Page 1 of Protecting Paige

CHAPTER 1

CILLIAN

This wasn’t how I expected my life to turn out.

Single Cillian.

Standing in front of the sink, washing my lone dish and set of silverware, the running water chases away the silence of an otherwise empty house.

A house originally bought in anticipation of a family, but now only for me.

By thirty-six, I thought I’d be married with kids, and maybe a couple of dogs to play fetch in the large yard surrounded by the traditional white picket fence.

Well. Maybe not a white picket fence. Those don’t seem particularly safe. If I had a wife and kids to protect, I’d want a better fence. A tall, reinforced one, with gates that lock and maybe even security cameras installed at each corner.

Would it be overkill in my sleepy residential neighborhood, where the most excitement over the past year was when little Wyatt Enniston accidentally threw his baseball through Belinda Connor’s living room window and broke her new Tiffany lamp?

Probably.

But if I had a family to protect, I’d install the fence anyway. Because I know from experience how evil can lurk in the most unexpected of places.

It can hide in an innocent-looking house with toys scattered throughout it. It can be in a school. A hospital. It can come in the shape of someone you trusted. Someone you considered a friend.

Evil can be anywhere. And after thirteen years in the Army, ten of them as a Green Beret on the ODA5131 team, or A-team, that’s a truth I know better than most.

I still loved being on the team, though. I relished the chance to venture into the most dangerous places in the world, searching out enemies who sought to destroy our country. Enemies who thought nothing of using innocents as pawns in their malicious plots. Tangos who viewed my teamas the enemy because we fought for freedom.

Originally, I thought I’d stay with my team until I aged out—until my joints were too creaky and my reflexes began to slow. Then I’d transition to a training position, still living and working at Fort Campbell, the same place I’d been stationed for over a decade.

But then I met Raisa. I fell in love. My plans for the future shifted from ops in the Middle East to getting married and starting a family.

Raisa wanted to move closer to her parents in Norfolk, Virginia, and at the time, I couldn’t have denied her anything.

So I left the Army—five years ago, now—to move across the country with her. We got married. I opened a home security consulting business in Richmond. We bought a fixer-upper in the suburbs with ambitious plans to spend a year fixing it up before trying to get pregnant.

But there’s that saying about best-laid plans…

Once I was home more often, Raisa claimed she felt suffocated. I was hometoomuch for a change.

She liked the idea of home renovations, but not the reality of it. She wanted to pay someone to do all the work, which wasn’t in our budget. She wanted to travel. Take expensive vacations. But with a new business to run, it wasn’t a possibility.

I wanted to make her happy. I tried. But I’m not sure anything I did would have worked.

Honestly, I think she liked theideaof marriage, but the reality of it wasn’t what she expected.

Our plans to have kids got delayed. And delayed. Raisa took a promotion that required more travel. When she was home, she spent more time with her friends than with me.

Then I got into the accident. And I think—though she’d never, ever admit it—it was the final straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Or our marriage, as it ended up being.

It’s ironic, really. Thirteen years in the Army, ten in the Special Forces, and I walked away from every mission with no more than minor injuries—cuts, bruises, a broken finger or dislocated shoulder. But two years ago, during a fluke ice storm in January, I got into a car accident that did more damage than those thirteen years combined.

Now I have scars. Visible ones on my face and arms from the shattering glass; scars that attract unwelcome attention wherever I go. I walk with a slight limp thanks to my reconstructed kneecap. On rainy days, my back hurts so badly it’s hard to get out of bed.

Raisasaidit wasn’t the scars. And to be fair, I don’t think that’s all it was. Our marriage had been petering out for years, and we’d both been hanging on out of sheer stubbornness. But nine months later, she filed for divorce. And a month after that, she moved to Norfolk to live with her parents.

I was sad at first. Disappointed. I mourned the loss of the dreams I’d had for us. But time—as it often does—provides clarity. Raisa and I weren’t a forever match. And I’m okay with that.

Do I feel lonely at times, rattling around in this four-bedroom house that’s way too big for one person? Sure. Do I wish I had someone who really knew me, who doesn’t care about my scars, who loves me just the way I am? Of course.