Audra is definitely pretty amazing,” he agreed, and the warmth in his voice made my chest tight.

There was a beat of silence. I knew Lark had to be putting together the pieces. But she left it alone.

“Well, if you want full-time work doing this, I could definitely use the help. I desperately need someone who can handle our communications, help us grow.”

I glanced up at Beckett, who was watching me with those intense gray eyes. “I… I’d like that.”

“She’s also doing incredibly well with the dog training,” Beckett said, his hand still warm on my shoulder. “Natural instincts, especially with the anxious ones. Better than some people I’ve seen who’ve been doing it for years.”

“Really?” Lark’s voice brightened even more. “Oh, that’s perfect! I could definitely use help with that too. You’d be willing to do both?”

The praise made me flush. After weeks of feeling useless, worthless, hunted—suddenly I was needed. Wanted. Valued for skills I’d thought I’d never use again.

“Yes,” I said, the word coming out stronger than I expected. “Yes, I’d love to help with all of it.”

“We can work out the details when I get back,” Lark continued. “But seriously, Audra, you’ve saved my ass today. The release looks perfect. Professional, compelling, everything we needed.”

“It was nothing. Really. I enjoyed it.”

We wrapped up the call with Lark promising she’d be home soon. I hung up and turned in the chair to face Beckett fully. He was looking at me with something soft in his expression, something that made my heart skip.

“You were in your element,” he said. “I could see it. The way you just…knew exactly what to do.”

“It felt good,” I admitted. “Like remembering who I used to be.”

“Not used to be.” He cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Who you are. This is still you, Audra. The skills, the talent, the instincts—they didn’t go anywhere. They’re just waiting while you get the other stuff figured out.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “I want to stay.”

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. Not just stay at Pawsitive Connections. Not just stay in Garnet Bend. Stay here, with him, building something that felt dangerously close to a future.

“Then stay,” he said simply. “We’ll keep you safe.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Watch me.” That quiet menace from before reappeared, now familiar but no less intense. “I told you already—anyone wanting to hurt you goes through me first. And I don’t give up on the people I care about.”

I believed him. This man who’d survived war zones, who carried the weight of his failures like armor against future losses—he’d stand between me and whatever came.

He reached down and kissed me, tasting of coffee. “Now let’s get these animals fed. They don’t give a shit about press releases.”

I watched as he headed back to the kitchen, my fingers coming up to touch the burn scar on my neck. Yes, this man would stand between me and danger.

But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t cost him his life.