Fighting For Olivia

by Zoë Normandie

  “I think you need to lie down.” Olivia put her hand on his shoulder, eyeing him as he deteriorated.

  “I think that’s a great idea.” He coughed, reeling from the damage he’d caused his broken body.

  Holding her hand, he led her down the hall to the dark bedroom where he’d thrown his things. She followed gingerly behind him and snuggled into the bed against his warm body.

  “I’m so glad to be here with you,” Olivia breathed on his chest, and his eyes grew heavy.

  It had been a long journey, and they were finally together again. Never before had he felt so satisfied. So happy. So pleased with himself and his treasure. She was his prize, and there was nothing any feminist revolution could do to change his possessive feeling for her.

  Something about Olivia drove a fire inside of him that he couldn’t put words to. He’d never met anyone like her, and never would.

  For the first time, they fell asleep together.

  40

  Ryder closed up a small red box and palmed it firmly in his hand. The last time he had held it, his mom had given it to him to keep safe. That had been their last conversation. When she was dying.

  He looked in the bathroom mirror off his new bedroom, listening for the sounds of Olivia waking up. She slept longer and harder than him, which he appreciated, since he enjoyed watching her in the morning. Until nature called.

  It was a good excuse to be alone and think things through. Ryder wasn’t sure when he’d decided to keep the small red box on hand, but he knew he needed it when he told Jake what shit he needed to pack for his stay at the safe house. His indeterminate stay.

  The red box was one of the last vestiges he had of his mom. God, he missed her.

  Her dying wish was that he’d find a good woman. Someone who’d be there for him. Someone loyal. Someone he could trust.

  Loyalty mattered. His father had been with her right until the end. No matter what they went through, they’d always done it together. Like a team. Sex, attraction, physical things—they could bring people together, but they faded. Values, his mother taught him, were what kept people together. Build your house on a good foundation, his dad had always said.

  Ryder wasn’t wrong when he made a big deal about values with Olivia. Values were everything. They went beyond blind trust, and even earned trust—they were about mutual trust.

  Checking himself in the mirror one last time, he could see that he was healing, but the wounds were still there. He’d been through a lot—and he was still hurting. Maybe he had overreacted when Olivia had gone behind his back. Her intentions were always in the right place, and her heart couldn’t be any bigger.

  And maybe that’s what really mattered.

  Walking out of the bathroom, red box in hand, he returned to the bed. She was stirring, but not yet awake. He could sit on the edge of the bed and watch her all morning. Her dark, fanned eyelashes decorated high, golden cheeks. That brunette hair wrapped around her softly, seductively.

  A sense of relief washed over him as he touched her cheek gently, and her breathing changed. She was waking up slowly.

  He remembered what his sister had said to him at his mom’s funeral. He needed to learn how to forgive. He knew he was never going to stop being himself, but he had to make a change and start by taking just one step.

  A wide smile came over his face. It sounded right. It was what he wanted.

  Opening her eyes fully, she grinned. “Good morning.”

  “Hey,” he replied. “I didn’t want to wake you, but we’ve got our mission this morning.”

  Understanding crossed her face, and then curiosity as she looked at the little box that he held out in his hand.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “It’s for you.” It was a moment he had thought of since he’d met her. He couldn’t believe it was actually happening. That they were in a place where it actually could happen.

  She took the box out of his palm and held it, running her fingers in the groove where it opened.

  “You know my baggage now. I don’t know what the future looks like for my life, but I can promise that I’ll always be there for you,” he said gently.

  She slowly opened the box. An antique gold ring sat in the box with a single bold sapphire nestled on top.

  His mother’s ring.

  “I love sapphires,” she whispered, her eyes glittering.

  “And I love you.” His hand caressed her cheek again. “A lot.”

  This time, the tears that fell from her eyes were clearly tears of joy, and his heart grew inside his chest, sending aches down his rattled rib cage.

  She took the ring out and looked at it closer before clearing her throat.

  “Do you think we can plan a wedding in seven months?”

  “That seems like an arbitrary number,” he replied, caught off guard. “Why?”

  “Because I’m pregnant.”

  His jaw dropped. He reached out and slipped the ring on her left hand quickly, before she had a chance to do so herself.

  It fit perfectly. Of course it did.

  “No is not an option now,” he said bluntly.

  She grinned in response. “Partners?”

  “And my wife,” he added. As he moved in to take her mouth, she pulled back and studied him for a moment. She reached her newly minted hand up and touched his face, gently tracing her fingers over the bruises. Then she looked into his eyes again. He saw the rawness that he had learned to love in her.

  “Holy hell, Ryder, I love you too.” She beamed at him, planting her beautiful berry-red lips on his, making every single one of his emotional dreams come true.

  Then, in true Ryder fashion, he leaned over her once more and made every single one of her physical dreams come true.

  Epilogue

  LATER THAT MORNING

  Ryder wasn’t crazy about his pregnant fiancée driving him on his secret mission, but she demanded to help him, seeing her commitment through. And he couldn’t deny her that.

  Pulling up to the gate at the SEAL base in Little Creek, Virginia, Ryder flashed his security badge to gain entry. Per his directions, she discreetly pulled around to the building where Ryder’s office was.

