Page 9 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Camille

The first omen of chaos arrives cloaked in rose-gold sunglasses and a grin built for trouble.

Vanessa Mercado—public-relations maven, sometimes partner in crime—sashays through my front gates as if they’d opened just for her.

To be fair, they probably did. Edgar has a soft spot for anyone who compliments his topiary dragons.

I’m on the veranda, laptop balanced on my knees while I proof donor lists for the gala, when her heels click across the flagstones. “Cam! Permission to raid your wine fridge?”

“Granted—if you promise not to reorganize my cheeses by zodiac sign again.” I close the laptop, stand, and brace for the hug that always feels like being tackled by scented glitter.

She squeezes, pulls back, studies my face. “You look… wired.”

“Long week.” I wave it off, not wanting to revisit masked psychos and bruised elbows. “Mural turned out amazing, though.”

“I saw the livestream! Those kids were adorable.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Almost as adorable as the living, breathing action figure hovering behind you.”

Before I can whirl, Sawyer steps out of the house, talking quietly into his comms mic.

Tactical jeans, fitted black tee, holster riding his hip like it was born there.

He spots Vanessa, nods politely, returns to conversation with Riggs—who appears farther down the path hauling a box of infrared cameras.

They’re doing a full perimeter upgrade tonight.

Sawyer said he didn’t care how many zeros the invoice accrued.

Oxygen, he called it, and for once he wasn’t talking about paint.

Vanessa watches him stalk toward a lamppost anchor point, jaw hinged open. “ Dios mío , who ordered the dark-and-deadly bodyguard?”

“My father,” I mutter. “Please behave.”

But Vanessa is already gliding forward, hair swishing like a Pantene commercial. She taps Sawyer’s elbow. “Hi, I’m Vanessa, security consultant connoisseur. And you are?”

He finishes whatever code phrase he was murmuring—“… Delta clear, post Four”—then turns, professional smile in place. “Sawyer Maddox, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She fans herself theatrically. “Do I look like a ma’am?”

His eyebrow quirks exactly one millimeter, and I feel it vibrate in my sternum. “Protocol, Vanessa.”

“Oh, he knows my name.” She winks at me over her shoulder. Kill me now.

I stride over, slip an arm through Vanessa’s. “Let me show you the new garden lights before you start interrogating my employee.”

“Employee?” She snickers. “Sweetheart, if he were my employee I’d never get any work done.”

Sawyer clears his throat. “Riggs is at the south hedge, Cam. We’ll finish installing the west-gate camera, then circle back. Radios on channel three.” He barely glances at Vanessa, but she flushes like he declared his undying love.

We peel off toward the gazebo. Vanessa digs an elbow into my ribs. “I approve of the new décor—tall, broad, and intense. Does he come with a dimmer switch?”

“Vanessa.”

“What? A girl’s gotta ask.” We reach the koi pond where lily pads bob under fairy lights. She stops, turns serious. “Okay, flirtation aside, how are you really? News says you doubled security on the mural site. Something happen?”

I hesitate, and run my fingers over the tender bruise on my elbow. “Someone tried to scare me.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Cam…”

“I’m fine. Honestly.” I force a smile. “Sawyer’s taking it very seriously. Probably too seriously.”

“Too seriously is his job.” She studies me. “And judging by the way you’re watching him work, you don’t hate the view.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s… professional.”

“Oh, honey, that man’s jawline is a war crime. And you keep licking your lips every time he bends to adjust a cable.”

“I do not!” The koi startle at my squeak.

Before Vanessa can roast me further, Riggs ambles over, beard bristling with zip-tie ends. “Ladies. Cabling’s done. Perimeter’s now a paparazzi-proof laser grid.”

Vanessa spins, zeroes in. “And who’s this? Lumberjack chic. I like.”

“Andrew Riggs, but everyone calls me Riggs,” he says, offering a calloused paw. “I operate power tools and occasionally diplomacy.”

“Vanessa Mercado. I operate social media and occasionally hearts.” She gives him a once-over so blatant I expect sparks. “Need a drink? Cam said I could raid the wine.”

“Wine’s above my pay grade on duty,” Riggs replies, but his grin says ask me again when the cameras stop rolling.

I groan. “Can we at least finish fortifying the fortress before you start speed-dating the security team?”

“Nobody said I can’t multitask.” Vanessa blows me a kiss and glides inside, Riggs in tow, launching into a tale about how she once turned a charity auction into a conga line. The man chuckles—deep and genuine. Traitor.

