**POV: Serena**
I watched them arrive through the security feed.
Two men emerged from a nondescript black SUV—professional, efficient, scanning their surroundings before approaching my building. The taller one moved like a predator: controlled, economical, aware of every sightline and angle. The second was broader, more aggressive in his body language, hand resting near his hip where I'd bet a weapon was concealed.
Military. Definitely military.
Good.
I'd changed clothes three times this morning, annoyed at myself for caring. Finally settled on dark jeans, a fitted black top, and boots that looked fashionable but were actually tactical. The knife stayed strapped to my ribs. The small pistol in my ankle holster stayed too.
Rita thought I was paranoid.
Rita had never been kidnapped at eight years old and held for six months in a facility that called itself a "sanctuary."
The intercom buzzed.
"Ms. Vale? Silas Vorn and Ash Kaine from Silverthorne Security."
I pressed the button. "Come up. Apartment 1804."
While they rode the elevator, I made coffee I wouldn't drink and arranged myself on the couch. Not lounging—that would signal weakness. Not rigid—that would signal fear. Controlled. Present. Ready.
The knock was precise. Three raps, evenly spaced.
I took a breath. Locked down my scent until there was nothing—not omega, not human, just absence. The control cost me, always did, but I'd learned long ago that being unreadable was safer than being understood.
I opened the door.
The scent hit me immediately—leather and gunmetal and something darker, wilder underneath. Alpha. Two of them. My hindbrain registered it, catalogued it, tried to categorize threat versus protection.
I felt nothing.
Years of training, years of exposure therapy and controlled environments and forcing myself to stand in rooms full of alphas until my body learned they couldn't break me, couldn't own me, couldn't take anything I didn't give—all of it held.
My pulse didn't spike. My pupils didn't dilate. My scent stayed locked down tight.
I looked at them the way I'd look at any strangers entering my space: assessing, cautious, but utterly in control.
Silas Vorn was tall—six-three, maybe six-four. Dark hair cut military-short, gray eyes that immediately scanned my apartment before settling on my face. He wore dark tactical pants and a fitted black shirt that showed the kind of build you only got from years of serious training.
Dangerous. Competent. Exactly what I needed.
The second man—Ash—had darker skin and warmer eyes, though they held the same military sharpness. Where Silas radiated control, Ash projected controlled violence. A man who could smile while neutralizing threats.
"Ms. Vale." Silas extended a hand, and I saw his nostrils flare slightly. Confusion flickered across his features—just for a moment—before that military mask snapped back into place.
He couldn't smell me. Of course he couldn't.
I shook both their hands firmly, meeting their eyes. "Call me Serena. Coffee?"
"No, thank you." Silas's gaze moved methodically—windows, exits, sightlines. Professional assessment, nothing personal. "We'd like to start with a security audit of your residence, then discuss threat parameters and protocols."
"Of course." I gestured to the seating area. "But first, tell me why my brother recommended you specifically."
Something shifted in Silas's expression. "We served together. He trusted us with his life, and he trusts us with yours."
"That's not what I asked."
Ash's eyebrows rose slightly. Silas studied me for a long moment, and I let him look. Let him try to categorize me, understand me, predict me.
He wouldn't. Not yet.
"Your brother believes you're facing a threat that requires operators with specific skill sets," Silas said finally. "Ones who can function in hostile environments against sophisticated adversaries. He also believes—" He paused. "—that you require a team who won't underestimate you."
Interesting.
"Most security firms would promise to keep me safe," I said. "You're promising not to condescend to me. Is that an important distinction?"
"In my experience?" Ash leaned forward, and I caught the undertone of smoke and whiskey in his scent. My autonomic nervous system registered it, filed it away. My conscious mind remained calm. "Yeah. The clients who get hurt are usually the ones everyone assumed couldn't handle the truth."
"And you think I can handle the truth?"
"I think," Silas said carefully, eyes tracking my micro-expressions with sniper precision, "that you've been handling it for a long time without help. We're here to make sure you don't have to keep doing that alone."
For the first time in years, someone had surprised me.
I stood. Not fleeing—establishing authority in my own space.
"Then let's start with the truth." I moved to my desk, pulled up files on my tablet. "Someone's been inside this apartment. Three times that I've confirmed, possibly more. They're skilled enough to defeat standard security, leave no physical evidence, and exit without triggering any alarms."
Both men went still—the kind of stillness that came before violence.
