POV Owen
There's one thing I fucking hate, and that's babysitting bratty spoiled daughters.
This is not what I signed up for when Michael called in old friendship favors. When I heard the name Morris, I knew exactly what kind of bad news was heading my way.
He called three weeks ago, and I figured he'd want me to eliminate someone.
Maybe a rival dealer, maybe a witness, maybe just someone who'd looked at him wrong. That's the usual currency in our world—blood for blood, life for life.
But this? This is somehow worse.
Michael and I go way back. We're almost the same age, did business together on occasion, shared drinks and war stories. Professional respect, maybe even real friendship.
But in all our interactions, he never once mentioned having a daughter. Smart man.
In our line of work, family is a liability you keep buried deeper than your enemies. Now I know why he hid her so carefully.
Because Noelle Morris is literally a walking sin. I've been watching her for an hour, and she's been a masterclass in bad decisions.
The dress that barely qualifies as fabric, the way she moves like she owns every room she enters, the complete lack of situational awareness that comes with being daddy's protected princess.
She's beautiful in that dangerous way that makes smart men stupid and stupid men dead.
The pretty boy with the perfect smile—Warren something—leads her upstairs, and every instinct I've honed over the years starts screaming.
I give them thirty seconds before I follow.
The door's locked when I reach it, but locks are suggestions when you know what you're doing. I hear her scream through the wood, and that's all I need.
The door frame splinters under my shoulder like it's made of cardboard.
Three guys, one girl, one laptop recording everything. The math is simple, and so is the solution.
I don't fight. I execute. The whole thing takes maybe fifteen seconds.
When the dust settles, Noelle's pressed against the wall, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Her eyes are wide and unfocused—whatever they slipped her is kicking in hard.
"Your father sent me," I tell her, shrugging out of my coat.
She stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language and I can see her one remaining brain cell struggling to process what just happened.
"My father sent you? Who the hell are you?"
"Owen."
"Owen who?"
"Owen Tate. I'm an old friend of your father."
"Right.” Her laugh is bitter and sharp. “Because my dad has so many friends who just happen to show up at frat parties."
I wrap my coat around her shoulders. She tries to shrug it off, but her coordination is shot.
"Don't touch me. I'm not going anywhere with you." She attempts to stand and immediately stumbles. "I don't know you."
"Your father—"
"My father what? Sent his goon to drag me home? This is such bullshit." I reach for her, and she swats at my hands. "I said don't touch me."
I lift her into my arms before she can protest further. She's smaller than I expected, all sharp angles and delicate bones, but she fights me like a wildcat.
"Put me down right now," she mumbles, but there’s no strength behind it.
“Not happening.”
I carry her down the stairs, and she starts getting mouthy. She goes quiet for a moment, and I think maybe the drugs are finally winning. Then she starts up again.
Even drunk and traumatized, she’s still got an attitude.
“You’re very tall though,” she observes, like she’s just noticed. "And this is kidnapping, you know."
I carry her to the car, and she provides commentary the entire way. About how this is "literally the worst night of my life," how I "smell like violence and lust," and how she's "definitely calling the cops."
Christ. Even roofied, she’s a smart-ass.
"Are you going to kill me?" she asks as we finally reach the car, and there’s something almost curious about the way she says it.
"No."
“Good. I have plans tomorrow.”
I slide her into the passenger seat and she immediately starts messing with the radio, turning knobs randomly. “This car smells like leather and bad guys,” she announces.
“Just leather.”
“No, definitely bad guys. I can smell them.”
The drive to the Morris estate takes twenty minutes, and she argues with me the entire way.
About why she doesn't need protection because "I'm not a child", why this is illegal with "Pretty sure this violates my constitutional rights", and why her father is "literally the worst person on the planet."
"How do you even know my dad?" she asks, staring out the window.
"We've done business together."
"What kind of business?"
"The kind you don't ask questions about."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
"Are you in the mafia?"
"There's no mafia."
"Are you a drug dealer?"
"No."
"Are you a hitman?"
I don't answer that one.
"Oh my god, you're a hitman." Her voice goes up an octave. "My father hired a hitman to be my bodyguard. This is insane. This is actually insane."
"I'm not hired."
"Right, you're doing a favor. What kind of favor involves babysitting someone you've never met?"
"The kind where old friends call in debts."
"What debt?"
"The kind you don't—"
"Ask questions about, yeah yeah, I see." She slumps in her seat. "This is really so fucked up…"
The Morris mansion rises before us like something out of a novel—all marble columns and perfectly manicured gardens. A monument to family money and power built on blood and bullets.
"Home sweet prison," she mutters as I carry her up the front steps.
"Can you walk?"
"I can do lots of things. Walking might be one of them."
I set her down gently, and she immediately stumbles into the marble foyer.
The place is obscenely expensive—crystal chandeliers, imported Italian tile, artwork that costs more than most people's houses.
"Welcome to the Morris mausoleum," she says, throwing her arms wide and nearly toppling over.
I catch her elbow before she face-plants into a million-dollar vase. "Let's go. Your room."
We start climbing the grand staircase, her heels clacking unevenly against the steps. She leans against the banister like gravity's got a personal vendetta.
We start climbing, her heels clacking unevenly against the steps.
At the top of the stairs, I guide her down the hallway toward the guest wing. Her room's at the end—white furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, all of it too pristine to feel lived in.
I get her to the bed. She flops down, limbs splayed like a rag doll, then curls up on her side.
"Owen?"
"What now?"
"When I wake up tomorrow, are you still going to be here?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to be here every day?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to ruin my life?"
I pause at the door. "I'm going to keep you safe."
"Same thing," she mutters into her pillow.
I look back at her, small and vulnerable in her designer prison, and I feel something I haven’t felt in years. Something that might be sympathy.
But then I remember who she is. Who her father is. What I’m here to do.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, running a hand through my hair. There’s one thing I hate, and that’s babysitting bratty spoiled daughters.
Looks like I’m going to be doing a lot of things I hate.