His Forbidden Guard

FOUR MONTHS AGO

Daveson's fingers flew across the keyboard of his ancient laptop.

He'd been tracking Lissa Heyden's movements for months now, piecing together her schedule from social media posts, society page articles, and carefully monitored patterns. The woman was predictable in her vanity, she loved being photographed, loved being seen, loved the attention that came with being New York's darling businesswoman.

Tonight, he'd finally found what he was looking for.

A society blog had posted about upcoming charity galas and exclusive events. Buried in the third paragraph was a casual mention: And of course, everyone who's anyone will be angling for an invitation to Lissa Heyden's 45th birthday celebration in December. Sources say the guest list is already at 300, with security tighter than Fort Knox.

December. That gave him four months.

Daveson leaned back in his chair, mind already racing through possibilities. He couldn't just walk up to the front door. Couldn't buy his way in, he barely had enough money for rent and food. But there was always another way in.

Security.

If he could get hired as part of the security detail for the party...

He pulled up a new browser window and started searching. High-end security firms New York. Elite bodyguard training. Private security for wealthy clients.

Most of the results were useless, companies that required years of experience, military backgrounds, connections he didn't have. But then he found it.

Armando's Security Depot: Elite Training for Elite Protection

The website was slick, professional. Photos of intimidating men in tactical gear. And most importantly: Intensive two-week certification program. Limited spots available. Graduates guaranteed placement with top-tier clients.

The cost made his stomach drop. Five thousand dollars.

He had eight hundred to his name.

Daveson closed his eyes, fighting the wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. So close. He was so goddamn close, and money stood in his way.

Unless...

He pulled up his email and scrolled back three months to a message he'd been ignoring. Raymond Drake. His old friend, if you could call him that, before Raymond had tried to use him as a patsy in an embezzlement scheme that had nearly gotten Daveson arrested. Raymond had gone to prison instead, and when he'd gotten out, he'd sent one message: I owe you one. You kept your mouth shut when you could have buried me. If you ever need anything, call.

Daveson had deleted the message immediately. Raymond was toxic, dangerous, the kind of person who left destruction in his wake. But desperate times...

He pulled out his burner phone and dialed the number he'd memorized before deleting it.

Raymond answered on the second ring. "Well, well. Didn't think I'd ever hear from you, Daveson. Or are you going by something else these days?"

"I need money."

A low chuckle. "Straight to the point. I always liked that about you. How much?"

"Five thousand."

"That's a lot of cash for someone who supposedly wants nothing to do with me."

"It's not a loan. It's a job offer." Daveson forced the words out, hating himself even as he spoke. "I need someone who can create a distraction. Someone who knows how to handle a weapon and won't lose their nerve."

Silence on the other end. Then: "You planning something stupid?"

"I'm planning revenge."

"Ah." Raymond's voice changed, became thoughtful. "The Heyden woman. I heard about what happened to your old man. Nasty business."

"Can you do it or not?"

"Depends. What's the play?"

Daveson outlined his plan, the birthday party, the security job, the staged assassination attempt that would make him a hero. Raymond listened without interrupting, and when Daveson finished, he whistled low.

"That's either brilliant or insane. Maybe both."

"That's not an answer."

"I'll do it. But not for money, I want in on whatever you're planning after. That woman has a lot of enemies, Daveson. A lot of people who'd pay good money to see her taken down a few pegs."

"This isn't about money."

"Maybe not for you. But I'm a practical man." Raymond paused. "I'll front you the five grand for the security training. Consider it an investment. When you're on the inside and you need help, you call me. Deal?"

Daveson's jaw clenched. He was making a deal with the devil, but what choice did he have? "Deal."

"Smart boy. I'll have the money to you by tomorrow. And Daveson? Don't fuck this up. I don't like my investments going sideways."

The line went dead.

The training at Armando's Security Depot was every bit as brutal as advertised.

Daveson showed up on the first day to find fifteen other candidates, all of them bigger, older, more experienced-looking than him. They sized him up with barely concealed contempt, this skinny kid who looked like a strong wind would knock him over.

He let them underestimate him. It would make what came next easier.

