She's a genius inventor hunted for a secret that could change everything. He's the guardian determined to keep her safe—even from herself.

Rain Miller has been running for her life since her father's brutal murder. Half-human and brilliant, she's invented a device powerful enough to start wars—or end them. When the Black Charmers finally capture her, she knows her secrets will die with her.

Until Fallon crashes through the walls to save her.

The ex-ambassador and shapeshifter guardian doesn't just rescue Rain—he claims guardianship over her and drags her through a portal to the Dark Lands for her own protection. Fallon expects obedience. Rain gives him defiance, because she didn't survive a year on the run by trusting powerful men, no matter how attractive they are.

Fallon never planned on wanting the woman he’s sworn to protect. But between Rain’s panic around his shapeshifter guards, her habit of leaping off cliffs, and her alarming talent for building weapons, keeping her alive becomes a full‑time job. Falling for her wasn't part of the plan.

When Rain’s invention draws a murderer inside the council itself, Fallon realizes the greatest danger isn’t the enemies hunting her—it’s her determination to face them alone. To save her, he’ll have to convince the most independent woman he’s ever met that letting someone stand beside you isn’t weakness.

It’s courage.

A brilliant inventor. A protective guardian. And a deadly secret that could destroy them both. A sizzling—but not explicit—romantic fantasy.

Perfect for readers who love:

• protective heroes

 • genius heroines

• portal fantasy

• shifter guardians

 • political intrigue

• found family

• slow‑burn tension without explicit scenes

✨Read a Sample now:

CHAPTER 1

Pain shot through Rain's palms as she crouched on the gritty alley floor, checking over her shoulder, and her broken claw stung. The fall had torn skin from her hands and knees, leaving them raw and stinging. But her pursuers were close—she could hear them over the midnight traffic rumbling on the main street. She didn't waste time peering into the glare of streetlights to confirm what she already knew.

She ran.

Her lungs burned as she forced herself into a stumbling jog, legs shaking with exhaustion. Thirty-six hours of running had pushed her past normal limits. The sweat-soaked jeans and t-shirt that clung to her body had gone cold and clammy in the London fog, making her shiver despite the exertion. She would have ditched the ragged jacket and backpack weighing her down, but they held everything she owned. In this weather, she'd need them to survive the night.

The chain link fence at the alley's end posed no challenge—she scaled it in seconds. The snarling Doberman that lunged for her throat was another matter entirely.

No time to think. No time for regret. She planted a solid kick to the dog's ribs, heard it yelp, then sprinted across the manicured lawn. Her fingers caught the top of the ornate stone fence and she hauled herself up, swinging her legs over just as teeth snapped at her heels.

Another alley stretched before her.

The stench hit her immediately—garbage, rot, and dog crap. She grimaced, exposing her fangs. Perfect. If the Doberman had left its mark on her shoe, her hunters wouldn't need to see her to track her. They'd smell her coming from a block away.

Then the sneezing started. She tried to muffle it against her sleeve, but the allergic reaction to the dog was immediate and violent. Fantastic timing. Her body had decided this was the perfect moment to betray her.

Rain pressed against the brick wall, fighting to control her breathing, praying she'd finally lost them. The alley stretched ahead, empty and white under the harsh security lights. She sneezed again, swore silently, and forced her exhausted legs to keep moving. Every muscle screamed for rest. If she fell again, she might not have the strength to get back up.

She strained to hear over the pounding of her own heartbeat. Her hearing was sharper than most people's—unnaturally sharp—and she used it now, filtering through the distant traffic sounds, the rustle of newspapers caught in the breeze, the drip of water from a broken drainpipe.

Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No dogs.

She let herself relax by degrees, sinking against the cold brick, ignoring the trash scattered around her feet. Her legs trembled as adrenaline began to fade. She'd made it. She was safe.

Light exploded into the alley like a bomb going off.

Men shouted. Dogs barked. The sudden brightness blinded her after the relative darkness, and Rain threw up her arm against the glare, knowing with absolute certainty that she was out of time.

Death had finally caught up with her.

"Wake up!"

The slap cracked across her face, jolting Rain from unconsciousness. She moaned, forcing her eyes open to find herself in a dim concrete cell. The last thing she remembered was something sharp jabbing into her neck—a needle, probably. Now metal cuffs bit into her wrists, locked behind her back as she sat on a hard wooden chair. Her shoulders ached from the position.

