Page 9 of Road Trip With Her Daddy Protector (Love Along Route 14)

Lola

Something is different tonight.

Gus moves through the cabin like a storm contained—silent, coiled, and deliberate. He’s spoken maybe a dozen words since sunset, and each of them felt measured, weighed for unnecessary weight before he let it leave his tongue.

I dry the last dinner plate and stack it in the cupboard, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he checks the battery indicator on the generator, then the feed on the trail-cam tablet, then the deadbolt on the front door he’s already locked twice.

“Gus,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Are we safe?”

He pauses mid-stride, meeting my gaze across the kitchen. For a heartbeat his eyes soften—hazel under the low lamplight, the green flecks I love turning dark and deep. Then the soldier slides the curtain of calm back into place.

“Nothing’s getting past me,” he answers. Which is not what I asked, and we both know it.

I cross the floor until I’m close enough to smell cedar and gun oil on his shirt. My fingers curl into the hem. “Tell me the truth.”

He exhales, a slow press of air between clenched teeth. “Truth is I’d die before I let anyone hurt you.”

“That’s not the same as safe.”

His jaw flexes. “Safe enough for now.” A fingertip ghosts down my cheek, tender despite the tension vibrating through him. “But I need you in the panic room tonight, Lola.”

Cold slips beneath my skin. “He’s close.”

Gus doesn’t confirm, but his silence is confirmation enough. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Pack a small bag. Water, flashlight, jacket. Go now. I’ll lock you in and join you when it’s over.”

“When,” not if. My stomach flips. “I’m not hiding while?—”

A sharp rap explodes against the front door, three rapid knocks that rattle the hinges.

We both freeze.

Another knock—slow this time, taunting.

Gus’s eyes blaze. He grabs my wrist and pulls me behind the kitchen island, shoving a pistol into my palm. “Safety’s off. Aim, squeeze, breathe.” Then he’s gone, ghosting down the hall toward the living room, rifle raised.

My heartbeat slams in my ears.

“Gus?” I whisper. No answer.

The doorknob rattles, followed by a smooth, almost amused voice that slides under the door like smoke. “Lola, sweetheart… open up. You forgot to leave a forwarding address.”

Tyler.

My fingers tighten on the pistol. Last time I heard that voice it was hissing threats in my ear, promising he’d hunt me to the ends of the earth. He kept his promise.

A crash—wood splintering. The door gives. I choke back a scream.

“Gus Monroe,” Tyler calls, footsteps creaking across the entryway. “Survival expert, ex-Delta… impressive résumé. Too bad you picked the wrong girl to play hero for.”

Another sound—boots scuffing, furniture scraping. Then Gus’s growl, low and lethal: “Step away from that threshold and you might walk out of these mountains alive.”

Tyler laughs, a sharp, ugly bark. “Come now, we both know that’s not your plan.”

Silence swells. I can feel them measuring distance, angles, intent. My pulse hammers so loudly I’m sure they can hear.

A single gunshot cracks, deafening in the enclosed space. Glass shatters. I bite down on a scream and flatten behind the island.

Gus shouts, “Lola, panic room! Now!”

I scramble toward the pantry, forcing stiff legs to move. A second shot booms, chips of pine zinging off the doorframe above my head. I dive through the pantry doorway, slamming the hidden panel. Darkness swallows me.

The latch clicks. I engage the steel bar, then fumble for the small monitor linked to the cabin’s cameras. The infrared feed flickers to life: the living-room outline rendered in heat-map whites and grays. Two figures circle each other—Gus broader, steadier; Tyler wiry, quick.

Tyler lunges. Gus pivots, delivering a brutal elbow that sends Tyler crashing into the coffee table. Wood splinters. Tyler rises, blood hot on his face, and fires again. Spark flares off the fireplace grate; Gus rolls, returns fire, the muzzle flash white lightning.

I can’t breathe. Each second stretches like wire, taut and slicing. My fingers hover over the red beacon button that will summon Mason’s team, but Gus asked for time. I owe him that.

On-screen Tyler darts behind the couch, ripping a lamp cord free, swinging the base like a club. Gus advances, rifle in one hand, sofa between them. Tyler hurls the lamp; it smashes against the hearth.

Then they’re on each other—rifle knocked aside, fists and knees and fury. Gus drives Tyler into the stone mantle; the impact vibrates through the feed. Tyler claws for his waistband—knife glinting.

My scream echoes against steel walls: “Gus!”

He twists, the blade skimming his ribs, crimson blooming on his shirt.

Instead of retreating he surges forward, trapping Tyler’s knife arm, head-butting him with a sickening crack.

Tyler staggers. Gus wrenches the knife free, flips it, and pins Tyler’s wrist to the mantle with the blade buried through the cuff of his jacket.

Tyler howls.

Gus steps back, chest heaving. “It’s over.”

Tyler laughs through blood-stained teeth. “For you maybe.” He yanks a small remote from his pocket, thumb poised. “You’re not the only one who planned ahead.”

The color drains from Gus’s face. I know what Tyler means—booby trap, car bomb, something outside… my vision tunnels.

Before Tyler can press the button, Gus drives a knee into his gut. The remote skitters across the floor. Gus tackles him, grappling, wrenching Tyler’s free arm behind his back until bone pops. Tyler screams, going limp.

Sirens wail in the distance—an avalanche of relief. Mason must have triggered the sheriff’s net when the perimeter alarms tripped.

Gus drags Tyler to the center of the room, boot on his spine, rifle trained. The front door bursts open—blue lights strobing, deputies pouring in. In seconds Tyler is cuffed, the knife collected, the remote sealed in an evidence bag.

Only when the room clears do I unseal the panic room. The moment the panel swings wide, Gus is there, blood seeping through his shirt but eyes blazing with desperate worry.

“Lola.” My name is a prayer on his lips.

I throw myself into his arms, gripping him hard enough to bruise. “You’re bleeding.”

“Graze.” He brushes my hair back, scanning me for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Tears blur my vision. “You kept your promise.”

He kisses me, fierce and trembling. “And I always will.”

Deputy radios crackle downstairs; EMTs call for blot dressings. Gus allows them to steer him toward the porch steps. I keep my hand locked in his the entire time.

While they tend his wound, Mason jogs up the drive, grin splitting his face. “Hell of a show, Monroe.” He nods toward me. “You okay, ma’am?”

“I am now.”

Tyler is loaded into a cruiser, head bandaged, eyes filled with venom. I meet his stare one last time—and feel nothing but gratitude for the man beside me.

Gus squeezes my fingers. “It’s done.” He reaches into his pocket, draws out the velvet box now streaked with his blood. “Time to talk about after.”

Tears spill freely. “Yes,” I whisper. “After.”

The mountains stand silent witness as he slides the ring onto my finger, its diamond catching the flashing lights and turning them into stars.

For the first time since the night everything fell apart, I’m not running. I’m exactly where I belong—safe in the arms of the man who would move mountains, set traps, and bleed for me.

And together, we watch Tyler Cole disappear into the dark, unable to touch us ever again.