Page 12 of Eden and her Mercenary (Changing of the Guards)

Eden

R oyal kissed like he was afraid we wouldn’t survive the morning, and he was probably right. We were leaning against Mack’s battered Ford, the dog bandages faintly bloody in the bed behind us, the dawn too cold for June. My mouth curled against Royal’s. He tasted like black coffee and mint.

I wasn’t sure how we’d made it out alive, or what I was supposed to do with the future. My body hummed with the honeyed ache of three days’ adrenaline, and Royal’s hands on my waist felt absurdly gentle for someone who could snap a grown man’s arm without thinking.

I let my mouth press to the scar at the corner of his jaw, that little white track that split his stubble. “You’re bleeding,” I murmured, tracing it. “Again.”

He grunted, one hand sliding under my shirt, palm braced warm and patient at my low back. “Occupational hazard. I’ll live.”

"You'll live, but Stella needs to stay put for at least forty-eight hours," Dr. Chen announced, appearing at the cabin door like a ghost. Her silver hair was loose now, making her look more like an eccentric artist than a surgeon.

"Any movement risks reopening the surgical site.

The brain needs time to adjust to the absence of foreign material. "

Royal's hand stilled against my back, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "Forty-eight hours?"

"Minimum," Chen said, unmoved by our obvious disappointment. "Unless you'd prefer your rescue mission to end with a dead dog and wasted effort."

I pulled away from Royal reluctantly. "Of course we'll stay. Whatever Stella needs."

Chen nodded once, satisfied. "Good. There's a guest cabin around the east side of the property. Clean sheets, running water, no cell service. Harrison will monitor the dog here with me."

"I'm not leaving Stella," I protested.

"You'll be two hundred yards away," Chen countered. "And you look like you haven't slept properly in days. Go. Rest. Come back when you don't resemble something the lake dragged in."

Royal squeezed my hand. "She's right. We're no good to Stella if we're running on fumes."

The guest cabin turned out to be a small A-frame tucked among towering pines, its wooden exterior weathered to a soft silver-gray.

Inside was surprisingly cozy—a stone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by bookshelves stuffed with medical journals and dog-eared paperbacks.

A kitchenette occupied one corner, while a spiral staircase led to a loft bedroom.

"Not bad for being stuck in the middle of nowhere," Royal remarked, dropping our meager belongings on the worn leather sofa.

I sank down beside the bags, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the past seventy-two hours. "I can't believe we're just... waiting now. After everything."

"Welcome to the anticlimactic aftermath," Royal said, crouching to light the fireplace. "Always feels strange when the adrenaline wears off."

By evening, we'd fallen into an oddly domestic routine—checking on Stella every few hours, helping Mack change her bandages, then returning to our temporary shelter.

We'd eaten Chen's surprisingly good vegetable stew, showered in the tiny bathroom with its temperamental water pressure, and now found ourselves facing a long, quiet night with nothing to do.

Royal paced the cabin like a caged animal, restless energy radiating from him. I watched from my perch on the sofa, wrapped in a borrowed flannel blanket.

"You're making me dizzy," I finally said.

He stopped mid-stride, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. Not good at sitting still."

"I've noticed." I patted the space beside me. "Come sit. Tell me something I don't know about you."

He hesitated, then dropped onto the sofa, his weight making the old springs creak. "Like what?"

"Anything. Your favorite color. Your first pet. Whether you've ever been fishing in that lake out there."

A slow smile spread across his face. "As a matter of fact, I have. Chen's got some decent smallmouth bass in that water or so Mack tells me." He turned to me, suddenly curious. "Have you ever been fishing?"

I shook my head. "Never had the chance. Always on the road, always another dog to transport."

Royal's eyes lit up with an intensity that made something flutter in my chest. "That settles it. Tomorrow, we're going fishing."

"With what equipment?"

"Chen's got gear in the shed. I spotted it earlier." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell me Eden Wade, the woman who stole military technology and outran professional mercenaries, is afraid of a little fishing."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not afraid. I just don't see the appeal of standing around waiting for fish that might never bite. "

"Oh, they'll bite," he said with such confidence that I couldn't help but laugh. "And there's more to it than just standing around. It's about..." he paused, searching for words, "connection. To the water, to what's beneath it. To yourself."