Were they going to question her? The word torture flashed through her mind and terror seized her chest. Please, not that!

Her captor stood directly in front of her—a scarred man in working class clothes who looked like he enjoyed his job a little too much. He studied her with cold satisfaction before glancing at the other man in the cell.

This one wore an expensive suit that didn't quite hide the predator underneath. What little hair remained on his head was iron gray, and his faded blue eyes held the warmth of a winter grave. He looked Rain over slowly, then smiled without any humor reaching those dead eyes.

"Rain, is it? Daughter of Rian Miller?"

She shivered despite herself. "Who are you?"

The smile deepened, but remained empty of anything human. "Your father taught you some unusual skills, didn't he? Lock picking, shooting... how to run and how to hide."

Cold sweat broke out across her skin. Her father had been dead for a year—killed by the very organization she suspected now held her. Few people had known the truth about Rian Miller, about what he really was. These men clearly weren't among the blissfully ignorant.

The way the older man watched her, she knew he was enjoying her fear. He let the silence stretch, feeding on her anxiety, before speaking again. "I have a few questions for you, my dear." He raised his voice. "Rory!"

A tall man entered the cell, his dark hair catching the light as he moved. He shot the older man a look of pure contempt. "I'm not deaf, Trent."

"Mister Trent," the scarred goon snapped, stepping aggressively toward the newcomer.

Trent held up one hand, stopping his muscle. His attention remained fixed on Rory. "Question her."

Rory's jaw tightened. "Question is all I'll do. I'm getting tired of your games, Mr. Trent."

"Remember what happens when you fail me," Trent said, each word precisely enunciated. "Remember who gets hurt."

Something flickered across Rory's face—anger, maybe regret—but he turned to Rain. His expression softened fractionally as he moved closer. "What's your name, love?"

Rain had seen plenty of good-looking men in her twenty-two years. This one put them all to shame.

Black hair framed a face that could have graced magazine covers—strong jaw, high cheekbones, lips that curved with practiced charm. But his eyes were what really got her. Deep green, intense, and currently focused entirely on her. Something about him pulled at her, made her pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

Then the scent hit her.

It wasn't cologne—at least, not like any fragrance she'd ever encountered. It wrapped around her like invisible silk, warm and intoxicating, making her head swim. Her exhausted body responded immediately, blood heating despite her situation. The closer Rory stood, the stronger the effect became. Every breath she took made her more lightheaded, more willing to trust him.

Some distant part of her brain screamed a warning, but the thought dissolved before fully forming. All she could focus on was him—his eyes, his scent, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

"This one's got it bad," the scarred man muttered to Trent.

Rory's lips curved in what Rain's muddled brain interpreted as a sympathetic smile. "I don't think we'll be needing these, will we?" He moved behind her, his fingers brushing her bound wrists. The touch sent electricity racing up her arms. She heard the key slide into the lock, felt the cuffs fall away, and nearly sobbed with relief.

"Thank you," she whispered, rubbing her aching wrists.

Rory crouched in front of her, bringing his face level with hers. The scent intensified until she could barely think straight. "What's a sweet thing like you done to get yourself in this mess? Don't you have friends who'll come looking for you?"

Behind them, the goon spoke again, quieter now. "I'll bet he asks for this one when he's done. She'd be a looker if she cleaned up. Our Rory does like to have his fun before you dispose of them."

The words should have alarmed her. Should have sent ice through her veins. Instead, they barely registered. Nothing mattered except being close to Rory, breathing him in, staying in the warm cocoon of his presence.

"Friends..." Her voice sounded dreamy even to her own ears. "No. I don't have any friends."

Rory's brow furrowed with apparent concern. "How can that be? A nice girl like you must have lots of friends. What about your father's friends? Won't they help you?"

The question made sense. She wanted to answer him, wanted to tell him everything. "I haven't seen anyone since my father died."

"But you know where they are, right? Those friends of his?" Rory leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "I can help you. Tell me where to find your father's friends, and I'll make sure they find you."

The brush of his lips against her ear sent shockwaves through her entire body. Want crashed over her in waves—primitive, desperate, overwhelming. She just needed him to touch her, to keep touching her, and everything would be all right.

