Hired To Protect Him, Falling For Him

My parents' restaurant closed during the pandemic and never reopened. Savings gone. Dad wouldn't ask for help. Mom wouldn't either. So, I joined the Army at 19. Not because I loved war, but because Quinns serve. My grandpa served. My dad served. I wanted my dad to put his hand on my shoulder and say, "That's my daughter." And he did, at graduation. I was good at it. Top of my class in hand-to-hand, marksmanship, close protection. Two tours. Two commendations. Then, an IED and a medical discharge ended everything. Honourable, but over. Coming home broke was worse than war. No job wanted an ex-soldier girl who looks like a model. Security firms told me, "You're too pretty to be taken seriously, sweetheart." Modelling agencies said, "You're too muscular, too scary." Bodyguard work was the only place where being half-Korean, half-American, 5'10, able to speak two languages, and being able to break a man's arm with one hand was actually an advantage. That's why I was standing outside Thorne Tower on 58th in my only good suit — black blazer, black pants, boots I shined for an hour. My mom's old jade bracelet was my good luck charm. This wasn't just a job. This was rent. This was calling my mom and saying, "We are okay, eomma." This was making my dad proud again. The receptionist on the 42nd floor barely looked up. "Mr. Thorne hates bodyguards. And he specifically requested no women." I smiled. "Then tell him the woman who pulled General Park from a burning vehicle in Kabul is here. Tell him Nova Quinn Kim is here for her interview." That got me in. Elias Thorne didn't turn around when I entered. He was standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at all of Manhattan like he owned it. Which, technically, his family did. 32, British mafia heir, CEO of Thorne Industries as a front, and every file said the same thing: Impossibly handsome. It's impossible dangerous. Hates bodyguards. 6'3, dark hair, black shirt, suit jacket off, tattoos crawling up his neck and hands, a scar above his left eyebrow. When he finally spoke, his British accent was cold. "You're late, Ms. Quinn." "I'm five minutes early, Mr. Thorne." He turned. And for a second, I forgot how to breathe. The photos online didn't do him justice. Sharp jaw, cold blue eyes that could cut glass, mouth that never smiled. He was the kind of handsome that makes you angry. He looked me up and down once. Not like a man looking at a woman. Like a king looking at a soldier that might be defective. "Nova Quinn Kim. 27. Ex-Army. Two commendations for valour. Then, it bounced between three private security firms in six months. All fired you." "They didn't like taking orders from a woman," I said flatly. "Their problem, not mine. I don't get fired for failing. I get fired for not smiling while men fail." His eyes flicked up, interested for the first time. "You're 5'10, 140 pounds. You're here to protect me from a man who sent me a letter written in my own blood. A man who got into my penthouse. How, exactly, will you do that? By distracting him to death?" This was the moment. The moment every other interviewer laughed me out. The moment I usually walked out. Mom gave me the face, and Dad gave me the fight. I stepped right into his space. Close enough to smell his cologne — expensive, clean, winter, and gunpowder. I looked straight up and didn't blink. "By being the one thing your other six bodyguards weren't," I said, my voice low. "They were all 6'4, 250 pounds, ex-football, ex-MMA. Easy to spot. Easy to avoid. Every killer in this city knows to look for the big guy in the black suit." I took one more step. He didn't move back. "No one looks twice at a woman in a dress next to a mafia heir. They think I'm your girlfriend. Your distraction. That's why I'll see the threat before they do. Because no one ever sees me coming." The air in the office went still. His blue eyes dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. His jaw tightened. "You have a smart mouth for someone who needs rent money." "You checked my bank account? That's illegal." "I check everything," he said. "You have $42.18 in checking. Rent due in three days. Mother and father in Queens, behind on mortgage. You need this job more than I need a bodyguard." My face burned. But I didn't look away. "Then you know I won't quit. You can be rude. You can be an ass. But I will not let you die. Because if you die on my watch,i don't just lose this job. I lose everything." For a long moment, he just stared. Then he walked around his desk until we were inches apart. So close, I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the black ink of his Thorne family crest peeking out from under his shirt collar His cologne hit me — expensive, clean, winter, gunpowder, and something darker. Dangerous. Everything about Elias Thorne was dangerous. "My head of security says you're the best close-protection specialist in the city," he murmured. His British accent dropped lower, rougher. "My PR team says hiring a woman who looks like you will cause a scandal. Every tabloid in New York will think I hired you to f**k you." My cheeks burned, but I didn't step back. I never step back. "And what do you think, Mr. Thorne?" "I think they're both right," he said, his blue eyes dropping slowly from my eyes to my lips and back up. It wasn't a look. It was a claim. "You will be a distraction. The worst kind." "Rule 1, Mr. Thorne," I said quietly, my voice barely a whisper but steady. "Don't look at my face. Look at my hands. My face will get you distracted. My hands are what will save your life." That made him smile. For the first time. Dark. Slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile that should come with a warning label. "You're hired, Ms. Quinn," he said. "You start tonight. You move into my penthouse. You go where I go. You breathe when I breathe. One bedroom. My bed is not included in the contract — unless you beg." "I don't beg. And I don't sleep with my clients. Ever. Put it in the contract." He leaned in, his mouth inches from my ear. I could feel his breath. "Who said anything about sleeping, Ms. Quinn?" My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. This was a terrible idea. He was my boss. He was the British mafia heir. He was everything I should run from. But rent is due in three days. And my mom's voice was in my head: eomma needs us to be okay. So I looked him dead in the eye and said, "I think that's going to be impossible." His smile got darker. "Good. I hate possible."