"Sounds suspiciously philosophical for a mob enforcer."

His smile turned wry. "Even mob enforcers need hobbies."

The next morning dawned clear and cool, mist rising from the lake in ethereal tendrils. After checking on Stella—who was sleeping peacefully, her vitals stable—Royal led me to a weathered boathouse tucked against the shoreline.

"Chen's quite the sportsman," he explained, pulling out two fishing rods and a tackle box. "Or sportswoman, I guess."

I eyed the equipment skeptically. "I'm going to be terrible at this."

"Probably," he agreed cheerfully, handing me a rod. "But that's half the fun."

The small aluminum boat rocked gently as we pushed off from shore, Royal manning the oars with practiced ease. He navigated us to a quiet cove where the water darkened, indicating greater depth.

"Lesson one," he said, setting up my rod with expert fingers. "Casting. It's all in the wrist. "

He demonstrated, the line arcing gracefully through the air before the lure landed with a soft plop some thirty feet away. When he handed the rod to me, our fingers brushed, sending an unexpected current up my arm that had nothing to do with fishing.

My first cast was predictably disastrous—the line tangled, the lure barely clearing the boat.

"Not bad," Royal lied, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Liar," I accused, but I was smiling too.

He moved behind me, his chest warm against my back as he positioned my arms. "Like this," he murmured, his breath tickling my ear. "Pull back, then forward with a snap of your wrist."

I tried to focus on the instructions rather than the solid heat of him against me, the way his hands engulfed mine on the rod. This time when I cast, the line flew true, the lure landing with a satisfying splash.

"There you go!" Royal's approval was genuine, his hands lingering on my waist.

For the next hour, we drifted in comfortable silence, broken occasionally by Royal's quiet instructions or my triumphant exclamation when I managed a decent cast. The sun climbed higher, burning away the morning mist and warming the air.

"I get it now," I said after a while. "Why people do this. It's peaceful."

Royal nodded, reeling in his line to check the lure. "It's one of the few things that can quiet my mind. No jobs, no threats, no complications. Just water and patience."

"And fish," I added.

"Theoretically," he agreed with a chuckle. "Though they seem to be avoiding us today."

As if on cue, my rod bent sharply, nearly jerking from my hands. "Royal!" I yelped, gripping it tighter.

"You got one!" He was instantly alert, moving closer. "Keep the tip up! Don't let the line go slack!"

The fish fought hard, pulling the line one way then another. I struggled to follow Royal's instructions, laughing with the sheer unexpected joy of it. When I finally reeled it in, a respectable smallmouth bass gleamed in the sunlight, its bronze scales iridescent.

"Look at that," Royal said, genuine admiration in his voice as he helped me land it. "First-timer's luck."

The fish thrashed in my hands as Royal quickly removed the hook. "What now?" I asked.

"Now we let him go," he said, guiding my hands to lower the bass back into the water. "Unless you want fish for dinner."

I shook my head, watching as the fish hesitated for a moment before darting away into the depths. "That was amazing."

Royal was watching me, not the fish, an unreadable expression on his face. "You're amazing," he said quietly.

The boat rocked gently as I moved toward him, closing the small distance between us. This kiss was different from our others—unhurried, exploratory, without the urgency of danger or adrenaline.

His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with surprising tenderness.

His lips brushed against mine, soft as a whisper.

The contact was barely there at first, like the flutter of butterfly wings, before he pressed slightly closer.

My eyes drifted closed as he tilted his head, fitting our mouths together more perfectly.

There was no clash of teeth, no desperate seeking.

Just the gentle pressure of his mouth moving against mine, unhurried and deliberate.

His breath, warm and steady, mingled with my own.

When his fingers slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head, a shiver traveled down my spine that had nothing to do with the breeze.

I let my hands rest against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm. The kiss deepened slightly, but remained tender, an exploration rather than a conquest. His lips were softer than I'd imagined, patient in their attention, as if we had all the time in the world .

When we finally parted, it was only by inches. His forehead rested against mine, and I could feel the curve of his smile without needing to see it. The boat continued its gentle sway beneath us, moving with the rhythm of the water.

"I've been wanting to do that properly," he murmured, his voice low and slightly rough, "without someone shooting at us or the world ending."