Married to my bodyguard

Chapter 1 – The Ambush

I always hated the stretch of highway that curved along the cliffs outside the city. It looked beautiful in daylight—silver guardrails, the ocean flashing below—but at midnight, it turned into a ribbon of darkness. Tonight, I was the only car on it, and even the stars felt like they were holding their breath.

“Another glamorous night, Miss Blake,” my driver joked as he merged onto the coastal road. “The charity gala was a hit.”

I smiled faintly, kicking off my heels. “If by hit you mean five hours of pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne and hearing people call me my father’s ‘little princess,’ then yes, it was fantastic.”

He laughed. “You raised a lot for the orphanage, though. That counts for something.”

“It does,” I admitted, leaning my head against the cool window. The sea was just a smear of ink on my right. I wanted my bed, my cat, silence. No more reporters asking about Blake Industries. No more men trying to flirt their way into a business deal. Just home.

That’s when the headlights appeared behind us—too bright, too close.

I frowned. “Is that car tailgating?”

The driver glanced in the mirror. “Probably someone in a hurry. I’ll let them pass.”

But the headlights didn’t pass. They drew nearer, almost kissing our bumper.

“Okay, that’s rude,” I muttered.

He flicked on the turn signal, shifting to the side. The other car swerved with us. Then its brights flashed twice—blinding.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, voice tightening. “Buckle up, Miss Blake.”

A heartbeat later, the impact came. A brutal jolt that threw me forward; my purse hit the dashboard. Metal screamed against metal.

“What the hell—” I gasped, grabbing the seat.

“They’re trying to push us off the road!”

Another hit. The tires squealed, the cliff’s edge yawning to our right. My pulse roared in my ears.

“Call the police!” I shouted.

He fumbled for his radio. The static answered. “No signal out here!”

The car behind rammed us again, harder this time. My head slammed against the seat. Airbags burst white.

“Hold on!” the driver yelled. He jerked the wheel left, but a black SUV appeared from the other lane, cutting us off.

Two cars. Not random. An ambush.

I felt the panic like cold water down my spine. “Who are they?”

He didn’t answer—too busy fighting the steering wheel. The sedan fishtailed, tires screeching. I grabbed the handle, uselessly bracing myself. One more hit, and we’d go over the cliff.

Then a gunshot shattered the back window.

I screamed. “They’re shooting!”

“Stay down!”

I ducked, shards of glass raining over my hair. The driver tried to speed up, but the front SUV slammed on its brakes, forcing us into a spin. I tasted smoke, fear, metal.

The world tilted. The car flipped once—twice—and everything went white.

When I came to, there was ringing in my ears. The car was on its side. My seatbelt dug into my shoulder. I coughed, smoke choking my throat.

“Ben?” My driver didn’t answer. Blood ran from his forehead.

Oh God.

I pressed at the belt latch until it gave way, dropping me awkwardly against the door. My legs trembled. I pushed it open, crawling out into the cold night air.

The road was silent except for the hiss of leaking fuel. Both SUVs had stopped a few yards ahead. Their headlights cut through the smoke like twin spears.

Doors opened. Boots hit asphalt.

Three men stepped out—black clothes, masks, rifles slung low.

My heart tripped over itself. “No, no, no…”

One of them pointed. “There she is.”

I stumbled backward, gravel biting my palms. The cliff was maybe twenty feet behind me. No cover. No chance.

“Don’t move,” the man barked.

Like I could. My body refused to obey anyway.

He came closer, gloved hand reaching into his jacket.

I wanted to run. Scream. Wake up. But the night just stared back.

Then, from somewhere behind their cars, another engine roared to life—a deeper growl, more powerful.

The masked men turned, startled.

I squinted through the smoke. A motorcycle burst from the darkness, headlights off, moving like a streak of shadow straight toward them.

“Who—” one shouted, but the bike was already on them.

Gunfire exploded. The rider leaned low, a flash of movement, and two of the men went down before I even saw what happened.

I dropped to my knees, covering my head, heart slamming so hard I thought it would crack my ribs.

The motorcycle skidded sideways, tires screaming, and stopped inches from me. A tall figure jumped off—helmet visor reflecting the flames from my wrecked car.

He kicked the last gun out of an attacker’s hand and sent him sprawling. Silence fell except for the crackle of fire.

The rider turned to me.

I froze, shaking. “Who are you?”

He lifted the helmet just enough for me to see a pair of steel-gray eyes.

“Someone who’s very late,” he said.

The way he said it—low, calm, dangerous—made every nerve in my body go taut.

And then, behind him, one of the masked men raised a gun.

“Look out!” I screamed—

He moved before the word finished leaving my mouth. A blur of black jacket, a twist, the gunshot cracking the night. Sparks burst from the pavement inches from where he’d stood. Then the man with the gun went down hard, the motorcycle rider’s elbow connecting with his jaw.