"Like animals for him, I hear," the goon was saying, his voice carrying despite his attempt at discretion. "Scream and scratch while he's taking them, then beg for more. Makes me wish I were the charmer. Lucky bastard."

"Shut your mouth!" Trent snapped. "Make sure that recorder is working. We need every name."

Rory shifted to block her view of the other men, hunching down to her level. One finger traced the line of her cheekbone, feather-light and devastating. "Tell me the names, sweetheart. Tell me how to find them."

It was too much—the scent, the touch, the need burning through her veins. Breathless and desperate to please him, Rain opened her mouth. "My father's cousin used to live in—"

The explosion cut off her words.

The blast wave hit like a physical blow, rattling her teeth and throwing debris through the air. Rain screamed, throwing her hands up to protect her face as dust choked the cell. Rory cursed—a sharp, violent sound—as soldiers in black tactical gear burst through the shattered wall.

She didn't think. Didn't question. She just moved, throwing herself in front of Rory, using her body as a shield. Let them hurt her if they wanted, she had to save him! Nothing else mattered.

A man strode through the settling dust, and everything stopped.

He radiated authority like heat from a furnace—powerful, undeniable, dangerous. He was tall, broad-shouldered in ways that suggested serious muscle beneath the tactical gear. Long blond hair was pulled back from his face, and though the dust obscured details, Rain could see the cold calculation in his eyes as they swept the room.

Those eyes locked onto Rory. "Hello, Rory." Each word dripped with lethal intent.

"Fallon." Rory's tone was light, almost mocking. "Fancy meeting you here. Come to shoot the breeze, or is this business?"

Fallon's gaze shifted to Rain. She pressed back against Rory, putting herself between him and this new threat. "Leave him alone!" she warned, her voice shaking but fierce.

Rory laughed behind her, the sound rich with dark amusement. "Feisty, isn't she? What can I say, mate? Your women all love me."

"Move away from him, Rain." Fallon's voice was calm, controlled, which somehow made it more frightening.

She couldn't understand how he knew her name, why he was here, what any of this meant. All she knew was that Rory had tried to help her, and this stranger intended to hurt him. She tensed, ready to fight. "No! You won't touch him! He was trying to help me."

One of the soldiers edged to her left, trying to flank her position. She noticed but couldn't divide her attention—Fallon was the real threat, standing directly in front of her like it was judgment day.

"How many women has it been now, Rory?" Fallon asked, his tone conversational but with steel underneath. "How many of us have you helped to kill?"

"He's a liar," Rory said smoothly, his voice honey-sweet against her ear. "Don't worry about it, love."

Rain relaxed at his reassurance, glaring at Fallon. "I won't listen to you!" She didn't understand the game being played, didn't know the rules or the stakes. She only knew that something important was happening, and she was somehow at the center of it. But with Rory's scent still clouding her thoughts, she couldn't bring herself to care.

The distraction proved fatal.

With a roar, the soldier on her left charged. He hit her in a flying tackle that drove the air from her lungs. They went down hard, Rain twisting desperately in mid-air. The soldier managed to land beneath her, taking the worst of the impact, but the world dissolved into chaos.

Gunshots cracked through the air. She was tangled with the soldier, unable to see what was happening, fighting to get free. Then she saw Rory jerk backward, his gun discharging uselessly into the stone wall as he toppled to the floor.

Rain began to scream.

Fallon's jaw clenched as he watched two of his men struggle to subdue the wild woman. Taking Rory down had cost them precious seconds, and they couldn't afford delays. The girl hadn't seen the gun Rory had pressed to her head, hadn't realized she'd been one trigger-pull from death. Her fury was understandable—the charmer's pheromone was insidious, and she'd been drowning in it when they'd arrived.

He crossed to her in three strides, evaded her kicking foot with practiced ease, and applied pressure to her carotid artery. She went limp in seconds, unconscious before she could register what had happened.

"Bring her," he ordered. They needed to reach the choppers before the Cult realized their operation had been compromised and sent reinforcements. The organization wouldn't take kindly to losing an informant, especially after they'd already killed most of her family. Thanks to her cousin's unwilling cooperation and torture, the Cult had systematically eliminated nearly everyone Rain cared about.

Fallon was determined the Black Charmers wouldn't get another shot at her. Even if he had to send her off-world to protect her.

