30

“How the hell did you manage to get the Hamiltons to sell to you?” Jackson murmured, holding the car door open for her. Mara turned to look at him, a question in her eyes.

“Was it not on the market?” She didn’t wait for his response before she started ascending the cracked stone stairs.

“Not that I know of,” he said, biting back the memory of how many times he’d tried to negotiate for the plot of land opposite his pack’s lake.

“He’s not staying, right?” she motioned to the driver. The Delta in question, Thomas, was staring through the treeline as if he could see exactly what lay on the other side. He subtly tilted his head up and breathed in the air and Jackson was having a hard time not doing the same. He loved the smell of home. “I don’t have room for more than you,” Mara continued, breaking his focus. How could she not have room for one more in a house with at least thirteen bedrooms? “Unless you don’t mind sharing a bed.” Her laugh was tired, her eyes drawn. She crested the top of the stairs.

Jackson linked to his Delta to wait off of the main street until he could figure out a suitable security rotation. His eyes returned to the house. Since when had it gotten so worn? The Hamilton’s never agreed to any of his many sales pitches but they were also hardly ever home. It left a happy little truce between the human landowners and the wild wolves he often wrangled in. So he never pressed too hard. They were older, and all their kids had grown up and moved away. Seemed unnecessary to run a kind old couple off their property just because his packlands butted up against them.

There was a balance to their neighboring lands— the unsuspecting humans, the fae, and the wolves— but Mara was threatening that. In fact, he hadn’t even known they sold it, let alone to a celebrity with cameras following her twenty-four-seven.

They had to switch cars discreetly and drive an extra thirty minutes out of the way in order to lose the paparazzi stationed outside of the filming barriers. He supposed it was something, at least, that she kept this place to herself. It wasn’t common knowledge.

“How would you know the ins and outs of what happens in WolfHaven?” she snorted, shoving open the aged door. It scraped along the ground as Jackson entered behind her, taking in the sight of her living conditions. His eyes grew wide.

When he didn’t answer, Mara kicked off her shoes at the coffee table and looked over her shoulder. She must’ve seen something in his expression because she gave him a tired shrug.

“Sorry, Jax, that’s why I don’t have room for a bigger team. I’ve been doing some renovating since the last bodyguard. Surprise, you’re stuck with me when my house has more open walls than closed ones.”

“It’s fine…” he offered, mentally sifting through all the smells and work to be done. “We’ll find a way to work around it. And I’m sure I could help get at least one or two of these projects finished.”

She headed down the main hallway, and he followed, peeking into each room they passed. There was a powder room that had been taken down to the studs with boxes of tile—he couldn’t tell which kind— piled outside the door. There was a small room with a large window that would’ve made a nice library when the floor wasn’t sanded down for refinishing.

The hallway itself opened into a large open space where Jackson saw evidence that walls had already been removed to make room for a modern kitchen and farmhouse dining table. It was collectively maybe seventy-five percent complete. There was a fully finished ceiling with dark brown, almost black exposed wood beams, and on the two exterior sides, floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length.

Mara slid one of the tall windows open, and Jackson realized the doors were integrated seamlessly. He stepped forward, noting that one side let out onto a rough, wild yard, and the other let out to an empty swimming pool. Beyond it, another small house sat in equally rough condition. Mara barely looked at him as she headed for the kitchen, the only part of the space that had been fully finished.

He stared after her. Why didn’t she have contractors? Surely, they could finish a house this size, with her kind of budget, in less than three months. Long before filming started, she could’ve had a fully finished, fully furnished mansion. So why…

“Want some coffee?” she asked, heading into the kitchen to start the water and pull a familiar canister from the cabinet.

“You drink instant?”

“When there aren’t any groceries, and I don’t feel like a ten-mile jog to town for a latte at The Drip? Yea. The creamer’s probably still good, but the milk is definitely bad.” She continued rummaging through the cabinets while the electric kettle boiled. “I might have a snack or two in here if you haven’t managed lunch already.” Mara paused as if remembering her meal. “Or you could… uh…”

“I’ll have my Delt—driver run back to town for me. Don’t worry about it.”