  “Aidan’s not going to be happy about this,” she muttered, “after all the effort he’s put into keeping your rescue a secret from Fuller.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what he thinks.” Ryder grinned. “He’s lucky this is all I’m going to do.”

  He was glad to have Aidan King on his side, but Ryder liked to play ball a little harder—a little more in your face—than King. He had thought out his plan long and hard, and he needed to send a clear fucking message to anyone thinking of fucking with him or the woman he loved.

  Giving Olivia one last kiss as she idled in the parking lot, Ryder reached for her hand. “Stay in the lot. Keep the car warm. I’ll be in and out.”

  Cell phones weren’t allowed in his building, which was a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Everything was as secure as it could be.

  He opened the door of her new black Bimmer and kicked his feet out. “Don’t talk to anyone,” he said, looking back over his shoulder.

  She nodded obediently.

  Walking up the cement steps, he held onto the rail for stability. His ribs and wounds still ached, a situation that hadn’t really been helped by fucking Olivia night and day.

  Ryder buzzed himself into the building and nodded at staff as he walked into the lobby. One by one, every DEVGRU SEAL who saw him stopped in their tracks, mouths gaping.

  It was like they had seen a ghost.

  Ryder strolled past, whistling to himself, smiling at colleagues like he had no clue why anyone would be startled. Like the Navy knew he was alive.

  “Master Chief!” a few SEALs cried after him once they’d rolled up their mouths.

  But Ryder didn’t stop. He was on a mission. And, just as he predicted, a trail of people formed behind him, vying for his attention, wondering what the fuck h
appened.

  He swung the door to his office open and marched to his desk, picking up a document in his inbox. Senior chiefs, chiefs, and special warfare operators flowed into the room in shock.

  “You’re alive!” one called out. “How?”

  “Jesus!”

  Ryder made a show of looking over the document in his hand. “It’s a story that you won’t believe,” he said to no one in particular.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” They could very well see Ryder’s healing wounds and his occasional wince, after all.

  The Silver Star application in his hand was waiting for his approval. He knew the commander had sent it there sometime before their last rotation, recommending Senior Chief Liam Blackshot for the honor.

  It was laughable, really. Neither Ryder nor Blackshot deserved any honors. They had failed to stand up for what was right to that fucking snake Fuller. Giving Blackshot a medal now would be like telling Fuller that he’d won.

  And that wasn’t the message Ryder wanted to send.

  He held the application with two hands and looked up to the crowd in his office. They all knew exactly what it was. And who had recommended it.

  With a vengeance, he tore the application in half, crumpled it up, and threw it in the burn bag at the foot of his desk.

  “Fuck him,” Ryder growled, thinking of Lieutenant Commander Fuller.

  The group collectively gasped. Without saying much at all, Ryder had just sent a very clear message, one that he knew would hit where it hurt. Within an hour, every SEAL on base would be questioning why a well-respected master chief had shown up alive, unbeknownst to the Navy, and savagely torn up a Silver Star application recommended by the commander himself. It was a gift that would keep on giving, planting the seed of doubt deep within the troop.

  Nodding to the onlookers and enjoying the understanding that washed over their faces, Ryder turned on his heels and left, returning to his fiancée in the getaway car.

  They were heading to meet her mom and dad in order to break the very exciting news of their wedding date and baby’s due date—in that order. After all, Ryder couldn’t let his mom, smiling down from the highest of heavens, see her grandchild born out of wedlock. The least Ryder could do to honor her memory was be the honorable man she’d always told him he was.

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  Guarding Aisha

  Book Three

  Jake Wilder gulped his enormous coffee, hoping to ease the incessant throbbing in his head. Yes, he regretted those beers from last night. Yes, he knew better than to drink the night before a meeting with his boss, especially at his advanced age of thirty-four years old.

  But, time and time again, Jake dug to the bottom of the cooler on game night, opting not to give a shit. As the late-winter sun pierced through the vaulted windows of the embassy’s lobby, he avoided the admission that he was compensating for something his life lacked.

  After crushing his disappointing coffee, he absently looked around the lobby for a garbage bin. It was a busy afternoon, with long lines at each kiosk in the US embassy. The full lobby stifled his view of disposal options. There were people everywhere, and it only increased his ire.

  A kid being led through the crowd by his mother bumped into his elbow hard, jolting Jake’s arm up and out, and slopping what was left of the coffee on his pants. The kid looked back at him with a bright and mischievous smile.

  “Little shit,” Jake snapped.

  The kid’s mother heard him and scowled.

  With a low growl, he forced himself to disengage lest he do something he didn’t want to do. Hell, it was still too early to talk to other humans—he wasn’t in a good place. This bullshit meeting had really ruined his plans for the day, which were to work out and try to figure his life out. On top of that, he couldn’t deny the nagging in the back of his mind: why had his boss, Charles, demanded they meet at the job site? Jake could have easily met him at one of their local haunts in the Canadian capital city. It would have been much easier to say no to whatever Charles had to say.

  Despite his reluctance to even be at the embassy, Jake was on time for the meeting, but Charles was not.

