Kyle

Brooke opens another letter, her fingers trembling as she reads the message and angrily tosses it on the table before grabbing the next one. The pile seems endless, the messages ranging from concerned about her well-being to veiled threats and accusations like the one in this last note.
"I tried to be nice, and how did you reward me?"
My blood boils. Seeing her flinch in fear and not being able to protect her shreds me to pieces. How the fuck is this bastard managing to do this? First, it was Brooke’s car tires months ago, then the flowers she received in the dressing room at the kids' end-of-year event. Since then, she’s been getting something every week. Each gift more personal than the last. All purchases made with cash, the delivery boys were teenagers hired through apps with accounts created using fake emails.
Adonis, the best hacker we know, tried to trace all the accounts and IPs—each one pointed to a different country, all dead ends.
"He was at the mall," Brooke declares, dropping the paper on the table. Her eyes well up with tears.
"What?" Seth grabs the letter and reads it. "Son of a bitch." My brother hands me the note and turns to the blonde, holding her face. "He’s not going to hurt you, Bee, I promise."
"Your new bodyguard is hot. Are you screwing him too?"
"We don’t even know who he is," she murmurs, hesitant, hiding her face against his chest as he wraps her in his arms.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’ve been searching for months, using every resource we have. Adonis assigned part of his team to unravel this, but so far, nothing.
My brothers and I exchange glances, the frustration I see in them matching the helplessness I feel. Once again, our woman is crying, suffering, and we can’t do anything. Not yet. I need a target. I need a direction. Someone I can hunt and eliminate. Free Brooke from this nightmare once and for all.
How is this possible? My mind keeps asking the same question. Besides owning one of the best private security companies in the country, we’re also the top team from MARSOC. Even after stepping back, we’re still considered the most lethal to ever wear the uniform. And yet, whoever is stalking Brooke keeps slipping through our defenses.
Seth gently rubs Brooke’s back, but I can feel the tension radiating from him while Raffi gets up and walks stiffly to the cabinet in the corner, pulling out four glasses and filling them with whiskey. He comes back and places the glasses on the coffee table, completely ignoring the letters. He touches Brooke’s shoulder.
"Drink this, babygirl, it’ll help." She takes a sip from the glass he offers. "And don’t worry, we’re going to find out who the hijo de puta behind this is, and then I’ll end his life."
The expression on my brother’s face is the same one—combined with his sniper skills—that earned him the nickname Reaper in the Marines.
"Not if I get to him first," Seth snaps. "We’re ending this, once and for all." His tone is icy, the kind that burns on contact.
"We are. And we’ll do it together."
Brooke turns to me and I step forward to wipe the tear trailing down her cheek with my thumb.
"You’re safe here, Sunshine. We won’t let anyone hurt you. Never again."
"Four go in," she murmurs, and my chest swells with pride in my woman.
"Four come out," my brothers and I respond in unison.
My instinct is to shield her from all harm, but it would be a disservice to the courage and strength she always shows—and that make me admire her even more. Her scars and traumas made her a warrior, a survivor, one of us.
"Alright, we need to analyze the information we have, from the beginning," I say, taking a deep breath and running a hand over my face. Drawing from my training and years as a team leader the mental clarity needed to handle this situation. There’s no room for fear, doubt, or unease. This is the most important mission of my life—someone is threatening the existence of the woman who holds my heart.
I grip the whiskey glass for a moment, debating whether to drink it, but I choose to stay sharp. I set the glass on the table and turn to my family.
"The person behind this must be, or must’ve been, close to Brooke."
"Patrick," Seth and Raffi say together.
"But..." Brooke starts to protest, then just sighs and stares at the pile of paper on the coffee table, taking another sip of whiskey.
"But what, Sunshine?" I prompt. She’s not only the target of the stalker’s obsession—she also knew Patrick Anderson best.
"He was a terrible boyfriend, but let’s be honest, he’s too much of an idiot to plan all this," she says. "He wasn’t my best choice," she adds.
"That’s true," Raffi agrees, and Brooke shoots him a deadly look.
"You didn’t have to agree so quickly."
"The thing is, he disappeared, Bee. Without a trace, and that’s not something an idiot could pull off." Seth gestures toward Brooke. "Vanishing like that takes resources, an intrinsic understanding of the system and how to avoid it."
"But he’s not rich. That’s why we ended up living together. He couldn’t afford to be on his own," she argues.
"His bank statements confirm that," I nod. "Does he have any friends he could’ve stayed with?"
"No. He and his college roommate hated each other, and he had no contact with anyone else."
"You said his parents died?" Raffi asks.
"Yeah, the summer before college started," she explains.
"Who knows your favorite chocolate brand?" Seth chimes in.
"My parents, you guys, Patrick, and Liv." She looks at us, alarmed. "It’s not Liv. It can’t be. She’s like a sister to me. She’d never do this to me," she justifies, her tone rising with her agitation.
"Olivia’s not a suspect. We investigated her—because we investigated everyone—but she has no connection," I explain. We dug through the brunette’s life and even her family’s, including Governor Grant.
Brooke exhales in relief and finishes her whiskey.
"It’s possible one of my coworkers knows, but none of them could know my favorite surfwear brand."
"Everything points to Patrick," Seth states.
"As Sherlock Holmes once said: ‘when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’" Brooke replies, shoulders slumping in defeat. "But even then, I can’t accept that the guy I dated for four years is doing all this. It makes no sense."
"If it really is Patrick, then you moving in with us is what triggered all of this," Raffi says.
"But why?" Brooke turns to him. "You’ve been in my life way longer. And I only came here because he cheated on me."
"We can’t guess the motivations when we’re not even sure it’s him," I state. "What else do you remember about Patrick? Nothing is irrelevant."
"Like what?"
"Where his parents are buried, where he grew up, trips he took," Raffi suggests.
Brooke twists her hands in her lap and starts chewing her lower lip.
"He didn’t talk much about his parents—said it made him sad. And since he lost them just before we met, I didn’t press. But if I’m not mistaken, they were cremated. Whenever he talked about his childhood, he said it was quiet and normal." She pauses, her knee bouncing up and down. I place my hand on it, my thumb stroking her skin.
"Now that I think about it, he never told me detailed stories from his past, you know? With people and places." She turns to Seth and Raffi. "Do you guys know who taught me to ride a bike?"
"Thorne," Raffi answers right away.
"You, with your stubbornness, decided to take the training wheels off one day, and he helped you and picked you up when you fell," Seth recalls.
"Exactly. You know that because we’ve told those stories—in detail. Patrick never did that." She runs her hands through her hair, brushing it back. "How did I never realize that?"
"You weren’t looking for red flags. It makes sense," Seth reassures her, reaching out and touching her shoulder. "Don’t blame yourself."
"Four years living with someone and I know nothing about him."
All of this only adds up against Patrick, confirming our suspicions and solidifying him as our prime suspect. But until we find the bastard or figure out how he’s been breaching our defenses, there’s not much we can do.
"Wait," Brooke suddenly stands up. "His uncle—he only mentioned him once, briefly, and I remember saying we could visit, but Patrick brushed it off. Where did he live?" She rubs her forehead and exhales loudly. "Denver! His uncle lives in Denver. I don’t know how that helps, but it’s something, right?"
"In all our searches, we never found any mention of relatives. All records indicated Patrick’s parents were only children and that he had no close family," I respond, smiling as the satisfaction of having a lead fills me.
"It’s more than something, Sunshine. It’s a clue!"