His team closed ranks around him and their precious cargo. Females of their species were valued above almost everything else, and every man present understood what had nearly happened in that cell. Rory had been Trent's deviant son, and father and son had perfected a profitable arrangement. Rory used his pheromones—a genetic aberration in a male—to question captured female Haunt, making them pliant and desperate to please. They'd spill every secret, give up every name. Trent would then hunt down the people his son had identified, killing them or capturing them for further exploitation.

And Rory... Rory used the women until he grew bored. The bodies were always disposed of quietly after.

It was more than enough reason to take a man's life. Fallon had enjoyed pulling that trigger.

They reached the helicopters without incident, thankful that the initial blast had taken out the section of Trent's estate housing his security forces. Fallon's men picked off the few remaining snipers with ease. They didn't need night vision equipment to see in the dark—that was one advantage of their heritage—and every member of his team was an expert marksman.

Fallon glanced at their two prisoners. Trent would be questioned thoroughly and disposed of like the garbage he was. The girl needed a safe location, somewhere she could recover from her ordeal. Off-world was the safest option, but he didn't know how much she knew about their people, or whether she'd even be willing to use the gate.

Settling her properly would take time. There was only one place he could do that without interruption.

Rain woke during the helicopter flight, but had enough sense to stay silent. The deafening roar of the rotors made conversation impossible anyway. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing steady, listening and learning what she could.

They landed after what felt like an hour. She was herded toward a sleek private jet, still maintaining her pretense of being half-asleep and compliant. Dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. A cold wind cut through her inadequate clothing, making her shiver.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, abandoning the act.

The blond man—Fallon—glanced at her. His eyes were green in the growing light, sharp and assessing. "Home. Wait until we're in the air and I'll answer your questions."

His accent marked him as American. Rain realized with a sinking feeling that she was probably headed back to the States. She'd been born there but had fled to the UK after her father's death, hoping distance would keep her safe. That gambit had failed spectacularly. But it didn't matter anymore. These men weren't going to let her slip away easily.

Exhaustion hit her like a physical weight. She'd been running for thirty-six hours straight, and the strain was catching up with her fast. Whatever happened next was beyond her control. Even her first glimpse of a private jet's luxurious interior barely registered. She was cold, hungry, desperately thirsty, and she smelled like a combination of old sweat and dried dog waste.

"Water?" Fallon handed her a bottle. She drained it in seconds, then accepted a second one gratefully.

"Bathroom?" She looked at him expectantly.

He gestured toward the rear of the plane. "Back there."

Rain made her way past the half-dozen men settled into comfortable leather seats. They watched her with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness. She locked herself in the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

The woman looking back was a stranger. Dirt streaked her pale skin. Her greasy brown hair had mostly escaped its braid, hanging in matted tangles around her face. Dark shadows hollowed her eyes, making her look haunted. Feral.

She couldn't do anything about the clothes, but she washed her face and hands, scrubbing away the worst of the grime. She finger-combed her hair into a more manageable ponytail and tried to ignore how exhausted she looked. The dog waste took more work—she had to use soap and paper towels to scrub her shoe clean, leaving it damp but no longer reeking. Small victories.

When she returned to her seat, a hot meal was waiting.

Rain didn't care if it was drugged. Didn't care who'd prepared it or why. Her last meal had been over twenty-four hours ago, and her body was past the point of caring about anything except fuel. She ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. Her backpack was gone—disappeared sometime during her capture—and she didn't delude herself about what that meant. These men hadn't stormed a fortified compound with explosives and automatic weapons just to harm her. Whatever their agenda, she was valuable to them. Which meant she was probably safe.

For now.

"Why did you come after me?" The question came out rough, exhaustion making her voice gravelly.

Fallon had been watching her eat. Now he leaned back in his seat, studying her with those unsettling green eyes. "We heard rumors about one of our women being hunted. By the time we tracked you down, the Cult was ahead of us. You know why we came—they would have used your information to locate and kill others of our kind. Too many have died already."

Her sluggish brain made connections slowly. "Rory was a charmer. How is that possible? I was taught that only human females had the pheromone. One in a million."

The Black Charmers had existed for decades, maybe longer. They specialized in hunting down and eliminating her people—the Haunt, as humans had labeled them centuries ago. The Cult used female charmers, willing or coerced, to capture and control male Haunt. The pheromone made males pliant, suggestible, desperate to please. Once under a charmer's influence, the men would reveal anything, betray anyone. Rain had never heard of a male with the ability. Experiencing it firsthand had been educational in the worst possible way.