I turn, and collide with Sawyer’s chest. Somehow he’s materialized behind me without a sound. Almost ghostlike. His gaze tracks Vanessa and Riggs disappearing into the house. “Your friend is… energetic.”

“She collects phone numbers like charity tax receipts,” I mutter. “Sorry.”

“No apology needed.” But something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something tighter. He angles his body closer, subvocalizes into his mic: “Riggs, status?”

Riggs: “Client’s friend insists the wine cellar is haunted. We’re investigating.”

Sawyer’s mouth twitches. “Copy. Avoid spirits other than ghosts.”

“Funny guy,” I say. “Didn’t peg you for one.”

“Few do.” He steps back, and seems to remember himself. Professional. Always. But his gaze lingers a beat too long on my mouth, and the hummingbird under my ribs resumes kamikaze missions.

“Oh, Cam—one sec.” Vanessa bursts out of the French doors again, a bottle of rosé in each hand. “Do you have a corkscrew in the studio? The fancy one shaped like a man flexing?”

“I’ll grab it,” I sigh. Anything to remove myself before my face combusts. “Be right back.”

Sawyer: “I’ll escort.”

“I’m going thirty feet.”

“Thirty feet too many.” His tone leaves no room for an argument. I roll my eyes but head to the studio, him shadowing like a silent thundercloud.

Inside, I rummage through drawers, and finally find the novelty opener. When I turn, Sawyer stands by the unfinished painting from last night, studying the new strokes I added after his line—turquoise streaming from the arc like neon smoke.

“You expanded it.”

“Felt right.” I set the corkscrew down, and cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t mind?”

He inches closer to the canvas, fingertip hovering near a section where I blended cobalt into crimson. “Looks like movement through danger. Very controlled.”

“I was thinking of river water carving rock. Same path, a new depth,” I say, surprised by how much I want him to understand.

“I get that.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “Erosion and endurance.”

We’re standing too close. I can smell cedar and a hint of gun oil. I see the faint shadow of his stubble that’s darker than yesterday. Awareness buzzes between us like a live beast unable to be tamed.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For caring whether I wake up tomorrow.”

He exhales as if punched. “That’s the job.”

“No.” I tap the arc he drew, white and clean. “This isn’t the job. This is you.”

He looks at me then—truly looks—and the room narrows to the space between our knees. His hand lifts, hesitates, then cups my elbow where the bruise blooms. His thumb passes over the healing skin so gently my breath stutters.

“I hate that he touched you,” he says.

“Me too.” I swallow. My pulse is a canon. “But you’re here now.”

“Always.” The single word thrums with a reverent vow.

A crash reverberates from the house—a bottle hitting tile, maybe, followed by Vanessa’s shriek of laughter and Riggs’ baritone: “I told you the cork was possessed!”

The spell cracks, and we step apart. Sawyer jerks his chin toward the noise. “You safe here for five?”

“I’ll live.”

He jogs off to ensure my wine cellar is still standing. I drag a shaky breath, fan my face, then follow with more decorum than my legs feel.

By the time I reach the massive open-plan kitchen, Vanessa is sitting on the quartz island, dangling her legs while Riggs mops up a puddle of rosé. “I swear it popped itself,” she declares, cheeks flushed with color.

Sawyer stands at the doorway, arms folded, assessing. Seeing me, he relaxes half a notch. “Faulty bottle,” he explains.

“More like an overzealous corkscrew,” Riggs drawls, nudging Vanessa’s thigh with his elbow. “Told her to let me handle it.”

Vanessa pats his bicep. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jealousy nips my ribs. It’s irrational—Sawyer’s not flirting—but Vanessa’s earlier laser focus makes me irrationally territorial.

Before I can scold myself, headlights bloom across the drive, cutting through the front windows in a sweep.

Too quick for Edgar’s usual florist delivery, too slow for a visitor.

Sawyer’s posture changes—steel straight, hand dropping to his concealed weapon. “Riggs.”

Riggs cocks his head, listening. “Not on the schedule.”

I step toward the foyer arch, but Sawyer blocks me with one arm. “Stay here.”

Vanessa pauses mid-sip. “What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing,” I lie for her. But icy dread crawls my spine.

Riggs slings the mop, strides to the hall console where his rifle case leans, and unlatches it fluidly. Sawyer pulls a tablet from his belt, and taps through the security cam feeds. The closest feed freezes with pixelated static.

“Cam six offline,” he mutters. “Four and five still live.” He flicks to another view.

I inhale sharply. “Cut lines?”

“Looks that way.” Sawyer’s voice is low, controlled, the same tone he probably used while diffusing bombs. “Riggs, you cover north window lines. I’ll check cartons.”