I registered their alpha posturing, their protective instincts rising, the shift in their scent toward something sharper. My body's response? Absolutely nothing. I'd trained it out of myself years ago.
"When?" Silas's voice dropped to command tone.
"Last occurrence was four days ago. Before that, eleven days. Before that, three weeks." I pulled up photos—subtle disturbances, items moved millimeters, dust patterns disrupted. "I have sensors they don't know about. Motion-activated cameras in concealed positions. But whoever it is knows how to avoid standard surveillance."
"You documented this?" Ash took my tablet, and his fingers brushed mine briefly. Contact. Neutral. Professional.
"Of course."
"Did you report it to building security? Police?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Because I didn't trust anyone. Because systems could be compromised. Because the people who took me when I was eight had looked like concerned caretakers until the door locked behind me.
"Because," I said evenly, "I wanted to gather evidence first. And because I suspected this was more sophisticated than random stalking."
Silas's gray eyes locked onto mine. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Stood my ground in my own space with two alpha predators radiating protective aggression, and felt absolutely nothing but my own steady heartbeat.
Something shifted in Silas's expression. Not attraction—not yet. Something deeper. Something like... recognition.
"You're not what I expected," he said quietly.
"Neither are you," I replied. "Marcus said you were good. He didn't say you were smart."
Ash laughed—surprised, genuine. "Okay, I like her."
Silas pulled out his phone. "Riven, we have a priority situation. I need you at the client's residence immediately with full surveillance package. Assume hostile has established access patterns."
He lowered the phone. "We're upgrading your entire security infrastructure. Today. But I need to ask—why are you still here? Why haven't you moved to a secure location?"
"Because moving signals weakness and fear. It tells whoever's doing this that they're winning." I crossed my arms. "What I need from you isn't protection from the world. It's partnership in controlling the variables."
Silence.
Then Silas did something I didn't expect.
He smiled.
"All right," he said. "Then let's talk about how we do this together."
I gestured for them to sit, and we spent the next twenty minutes going through my documentation. Every photo, every timestamp, every pattern I'd identified. Silas asked precise questions. Ash made notes on his phone. Neither of them dismissed my observations or suggested I was overreacting.
It was... refreshing.
"You have good instincts," Silas said, studying a photo where I'd marked a disturbed dust pattern. "Most people wouldn't notice half of this."
"Most people didn't spend their childhood learning that survival depends on noticing everything." The words came out before I could stop them.
Both men looked up. I kept my expression neutral, refusing to show discomfort at the slip.
"Marcus mentioned you'd had some difficult experiences," Ash said carefully. "Said it made you cautious about security."
"That's one way to put it." I took the tablet back. "What matters now is that someone is accessing my home without authorization, and they're skilled enough to do it repeatedly without detection. That suggests planning, resources, and intent beyond typical stalker behavior."
"Agreed." Silas stood, moving to the window. He checked the locks, examined the frame, tested the structural integrity. "Your building security is adequate for standard threats. But if someone's bypassing it this cleanly, we're dealing with either insider access or advanced technical capabilities."
"Or both," I said.
"Or both." He turned back to face me. "We'll need to audit your entire staff—building security, cleaning crew, maintenance, anyone with potential access to your apartment or schedule."
"I already started that process." I pulled up another file. "Background checks on everyone who works in this building. Nothing jumped out as suspicious, but I'm not trained to spot the kind of red flags you would be."
Ash took the tablet, scrolling through my notes. "This is thorough. Very thorough."
"I told you. I don't take risks."
"No, you take calculated risks based on extensive preparation." Silas's tone held something that might have been approval. "There's a difference."
The buzzer rang. Building security.
"Package delivery for Ms. Vale," the guard's voice crackled through the speaker.
I checked the security camera. Standard delivery box, nothing unusual about it. The guard—Steven, worked day shift, been here two years—looked bored.
But I hadn't ordered anything.
"I'm not expecting a delivery," I said into the intercom.
"No return address. Want me to refuse it?"
I looked at Silas. He was already moving toward the door, hand near his hip. "Have him leave it with security. We'll collect it after it's been screened."
"You heard that, Steven. Keep it at the desk. I'll pick it up later."
"No problem, Ms. Vale."
Ash was at the window now, scanning the street below. "Could be nothing. Promotional material, fan mail that made it past your management."
"Could be." But my instincts said otherwise.
Silas pulled out his phone. "Riven, add package screening to your gear list. We have an unexpected delivery we need to check before the client handles it."