  Jake was never late. He was disciplined. Maybe his personal life was a fucking mess, but work-wise, he was always on the ball. As a former SEAL special warfare operator, he was hardwired that way.

  What Jake didn’t need was to linger around, waiting for things to happen. Charles damn well knew that Jake didn’t wait, not since the creeper incident during Jake’s leg of the deployment in the Sahel. The guys got a real crack out of that—they’d forced him to wait, alone in the bush, and he’d ended up fighting a man-sized black-and-yellow tree spider on a routine patrol. That thing was fucking vicious, but eventually Jake won the hand-fight and adopted it—meaning he’d stuffed the creeper in a bag and brought it back to camp. There were tour souvenirs, and then there were battle souvenirs.

  The forever war had changed Jake over time.

  The whole fucked-up memory made Jake shudder, so he forced his attention back to the present, scanning the lobby for his boss’s face, knowing the exercise was futile since there was no way Jake would have missed the entrance of Charles. One doesn’t miss a boisterous, six-foot-three Frenchman with silver hair. He was built like a tank, and louder than one too. He was one of the few men Jake could see eye to eye with.

  The view in the busy, noisy lobby was aesthetically pleasing, at least. Modern lines, geometric marble, gold-embossed desks. Everything stamped with American flags. The last part—Jake had to be honest—bordered on ostentatious. There was patriotism, and then there was… showmanship.

  For good reason, however: this was a flagship American embassy situated a stone’s throw from the Canadian Parliament Buildings in Ottawa. No doubt the president wanted the American presence to be known and admired in the allied city. All of this made the embassy a busy, important place. A place that attracted lots of people trying to immigrate into the US. A place where important political assets came and went.

  It was also a place where Jake made money, using his skills as an ex-SEAL for the only post-military work he could figure out: close personal detail and VIP transport. He was a bodyguard. Gunslinger. Muscle bringer.

  Broken sailor.

  Under a streak of sunlight through the window, one of the marines guarding the lobby tepidly marched up to Jake.

  “Hey, buddy,” the nearly white-blonde marine greeted him in quiet tones.

  Fucking marines.

  Jake didn’t like being called anyone’s buddy, and he narrowed his eyes in response. “What’s up?” he said gruffly, his baritone deep and velvety.

  The marine shifted from foot to foot. “We’ve got a complaint from some chick that you are—”

  “What?” Jake grunted, looking down his nose at the young marine, who stood five inches shorter and fifty pounds less. Was there suddenly a problem with waiting in a lobby? There were lots of fucking people waiting. Sure, he was the only one who looked like he ever did pull-ups, but what the fuck? Idiots. All of them.

  Feeling this energy, the marine slunk back with baby-pink cheeks, cleared his throat, and swallowed like he was trying to get down a ball of cotton. Blame the operator in him, but Jake had a funny way of doing very little but still coming off as intimidating as fuck.

  He used it to his advantage. All the time. At work. In bed. Wherever.

  The marine stuttered, but took a breath and continued. “Listen, bud, it’s just that you are… looming.” He stood stiffly and blinked, as if he half expected Jake to knock him out if he made any threatening movements.

  Jake assessed him. He was a young soldier. Hadn’t seen much. Combat deployments? Doubtful. Certainly nothing near the shit Jake had experienced in Iraq, Mali, the Gulf, you name it. This kid didn’t have any blood on his hands. His kill counts were exclusive to Call of Duty. Jake’s real-life kill counts, on the other hand, were impossibl
e to count.

  The marines that guarded the embassy were well aware that Jake was an ex-SEAL turned private security contractor. Half of them had already asked Jake for tips on selection, keen on learning what it took to get in.

  Breathing out and trying some patience on for size, Jake decided to be easy on this one. “I’m fucking waiting,” he said flatly, trying to temper his tone. The kid didn’t deserve his wrath. “Is that allowed?”

  “Just required to check.” The marine nodded too enthusiastically and slipped away, apparently relieved to escape unscathed. He nearly squeaked as he scurried off, leaving the veteran operator alone.

  Jake grunted something crass under his breath and spotted a garbage bin over by the last kiosk near the security door to the interior of the embassy. He fought the desire to three-point-shoot the cup over the head of the darkly tanned European man standing off to the side of the immigration counter.

  That wasn’t going to help him stay under the radar.

  He decided to make it on foot, keeping his elbows sharply out while passing that annoying, shithead kid and hopefully snagging a nose in the process. Unfortunately, the mother was already ushering him back out into the cold March air.

  As Jake sauntered past the tall, black-haired European man, their gazes connected. Something about the man’s expression made Jake’s Spidey senses tingle. The man would not relent and would not look away. In fact, his gaze turned into a sneer that was both threatening and ferocious. Jake nearly stopped dead in his tracks. He got the feeling that someone, or something, was out of place. It was a well-honed instinct he’d developed in the SEALs.

  But he kept walking, his gaze cutting away from the man and landing on a lithe woman standing stone-still at the immigration counter, quietly talking to the embassy representative. The European man’s eyes never left Jake, and it became damn clear to him that he was nothing more than a tiger guarding what was his.