“I have pepper spray,” Vanessa offers weakly.

Sawyer spares her half a glance. “Stay behind the island.”

Riggs tosses her an actual canister from his belt. “Pull pin, press nozzle. Don’t spray us.”

Edgar appears, eyes wide. “Mr. Maddox—is everything okay?”

“No,” Sawyer and I answer simultaneously.

A muffled thump hits the veranda—heavy footfall. Another. My heart sprints into my throat.

Sawyer presses a finger to his lips, and motions me backward until my spine kisses the refrigerator. His palm lingers at my hip, anchoring me there. Heat floods, absurdly out of place with danger spiking, but that’s adrenaline for you.

Riggs kills the kitchen lights, and moonlight pools through the skylights. The house holds its breath. Another thump. A scrape of metal at the lock.

“Edgar, security code red,” Sawyer whispers. Edgar darts to a hidden panel, keys a sequence. Somewhere, shutters thunk closed.

I can’t stand behind refrigerators when burly strangers invade my home. I grab a cast-iron skillet—thank you, Le Creuset—and grip the handle. Sawyer sees, and tightens his jaw but doesn’t argue.

He whispers, “ Stay behind my right.”

The front door bangs open, wood splintering. A figure bursts inside wearing dark clothes, a ski mask, and something metallic in his hand. The timing is too perfect. They braved cameras, locks—this is choreographed aggression.

Sawyer steps into the foyer with the fluidity of water turning to blade. “Drop it,” he barks, weapon trained.

The intruder hesitates. Wrong move. Riggs flanks left through the parlor arch, his rifle leveled. The man spins, sees two, and stumbles.

Sawyer advances, pivoting to keep his body between me and the threat. “On the ground, hands wide.”

Instead the man lobs the metal object—something small, round—toward the hall. Flash-bang. I recognize it too late. Light swallows sound, or maybe it’s the other way around. My vision flares white, and every nerve screams static.

Sawyer’s body crashes into mine, driving us down behind the island just as the device detonates— bang! —deafening. His arms wrap around my skull, tucking it into his chest. The scent of gunpowder and cedar slams home.

For endless seconds I hear nothing but my heartbeat. I see nothing but afterimages. Sawyer’s weight blankets me. It’s solid and reassuring. Slowly sounds edgeback—a ringing, then Riggs shouting, “Moving!”

Sawyer lifts just enough to look down at me, hands framing my face. “You okay?”

“I—I think so.” Everything wobbles, but no pain. Ears hiss. My fingers clutch his shirt, refusing to let go.

He stands, pulling me with him, and positions me in the corner behind the island. “Stay.”

I do. Because his tone leaves no room, and because my knees are tapioca.

From my vantage I watch him and Riggs sweep forward—a coordinated ballet of lethal efficiency.

They clear the foyer, and find the flash-bang still fizzing.

There’s no intruder. The hall camera feed flickers then steadies, and shows a figure sprinting back through the open gates onto the street.

Sirens wail in the distance. Edgar must have tripped the silent alarm.

Minutes stretch. Sawyer finally holsters his weapon, returning to me, hands running over my arms for injuries. His pupils are blown wide as his chest heaves. The energy rolling off him is molten.

“I’m fine,” I rasp, then curse the tremor in my voice. “Really.”

He cups the back of my head, foreheads touching, our breath mingling. “He breached the yard.” Fury vibrates through every word. “I will not let that happen again.”

The intimacy of the moment—his body still half-caging mine, Vanessa and Edgar whispering somewhere in the dark—should feel absurd. Instead it feels inevitable, like a note finally resolving after bars of tension. My palms slide up his ribcage, feeling the unyielding muscle beneath.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For being the wall.”

His thumb brushes my cheekbone, softer than a sigh. “You make it worth guarding.”

Lightning forks through me—need, fear, gratitude, lust inextricably woven. I sway closer, nearly brush his lips, when Vanessa’s voice slices through. “Um, guys? Police are at the gate.”

Sawyer steps back, his mask of professionalism slamming down. He turns to Riggs, issues crisp directives. The lights snap back on, and the moment is lost.

Later there will be statements, sensor audits, sleepless hours. But right now his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me gently toward the study where we’ll wait for the detectives. The touch says mine to protect , and my body answers so loudly it nearly drowns out the sirens.

I am in so much trouble, and not just from masked intruders.

Because somewhere between flash-bang and pulse-pound, I stopped seeing Sawyer Maddox as an impenetrable wall.

And started seeing him as the door I want to walk through—even if it’s marked danger: keep out .