Fallon's expression darkened. "Apparently charmers come in different varieties now. The Cult has been experimenting with gene splicing."

Fantastic. Rain grabbed the pillows that had been set out for her, arranging them against the reclined seat. She had maybe five minutes before unconsciousness claimed her. "Where are we going?" The words came out slurred.

"Alaska. That's where I'm based."

November in Alaska. Not exactly appealing. "Am I free to leave?"

He hesitated just long enough to tell her the truth. "The Council of Elders will want to speak with you first."

So no, she wasn't free. Rain knew exactly what happened to anyone rescued from the Cult's clutches. Once their face was known, they were rushed through the gate to "protect themselves and others." The Cult's network was worldwide—psychotic zealots who wanted every shape-shifting Haunt dead. Not that she wanted to be captured again, but she wasn't eager to let some council dictate where she could live.

Her father had raised her to be self-sufficient. She'd survived this long on her own. She wasn't about to be dragged to an alien world just because someone else thought it was for her own good.

Sleep dragged her under before she could protest further. When the plane landed, she needed to be ready. Once they got her under formal guard, her chances of escape would disappear completely.

It was forty below zero and pitch dark, with a wind that cut through clothing like it wasn’t there. Rain abandoned her half-formed plan to run the moment they landed. Instead, she ducked her head against the brutal cold and pulled the blanket she'd been given tighter around her shoulders. How did people survive in this frozen wasteland?

A black Jeep waited near the hangar. Fallon opened the passenger door and she practically dove inside, pathetically grateful for the warmth. If she'd been thinking more clearly, she might have tried to hit the auto-lock and steal the vehicle. But the cold had numbed her brain, and the blanket tangled around her arms made quick movement impossible.

Just as well. She'd never learned to drive a stick shift.

Fallon slid into the driver's seat, and one look at his size convinced Rain she'd made the right call. Men got territorial about their vehicles. A man like him, all coiled muscle and quiet threat, would’ve shattered the window without a second thought if it meant getting his Jeep back.

Curiosity made her ask, "What would you have done if I'd driven off?"

He glanced at her, expression mild. "My insurance premiums would have gone up, but the body shop would have been happy." He returned his attention to the road. "You're not that stupid."

The casual assumption annoyed her. "I thought your type didn't hurt women."

"We practice discipline, especially with our women. If you were mine, you wouldn't tempt me." This time his glance was speculative, assessing.

If he was trying to unnerve her, it worked. Rain didn't want any part of his "discipline," and she definitely didn't want to date him. A second look confirmed he was attractive—no surprise she hadn't noticed earlier, given the circumstances—but good looks didn't make the firearm at his hip disappear.

Frozen landscape rolled past her window, occasionally interrupted by other vehicles. It was only four in the afternoon, but already dark. She had no money, no friends, and her last change of clothes had been lost when she'd been captured. The day wasn't likely to improve from here.

She was so tired. A year of running had worn her down to nothing. She felt like a rope in a brutal tug-of-war—pulled between bad guys and... well, she wasn't ready to call Fallon one of the good guys yet, but at least he hadn't tied her to a chair.

"What's wrong?" Fallon's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I lost my toothbrush."

He made a sound that might have been a choked laugh. "We'll get you another one."

"Are there any banks open? Trent and his people didn't bother to check my pockets. I've got a little money I'd like to exchange." Two British pounds wasn't much, but it was literally everything she had left.

"I'll take care of it for you. Wouldn't you rather shower first? You've had a rough couple of days."

Rain weighed the merits of trying to escape in a bank while exhausted, nearly penniless, and hampered by subzero temperatures. She reluctantly admitted defeat. "Where are we going?"

"My place. I've got good security, and it'll make it easy for the council to speak with you."

"About that..." She chose her words carefully. "I'm not eager to talk with them."

He glanced at her, frowning slightly. "You have nothing to fear. You've done nothing wrong."

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared out the window. He was wrong about that, but arguing with him was pointless. She'd wait for her opportunity, then run. Assuming she could refuel and evade him long enough to get away.

Not everybody hunting her was human. That was the problem he didn't understand.