Page 2 of Hunted Hearts (Black Heart Security #6)

Rachel waved a hand toward another member of Juliette’s team. Her personal assistant looked like she did when in the middle of the stage, and they all knew she hated being in the spotlight—that was Juliette’s job.

“She killed it with her shoe!” The assistant took a step backward, darting looks at the “weapon” balanced on top of the flowers.

Drawing on the acting skills she used around people when her energy was running low, Juliette lifted her shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “The shoe was all I had.”

Chris, her wardrobe stylist, swept into the room just then, his arms full of garment bags, and immediately caught the tail end of the conversation.

“Are we still talking about the killer bouquet?” He hooked the clothes on the rack with a dramatic sigh.

“I told you, honey, you need a scorpion emoji on your merch now.” He panned a hand through the air. “‘Juliette: Deadly and beautiful.’”

Despite herself, Juliette cracked a smile. Chris could always make her laugh, even when she was shaken—and yeah, maybe the incident had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

She’d come back from sound check glowing with the buzz of her music in her veins, only to find the bouquet of her favorite flower, gardenias, on her vanity. At first, she’d smiled, picked up the vase and pressed her face to the blooms.

And then the scorpion had slithered out from between the petals, black and glossy, tail arching up like a threat from a nightmare.

She’d screamed. Then smashed it with the heel of her Louboutin.

End of story.

Or so she’d thought.

Her team disagreed.

One by one, they’d poured into the room—her tour manager, her assistant, her publicist, even the venue’s head of security. All of them serious, all of them wearing that tight, worried expression.

Even Chris, her comic relief on the team, was looking at her with a pinch of concern, the same way he looked at her when her lashes weren’t cooperating with his mascara wand.

Rachel crossed her arms. “It’s time to hire a bodyguard.”

She was already shaking her head. “I have more than enough people on my team.”

Juliette had grown up around a lot of staff. At a very young age, she learned that having too many people around her—more people to take care of, to think about—took her focus away from her music.

She loved every single person who supported her career, but they occupied space in her brain…and she needed a lot of open mental space for creativity.

“I don’t need a bodyguard hanging around. Every artist knows that the wrong person in the room can totally mess up your energy.” Her argument seemed to fizzle out on her lips, and had the same effect on her team as spritzing them with lukewarm water.

She tried again.

“I meditate.” She glanced at each of them like they’d forgotten who she was. “I journal. I have grounding rituals. I protect my own peace. That’s how I stay sane with this schedule. You all know that. Bringing in somebody new now could totally throw me off my game.”

Rachel crossed her arms. “And we support you, Jules. But your safety is more important. Who knows what could happen next? And this isn’t the first time. Remember what happened in London?”

“Somebody just left my dressing room door open. It was a simple mistake.” The skin on her forearms prickled, and she quickly crossed the room to the garment rack to flip through the dresses there even though her gown for this performance was already chosen.

“An enthusiastic fan sent the bouquet. They probably didn’t mean to send a scorpion. Maybe it crawled in there on its own.”

Her tour manager had been silent this entire time. Henrik Dahl’s demeanor made him the fatherly figure of the group—and to Juliette. She always took his advice, on everything from venues to music selection. When he cleared his throat, she threw him a hopeful look.

“Henrik understands that a bodyguard doesn’t make any sense. That they’ll mess up my flow.”

The white-haired man shook his head and peered at her apologetically through his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m sorry, Juliette. But I’m overruling you. You’re getting a bodyguard. In fact, he’s on the way.”

She let out a gasp.

“I looked into a security agency after London. One of the bodyguards from their team happens to be nearby. He arrives in half an hour.”

Juliette crossed the room in brisk steps. “You bring a guy with a neck the size of my thigh into the room, and the vibe will be off. I can’t flow. I can’t create with that kind of energy pressing in around me! And you know how important it is that I’m at my best. It’s so much more than the money.”

Her assistant, Harper, hovered near the back, eyes big and worried. “We know. And you don’t have to play violin with him in the room. Just…have him around. In the wings. He doesn’t need to cramp your space.”

“That’s not how it works.” Juliette pressed her palms to her hips.

“This is not negotiable, Juliette. Your safety comes first.” Henrik was known for his permanent frown, but she knew from years of working with him that a heart of gold was buried under three decades of industry cynicism.

Juliette felt her hackles rise at being told what to do, but she paid Henrik very well for his advice and she trusted him. He had her best interests at heart.

He moved closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got a sold-out tour, millions in ticket sales, and the kind of press you’ve always dreamed about. I’m not letting it all crash and burn because someone slipped through the cracks.”

Rachel stepped forward, voice gentler now. “This isn’t about taking something from you. It’s about protecting what you’ve built. You don’t have to like this bodyguard. You just have to be safe.”

Safe.

She curled her fingers, nails pressing into her palms. She hadn’t felt unsafe until they said the word out loud. Now, it slithered through her chest, cold and venomous, like the scorpion’s tail.

As if her thoughts about safety summoned some higher power, a low hum vibrated the air. The dressing room had no windows, but she imagined a sleek helicopter setting down on the roof of the studio.

The entire room fell silent.

“That must be him.” Henrik offered Juliette a reassuring smile before crossing the room with his usual energy, all calm confidence and quiet purpose.

Juliette stared after her manager for a long beat, her mind spinning. How had a simple gift like a bouquet turned into something so dark and frightening that it required a bodyguard?

When her assistant touched her elbow, she jumped.

Harper gave her a soft smile. “Sorry, Juliette. Why don’t you sit down?

Try to relax while we wait for Henrik to return.

” Her assistant’s soft, lilting French accent usually calmed her, but right now, nothing would except picking up her beloved violin.

The room was dead silent, which only made the whir of the helicopter blades that much louder. In what felt like seconds, Henrik returned, throwing open the dressing room door like this wasn’t the strangest entrance any of them had ever witnessed.

Juliette’s pulse slammed faster, and not in a good way.

“No,” she said softly to herself more than anyone else. “No, no, no.”

This wasn’t happening.

A tall figure stepped into the room like he owned it—broad shoulders, black T-shirt stretched over muscle, his jaw set in a scowl. Aviators hid his eyes, but Juliette could already tell he wasn’t the kind of guy to appreciate her art…or the quiet she required.

“Juliette de Laroque?” His voice was gravel wrapped in arrogance.

She stood, heart sinking. “Yes.”

He stuck out a hand.

Juliette considered herself a warm and welcoming person, but she didn’t want anything to do with this big stranger dressed in worn jeans and cowboy boots.

The second her fingers touched his palm, she flinched.

Rough. Warm. Solid like steel.

She was used to touching soft hands. Polished fingers. Manicured nails.

She pulled back quickly.

No. Absolutely not.

Her quiet world—her delicate, deliberately crafted ecosystem of peace and creativity—was being invaded by a man who looked like he ate bullets for breakfast.