He looked at me. "You get a lot of unsolicited packages?"
"No. My management filters everything. Fan mail goes to a PO box, gets screened by my assistant. Personal deliveries are pre-authorized." I pulled up my delivery log on my phone. "Nothing scheduled for today."
"Then we treat it as suspicious until proven otherwise." Silas moved back to the center of the room, his tactical awareness creating an invisible perimeter. "Tell me about your security protocols. What you do, what you don't do, where you think the gaps are."
I spent the next ten minutes walking them through my routines. The cameras I'd installed myself. The motion sensors. The way I varied my schedule, never took the same route twice, always checked my surroundings. The self-defense training with Marcus's unit. The weapons I kept hidden throughout the apartment.
Ash's eyebrows climbed higher with each revelation.
"You're not a typical client," he said.
"I'm not a typical omega," I replied. "I learned a long time ago that the only person I could count on to keep me safe was myself."
"What about Marcus?" Silas asked.
"Marcus taught me how to keep myself safe. There's a difference." I met his eyes. "He gave me tools and training. But he also respected that it had to be my choice, my control. He never tried to lock me away or make decisions for me."
"And you're worried we will."
"Most security teams do. They see omega, they see vulnerability. They make assumptions about what I can handle, what I need, what's best for me." I crossed my arms. "I've been through six consultations. Every single one wanted to put me in a safe house, limit my public appearances, essentially put my entire life on hold until the threat was neutralized."
"That's standard protocol for high-value targets," Ash said.
"I'm not a target. I'm a person. And I'm not giving up my career, my independence, or my life because someone's obsessed with me." I kept my voice level. "So if that's your approach, we can end this meeting now."
Silas studied me for a long moment. "What if we told you there's a middle ground?"
"I'm listening."
"You maintain your schedule, your career, your independence. But you let us control the security parameters around it. We assess every venue, every appearance, every potential vulnerability. We put measures in place that don't restrict you—they enable you to keep doing what you do safely."
"That sounds reasonable in theory. What does it look like in practice?"
"In practice, it means you have a security team with you at public events. It means we upgrade your residential security to military standards. It means you keep us informed of your movements so we can stay ahead of potential threats." He paused. "It also means you trust us when we tell you something's too dangerous. We won't make that call lightly, but when we do, you listen."
"And if I disagree with your assessment?"
"Then we have a conversation about it. Present evidence, discuss alternatives, find a solution that addresses the threat without unnecessarily limiting your freedom." Silas moved closer, not invading my space but closing the distance. "We're not here to control you, Serena. We're here to give you the tools and support to stay safe while living your life on your terms."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe that someone finally understood.
"I need to see how you work," I said. "I have a training session this afternoon at Phoenix Combat Academy. Krav Maga and weapons retention. Come with me. Watch me work. Then tell me honestly if you think I'm capable of being a partner in my own security, or if you think I'm deluding myself."
Ash and Silas exchanged a look.
"What time?" Silas asked.
"Four o'clock."
"We'll be there." He pulled out a business card, wrote something on the back. "My personal number. If anything feels off before then—anything at all—you call me immediately."
I took the card. Our fingers brushed, and I felt the calluses on his hands. Trigger finger, knife work, hand-to-hand combat. This was a man who'd built his competence through years of violence.
Just like me.
"One more thing," I said. "I don't do well with crowds of alphas. My scent control is excellent, but it takes concentration. If your whole team is going to be around me constantly, I need to know numbers and rotation schedules in advance."
"Understood. We'll work out a rotation that gives you space when you need it." Silas headed for the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think you're going to be the most interesting client we've ever had."
"Interesting good or interesting complicated?"
He smiled. "Both."
After they left, I stood in my apartment, feeling the absence of their scent slowly fade. My control released incrementally, and I felt the exhaustion that always came after extended suppression.
But underneath the fatigue was something else.
Hope.
Maybe—just maybe—Marcus had finally found people who understood that protection didn't mean imprisonment.
My phone buzzed. Marcus.
*How'd it go?*
I typed back: *They're not idiots. That's a good start.*
*Told you. Silas is solid. So's his team.*
*We'll see. Training session at four. They're coming to watch.*
*Good. Show them what you can do. They'll respect it.*
I hoped he was right.
Because if Silverthorne Security couldn't give me what I needed—partnership, not patronizing—then I was out of options.
And whoever was breaking into my apartment was getting bolder.