All Chapters of The Bodyguard’s Siren: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

I’m already nervous when Giovanni knocks on my bedroom door. Which is ridiculous. I’ve walked red carpets half-naked. Performed in front of sixty thousand people. Given interviews while hungover, high, or on the brink of crying but none of that made my stomach feel like it’s climbing my ribs the way hearing his knuckles on the door does.“Cara?” His voice is low, even, and smooth. “They’re ready to drive us.”I breathe in deeply, stand straighter, and open the door and immediately forget how to breathe again.Giovanni Castellanos is wearing a suit. Not just a suit. A suit that fits him like sin. Black, tailored, crisp white shirt, no tie, top buttons undone just enough to hint at the hard lines of his throat. His hair is brushed back, jaw freshly shaved, and he smells…God. Clean skin. Warm spice. A hint of something cedar.My knees actually wobble.His eyes flick down my body it's a slow, brief, and clinical look, but something dark flashes in his gaze before he shutters it.“You read

By the time Hal pulls the SUV through the gates and up the drive, I’m exhausted in that way only retail therapy can cause, too many dressing-rooms, too many fluorescent lights, a thousand “That looks amazing on you” from saleswomen who definitely work on commission. Hal carries most of the bags without complaint. He’s strong in that dad-who-works-out kind of way, graying at the temples, but still built like he could tackle a linebacker. He’s humming under his breath as he unlocks the front door for me.“You get everything you wanted?” he asks.“Wanted? No.” I sigh. “Distracted myself from thinking? Yes.”Hal gives me a look of fatherly concern; he has no right pulling off so well. “Go put your feet up. I’ll bring this stuff to your room.”“No—no, I’ve got it. I promise. You’ve carried enough.”He hesitates, then nods. “Alright. But don’t forget to eat something. You haven’t all day.”I roll my eyes affectionately. “Yes, Hal.”He heads toward the kitchen while I gather the last two bag

I’m half-asleep, hunched in the stiff armchair where I spent the entire night, still wearing the same T-shirt from yesterday. A blanket has slid halfway off my lap. Across from me on the couch, Cara is curled up under a different blanket, her breathing finally deep and steady after the nightmare that wrung her out.My back and my neck hurts. My eyes burn but seeing her sleeping like this where she's peaceful, not trembling, not crying—makes every ache worth it.My phone buzzes.“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing it before it wakes her.I stand and step quietly into the hallway.“What?” I whisper.“Bro,” Matteo groans. “Bro. You have to come to the bookstore.”“No,” I say immediately.“Yes,” he fires back. “Please. Luca scheduled a sale event today, and he double-booked himself like a moron, and Sofia’s out having a spa day because hormonal pregnancy rage is worse than being shot at—his words, not mine—and now I’m stuck unboxing five hundred books alone.”“I can’t.”“I’m beggi

The gated driveway winds like a private road up the hill, the kind meant for people with more money than conscience. My car’s engine cuts through the quiet night, echoing off the marble columns as I roll to a stop beneath the oversized porte-cochère.I kill the engine. Silence drops heavy.I pull the black fabric mask up over my face so it’s snug across my nose, hiding everything except my eyes. It smells faintly of gun oil and leather, familiar enough to steady the blood pounding in my ears.It’s better if this guy never sees my face. I flex my injured knuckles that are still swollen, still bruised and feel the sting of stretching skin. From inside the mansion, lights glow warm through tall windows. A shadow passes by the glass. Whoever this guy is, he lives big.I step up to the door and knock. It’s not a polite knock or a patient one. It’s the kind of knock that says: Open up. Your time’s run out.Footsteps scramble on the other side. A lock slides. The door cracks open. The guy s

It takes a second for my brain to catch up — to understand why my arm is numb, why something warm and soft is pressed against my chest, why the steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing vibrates through my ribs. Then it hits me. Cara.She’s curled against me like she belongs there. One hand fisted in the fabric of my shirt. Her leg thrown over mine. Her cheek resting on my chest, lips slightly parted, breathing slow and even. My arm is wrapped around her waist, my fingers splayed against her stomach. As if my body forgot all the boundaries I swore I’d keep.My heart knocks once. Hard.Fuck.For a moment, a long one, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting panic and longing wrestle in my chest. She’s so warm, so small, and so trusting andI have no business touching her like this.I should move. I know I should move. But the second I shift even a fraction, she makes a small sound, a quiet, sleepy protest, and presses closer, burying her face into the hollow of my throat.I fr