Chapter 2 The Training

The next morning at exactly 5:45 AM, Stacy woke to someone pounding on her bedroom door.

"What the hell?" she mumbled, pulling her silk sleep mask off and squinting at her clock.

The pounding continued.

"Go away!" Stacy yelled.

"Ms. Thompson, you have five minutes to get dressed," Isaiah's voice called through the door. "We're going for a run."

Stacy sat up, fury replacing her grogginess. "I don't run!"

"You do now. Four minutes."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Three minutes. After that, I'm coming in."

"You wouldn't dare-"

She heard the sound of a key turning in her lock. Her father had given him a key to her room?

Stacy scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe and wrapping it tightly around herself just as her door opened. Isaiah stood in the doorway, dressed in black running gear, looking far too alert for this ungodly hour.

His eyes swept over her once-completely professional, no hint of appreciation for her appearance-before meeting her gaze. "Two minutes. Running clothes. Meet me downstairs."

"Get out of my room!"

"Gladly. Clock's ticking, Ms. Thompson." He pulled the door closed behind him.

Stacy stood there, shaking with rage and something else she didn't want to examine too closely. How dare he? How dare her father?

But she knew if she didn't go down, Isaiah would come back up. And she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of physically dragging her out of bed.

With jerky movements, she pulled on leggings and a sports bra, threw a tank top over it, and shoved her feet into running shoes she'd bought two years ago and never worn. She pulled her long blonde hair into a messy ponytail and stomped downstairs.

Isaiah was waiting by the front door, holding a water bottle. He handed it to her without comment.

"I hate you," Stacy said, snatching the bottle.

"Noted. Let's go."

The morning air was crisp and cool as they stepped outside. The sun was just starting to rise over the Chicago skyline, painting everything in shades of gold and pink.

"We'll start with two miles," Isaiah said, beginning to stretch.

"I'm not running two miles."

"Then run one mile. But you're running."

"Why?" Stacy demanded. "What does this have to do with protection?"

Isaiah straightened, his blue eyes finally showing some emotion-determination. "Because if someone tries to grab you, I need to know you can run. Because physical fitness could save your life. And because your father mentioned you've been cooped up in this house for six months, barely leaving, barely living. Exercise helps with grief."

The last part caught Stacy off guard. She'd expected him to be all business, all protocol. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge her mother's death, or to suggest he actually cared about her well being beyond just keeping her alive.

"How would you know?" she asked quietly.

Isaiah's jaw tightened. "Because I've lost people too. And I know what it's like to drown in it." He started jogging down the driveway. "Come on. We'll take it slow."

Stacy stood there for a moment, torn between her stubborn desire to defy him and a strange curiosity about this infuriating man.

Finally, she started jogging after him.

"This doesn't mean I like you," she called out.

"Good," Isaiah called back. "I'm not here to be liked."

As they ran through the quiet morning streets, Stacy's security detail following at a discrete distance in a black SUV, she couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into.

And why, despite everything, she was already looking forward to tomorrow's run.