The town was a tricky thing, Jackson thought. Technically, wolves weren’t supposed to spend much time in town. It was meant to operate on more of an emergency function. By and large, they were meant to stay on their lands and provide for themselves. Which, honestly, wasn’t very difficult in the modern age. Most everything they needed could be delivered directly to their gate. But Jackson had no less than six pack-hunters working through the town and it wouldn’t go unnoticed by the fae for long.

Until he spoke to Colton and ironed out the bargain details, it would be best to spend as little time in town for the rest of the day as possible.

“You don’t have a garage here.” He said suddenly, realizing that he’d never heard her talk about a car either. In L.A., she used a car service, and Jackson supposed that assumption carried over to her normal life, but he knew for a fact that car services weren’t available in town. How did she get around in this heavily wooded area without a car? “What are you going to tell me? You walk everywhere?” He chuckled, leaning over the concrete island. He actually liked the design a lot. Solid slabs of concrete ran down four sides of the island with matching concrete countertops. The specific shade of gray complimented the slate-colored cabinets and black farmhouse sink.

“Who said anything about walking,” she joked. “I run. Why?” Mara leaned her hip against the counter. “Is that a deal breaker for you? Don’t like your clients covered in sweat and foliage?” He didn’t even have a fighting chance to avoid that mental image of his mate before the kettle squealed, and Mara made them both a cup of instant coffee. “Creamer?”

“Black is fine,” he said. “Thanks.” Jackson took a seat at the farmhouse style table, trying his best to pick a seat that viewed every entry point. “I think it might be time for us to talk about your past. These are highly personal, targeted attacks. Things that speak to far more than just your stardom.”

When she didn’t make a move to speak, he continued. “Mara, there’s stalking because of falsified attachments, and then there’s this. Whatever this is. It’s cat and mouse. It’s meant to toy with you but also to provide for you. There’s a severe negative attachment, but somehow there’s also room for…”

“Romance,” she supplied, nodding. “You can call it what it is. I know I’m supposed to be flattered by his personal attention to detail. It’s repulsive, makes my skin crawl, really. But that doesn’t mean I can’t understand what his intentions are. He was providing for me by leaving lunch in my trailer.” She grimaced, likely feeling her stomach lurch.

Jackson swallowed a steaming gulp of coffee and discarded the cup onto the table. “Yea.” He cleared his throat. “So I’m asking if there is anything I should know… as your bodyguard… about your past. About who might be motivated to pursue you in such calculated ways, Mara.”

She sipped her coffee and sighed, stepping forward to lean against the island in front of him. “It’s Amara, my name I mean, as you already know. Amara R-Rodriguez.” Her voice was soft, not necessarily sad but resigned. It prickled at the back of Jackson’s neck. He settled deeper into his chair, mimicking the lines he knew were settling over his brows.

“Amara,” he parroted. “It’s a pretty name. I assume you use a stage name for more than just marketability.”

She focused on some distant point in the acres beyond the glass doors. “I.” Mara swallowed and looked down at her cup, taking another sip. Her face set with determination, she met Jackson’s stare. “You’re the first person that I’ve ever told this to. I-I’m trusting you more than… this is life or death, okay.”

He didn’t break eye contact, showing her that she could trust him and that there was nothing she could do to push him away. She studied his eyes fiercely.

“There it is again,” she said wondrously. “The green. It’s always when you’re keyed up for one reason or another. It took me a while to remember what I knew about wolves. Those lessons were all things I learned when I was very little. And I tend to do what I can to block those childhood memories out.”

Jackson’s ears were ringing as he grappled with the fact that she knew what he was.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know. I’m not supposed to know about you. Or the fae. Or the vampires and demons. It’s all so separate from human life. Hidden. Rightfully so, I guess.”

He swallowed as a frantic heartbeat built up in his chest.

Mara moved to sit across from him, her face growing more drawn by the minute. “My father is the human head of The Underbelly. And I think my stalker is working for him.”