Everything after that happened in flashes—the kick of metal sliding, another gun clattering away, the smell of fuel thick enough to make my throat burn.

When it was finally quiet, I realized I was still crouched on the ground, shaking so badly that my hands wouldn’t unclench.

The rider glanced at me once more, visor up now. He had a tiny cut on his cheek, like a scratch from a shard of glass, and an expression that didn’t match the chaos around us—steady, unreadable.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

I tried. My knees didn’t agree. “I… I think so.”

He crossed the few steps between us and offered a gloved hand. For a second I just stared at it. Touching strangers in the middle of an ambush wasn’t on my usual to-do list, but the night had already gone insane. I grabbed his hand, and he pulled me up in one smooth motion.

“Who were they?” I demanded. “Why were they after me?”

His gaze swept over the wrecked cars. “Questions for later. We need to move.”

“My driver—Ben—he’s still in there!” I turned toward the flipped sedan, but he caught my wrist.

“Don’t. The tank’s leaking.”

“I can’t just leave him!”

His voice hardened. “If you go near that car, we both die.”

The words hit like a slap. I hesitated, staring at the broken shape of the sedan. The heat from it was getting worse, the flames creeping along the hood. Somewhere inside, a small rational part of me understood he was right.

He must’ve seen the tears starting, because his tone softened. “I’ll check.”

Before I could stop him, he ran to the driver’s side, crouched low, and looked through the shattered window. A few seconds later he straightened, shaking his head once. I knew what that meant.

“No,” I whispered. The sound didn’t even feel like mine.

He turned back to me. “We need to go. Now.”

The fire gave a loud pop—metal expanding under the heat—and that decided it. He grabbed my hand again and half-dragged me toward the bike.

“I can’t ride that thing,” I said, staring at it. “I don’t even drive stick!”

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Hold tight.”

I wanted to argue, to ask where he planned on taking me, who he even was—but another explosion ripped through the night, and hot air shoved us forward.

He swung onto the motorcycle and looked over his shoulder. “Ariana Blake, right?”

The way he said my name made my skin prickle. “How do you know who I am?”

“That’s another question for later. Get on.”

I should’ve been terrified, suspicious, maybe both. But something in his voice—firm, certain—cut through the noise in my head. I climbed on behind him, gripping his jacket so hard my knuckles hurt.

The engine roared to life, deeper and meaner than I expected. He shifted gears, and the bike lunged forward. Wind slapped against my face; the fire behind us shrank into the distance.

“What’s happening?” I shouted over the wind.

“Someone wanted you off that road tonight.”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer.

We sped through the dark highway, weaving between shadows and debris. I looked back once—the SUVs were nothing but burning skeletons, the cliffs glowing with orange light.

My pulse refused to slow. My mind replayed the crash, the masked men, Ben’s still face.

“What’s your name?” I asked when I could breathe again.

“Cole.”

That one syllable hit strange—like a name I should’ve known but didn’t.

“You just happened to be here?” I said.

“Let’s say I was assigned to be.”

“Assigned?”

He didn’t elaborate. His focus stayed on the road, body leaning with the turns like he was part of the machine. We cut off the main highway onto a smaller road lined with trees.

After a few minutes, the adrenaline started to fade, leaving only exhaustion and disbelief. I’d gone from champagne glasses and violin music to bullets and fire in less than an hour.

“This feels like a dream,” I muttered.

“More like a nightmare,” he replied.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

“Someone who thought you’d need me.”

“Then tell me what’s going on!”

He sighed, slowing a little as the forest thickened around us. “We’ll stop soon. You’re in shock.”

“I’m not—” I started, but my voice wobbled. “Okay, maybe I am.”

He pulled off the road into an old service trail, cutting the engine. The sudden quiet rang louder than the gunfire had.

“Where are we?” I whispered.

“Safe enough for now.” He dismounted and offered his hand again. “Come on.”

I stayed where I was, staring at him in the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. “You still haven’t told me who you really are.”

He met my eyes, serious. “Bodyguard. Temporary. Hired under the radar.”

“My father?”

He gave a tiny nod.

Something in my stomach twisted. Of course. My father always had a plan. But why hadn’t anyone warned me?

Before I could ask, a crack echoed from the woods—a snapping branch. Both of us froze.

Cole’s head snapped toward the sound. “Stay down.”

“What is it?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer, already reaching for the gun holstered at his hip.

Another noise, closer this time.

He motioned for silence, moving between me and the trees. I crouched beside the bike, heart hammering all over again.

The silence stretched. Then headlights flickered deeper in the forest—two, maybe three vehicles coming our way.

“They found us,” he muttered.

“How?”

“Doesn’t matter. We move.”

He started the bike again. I scrambled behind him, hands shaking. The engines in the distance were growing louder—closing fast.

“Hold on tight, princess,” he said, eyes hard.

I barely had time to gasp before the bike shot forward, tires spitting dirt.