Page 20 of Rescuing Aria

“Dad’s coming by at two to see the shop.” Frustration rises in my chest like steam from one of our candles. “You shouldn’t be here when he arrives.”

“No worries.” Jon’s response carries easy acceptance, no wounded pride or demand for explanation. “I’ve got drills with the team anyway. Jenny’s putting us through our paces, trying to incorporate the newbies into our flow.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by guilt. The fact that he makes it so easy—that he understands without making me explain the complications—only makes me feel worse about the necessity.

I’ve managed to keep my relationship with Jon carefully separate from my father’s scrutiny. Not because I’m ashamed—quite the opposite—but because I know precisely how Marcus Holbrook would view my involvement with a security specialist. Not quite the merger with the Holbrook Pharmaceuticals heir he’s been hoping for.

“It’ll be fine.” Ember’s voice carries forced optimism, though uncertainty flickers across her face. “He’s seen the numbers. He knows we’re successful.”

“He knows I’ve backed a successful venture,” I correct her with a grimace, my stomach twisting tighter. “In his mind, I’m the business half and you’re the talent. Like I’m managing your career instead of us being actual partners.”

The conversation we’ve had before hangs between us, heavy with unspoken frustrations. Dad’s worldview operates like a finely tuned machine: people have roles, hierarchies exist for a reason, and his daughter couldn’t possibly be equal partners with someone from Ember’s background. Not through any malice—he’s not deliberately cruel—but through an inability to conceive of any other reality.

“Maybe this time will be different.” Ember offers the words like a prayer, but she doesn’t believe them.

My expression suggests that it is about as likely as snow in July.

FIVE

Jon

The field’s quiet,the kind of quiet that hums with anticipation. Cool air clings to my skin, damp with the scent of churned dirt and cut grass. I check my rifle again—third time: Bolt, sight, chamber. Everything’s clean, everything’s tight. Still, I go over it once more. Not superstition. Just habit carved into muscle and bone.

The others have their rituals. Mac cracks his knuckles in sequence, and Jenny recites the same three words under her breath like a prayer.

Me? I check. Then check again.

“Planning to take that rifle to dinner, or you gonna shoot it sometime today?” Mac’s voice cuts through the stillness, dry as sandpaper and twice as abrasive.

Heavy footfalls thud closer, gear rattling with each step. He’s already suited up, vest snug across his barrel chest, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s daring the morning to piss him off.

“Just making sure she’s still prettier than you.” I don’t look up.

Mac snorts. “That’s not hard. But she still won’t cuddle you after.”

“She doesn’t talk back. I’ll take the trade.”

“You ready?” He crouches beside me, eyes scanning the line where the targets will pop.

“Always.”

My grip tightens because this isn’t just a drill. Not today.

“Just making sure I don’t embarrass myself in front of the new guys.” I run my thumb along the edge of the magazine before slotting it into place with a satisfying click.

“Too late for that. Your face already does the job.” He grins, the expression transforming his weathered features into something almost boyish despite the gray at his temples.

Jenny materializes beside us, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that means business. No one wears authority quite like her—it fits better than her tactical gear.

“Our new team members are getting the tour from Sam. They’ll meet us at the range in ten.” Her eyes scan the horizon, where the training course sprawls across five acres of Guardian HRS property. “Everyone needs to play nice. I’ve seen their files. They’re good.”

“Good enough to replace Charlie and Brett?” Blaze drops his gear bag next to mine, the thud punctuating Jenny’s statement.

The question hangs in the air. Charlie and Brett left holes bigger than their tactical positions. They were family. Eight years of missions, near-misses, and triumphs don’t disappear overnight because someone decided to open a gym and have a baby.

“Different skill sets,” Jenny answers diplomatically. “Matias Kane—goes by Razor—former Navy SEAL, sniper qualification that makes our previous records look like amateur hour. And David Rodriguez—Storm—ex-Ranger, demolition specialist. Both decorated. Both highly recommended.”

“Recommended by who?” Mac adjusts his tactical belt, skepticism etched into every line of his face.