Marco Spinelli, the head instructor, was a mountain of a man with a shaved head and scars that told stories Daveson didn't want to know. He looked them over like a drill sergeant inspecting fresh recruits.

"Most of you won't make it through the first week," he announced, his voice like gravel. "This isn't mall cop training. We provide security for some of the wealthiest, most powerful people in New York. They demand perfection. So do I."

He wasn't lying.

The days started at 5 AM with brutal physical conditioning, runs that left Daveson's legs screaming, circuit training that made him vomit behind the gym on day two. Then came hand-to-hand combat training, where he learned how to disable an attacker twice his size, how to read body language, how to turn someone's strength against them.

By day three, two candidates had dropped out. By day five, four more were gone.

Daveson pushed through the pain, through the exhaustion that made his bones ache. Every time he wanted to quit, he thought about his father dying in that hospital bed. Thought about Lissa Heyden's smug face on magazine covers. Thought about justice.

The tactical training was where Daveson started to shine. Threat assessment. Situational awareness. Reading a room and identifying potential dangers before they materialized. Marco noticed.

"Roarke," he called out during a simulation exercise. They were practicing protecting a VIP in a crowded space, with instructors playing the roles of potential threats. "What do you see?"

Daveson scanned the mock crowd, his mind processing dozens of variables at once. "Three potential threats. Guy in the blue jacket, left side, hands in pockets, eyes tracking the principal's movement. Woman at two o'clock with the oversized purse, wrong season for that coat, could be concealing a weapon. And the server approaching from behind, wrong uniform, doesn't match the other staff."

Marco's eyebrows rose. "Good eye. Fast assessment. What's your play?"

"Position myself between the principal and blue jacket, signal partner to intercept the woman, verbal challenge to the server to verify credentials before he gets within arm's reach."

"And if all three move at once?"

"Principal's safety is priority one. Put myself between them and the most immediate threat, create distance, call for backup, be prepared to engage."

Marco nodded slowly. "Where'd you learn to think like that?"

"Survival," Daveson answered simply.

Something shifted in Marco's expression, a flicker of understanding, maybe even respect. "Yeah. I know that look. Alright, Roarke. Let's see if you can walk the walk."

He could.

By the end of the first week, Daveson had proven himself capable of holding his own against opponents with twice his mass. His smaller frame became an advantage—he was faster, more agile, harder to predict. He learned to use leverage and momentum, to target pressure points and vulnerable areas with surgical precision.

The other candidates stopped looking at him with contempt. Now they watched him with wariness, and a few with something like grudging respect.

On day ten, Marco pulled him aside after training. "You've got potential, kid. Natural instincts. But I need to know, why are you really here?"

Daveson had prepared for this question. "Need work. Need to make something of myself. This seemed like the best option."

"Bullshit." Marco's eyes were sharp. "I've trained hundreds of guys. Most of them are here because they like the adrenaline, or they couldn't hack it in the military, or they think protecting rich people is easy money. You? You're here for something else. I can see it in your eyes. You're hunting something."

Daveson held his gaze, not flinching. "Does it matter? I'm good at the work. I'll do the job."

Marco studied him for a long moment. "As long as whatever you're hunting doesn't interfere with protecting the client, I don't give a damn. But if it does, if you compromise someone's safety because you've got a personal agenda, I'll bury you myself. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good." Marco handed him a folder. "You've made it further than I expected. Keep this up, and you'll be one of the few who actually graduates. And I might have some work for you when you do."

Daveson graduated from Armando's program with the highest marks in his class. Marco offered him a spot on his permanent roster, assignments protecting visiting dignitaries, corporate executives, minor celebrities. Daveson accepted, knowing he needed to build his reputation, prove himself trustworthy.

He worked every assignment like his life depended on it. Showed up early. Stayed late. Never complained. Built a track record of reliability that Marco noted approvingly.

"You're good, Roarke," Marco told him after a particularly grueling week protecting a paranoid tech CEO. "Real good. I'm putting you on the rotation for high-profile events. You keep performing like this, you'll have your pick of assignments."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me. You earned it." Marco paused. "There's a big one coming up in December. Private birthday party for Lissa Heyden.

Daveson's heart stuttered.