But what I felt most was the perfection of what these two men were giving me. And I knew in that moment that I would do anything to keep it. Anything. –Cole
After four years abroad, artist Jonas Davenport has come home to start building his dream of owning his own art studio and gallery. But just as he’s ready to put the darkness of his past behind him forever, it comes roaring back with a vengeance.
The only thing keeping ex-cop Mace Calhoun from eating his own gun after an unthinkable loss is his role in an underground syndicate that seeks to get justice for the innocent by taking the lives of the guilty. Ending the life of the young artist who committed unspeakable crimes against the most vulnerable of victims should have been the easiest thing in the world. So why can’t he bring himself to pull the trigger"
After years of fighting in an endless, soul-sucking war, Navy SEAL Cole Bridgerton has come home to fight another battle – dealing with the discovery that the younger sister who ran away from home eight years earlier is lost to him forever. He needs answers and the only person who can give them to him is a young man struggling to put his life back together. But he never expected to feel something more for the haunted artist.
Cole and Mace. One lives by the rules, the other makes his own. One seeks justice through the law while the other seeks it with his gun. Two men, one light, one dark, will find themselves and each other when they’re forced to stand side by side to protect Jonas from an unseen evil that will stop at nothing to silence the young artist forever.
But each man’s scars run deep and even the strength of three may not be enough to save them…
Note: This book contains M/M/M sexual content and is intended for mature audiences.
Trigger Warning: This book contains references to childhood sexual abuse.Books in Series:The Protectors Series by Sloane KennedyBooks by Author:Sloane Kennedy Books
"Welcome home, Mr. Davenport."
"Thanks, James," I murmured as I gave the pilot a quick nod. Even after more than four years of flying back and forth from Paris to the States via the luxurious private jet, I still hadn"t managed to get the pilot, co-pilot or flight attendant to call me by my first name. It was always Mr. Davenport"a name I still hadn"t gotten used to using again after so many years of not needing it. In truth, I hadn"t been a Davenport in a very long time " not since the day my father called me a faggot and gave me five minutes to pack my shit and get out. I"d only been fourteen at the time but luckily I"d been smart enough to leave things like my comic books and video games behind in favor of a few changes of clothes, my savings account passbook, the twenty-three dollars in quarters I"d been stuffing into my Spiderman piggy bank for the better part of a year and of course, my sketchbook. I"d hated leaving behind my carefully mixed paints and brushes but I"d had hopes that my parents would ultimately store them, along with the dozens of paintings littering the walls of my room, until I could come and get them. They didn"t.
Being a Davenport had never been easy but I"d done it surprisingly well. Probably because I"d learned quickly that if my parents were pleased with how I came off to those in their social circle, I was more likely to get something out of the deal. I traded in my good grades, perfect manners and unfettered obedience for art supplies and classes and nearly weekly excursions to every art museum throughout New England. That is, until I turned thirteen and my parents decided my genius IQ should be nurtured at an elite boarding school in Switzerland. Which had nothing to do with the fact that they were planning a yearlong excursion traveling the world on their friends" yacht, they"d assured me repeatedly in the months and days before I left.
Exactly one year later I was back home in my parents" stately Beacon Hill penthouse trying to explain why I"d been expelled for kissing the son of a very wealthy British Ambassador. The obvious explanation that I"d kissed said boy because I"d wanted to hadn"t netted me the lecture I"d thought it would"it had earned me a one-way ticket out the front door with my mother looking on, tears streaking down her perfectly made up face. I"d felt an obscene surge of hope at the sight and waited for her to step in to stop the whole thing, but that had only lasted as long as it had taken for me to hear her ask my father why I"d done this to them. It was then that I"d finally understood that the tears weren"t for me, they were because of me.
After that, home stopped being a physical place for me and it wasn"t until almost a year later that I found out that home didn"t always mean a roof over your head.
I nearly tripped on the top step of the stairs leading down from the jet to the tarmac when I heard the high-pitched squeal and I couldn"t help the broad smile that spread across my face at the sight of my family standing in front of the Suburban SUV, a huge paper banner that read Welcome Home Jonas strung out between their hands. My eyes fell on the two children who were bouncing up and down, skimmed briefly over the tall, dark-haired man desperately trying to hold on to the giant Mastiff tugging to escape his hold and then finally settled on the young woman in the middle. Even from where I stood in the doorway to the jet, I could see tears spilling down her cheeks. She was my home. She had been from the moment she"d saved my life eight years earlier.
"Uncle Dev!" the little girl shouted to the man behind her and I could see he was holding her by the collar of her dress to keep her from charging me the way she clearly wanted. I guessed he didn"t want her anywhere near the jet"s engines as they wound down, so I quickly hurried down the stairs and toward the car. Once I crossed whatever invisible line the man had set in his mind, he let go of the dog and the little girl at the same time. Amazingly, the little girl got to me first but the dog wasn"t far behind.
"Hi baby girl," I said as I gathered the child"s body in my arms and lifted her just as the Mastiff slammed into me. I was used to Sampson"s tactics though, so I managed to stay upright as I gave him a quick pat.