“He’s going to throw a punch,” Oscar Oliveira says, observing my hot-blooded, twenty-two-year-old boyfriend.

I watch the same scene from the same vantage point as Oscar.

All six of us in Security Force Omega “guard” the double-door entrance of the Philadelphia Orchestra Hall. Two thousand of the richest fuckers I’ve ever seen fill scarlet velveteen seats. The main level and balcony tiers are packed tight, and a string quartet plays a classical piece on stage, ruby curtains drawn open.

Tucked up against the left-side emergency exit, my boyfriend looks ready to combust.

Maximoff speaks hushed, but his brows furrow and he gesticulates madly. Inching closer and closer to the uppity suit-and-tie organizer of tonight’s “unprecedented” event.

I slowly chew my gum, arms loosely crossed. But I hardly blink. I watch.

And the forty-something organizer with Gucci shoes and glaringly white teeth visibly steps towards Maximoff.

In an affront.

My arms drop, instinct about to propel me down the left aisle—

“Farrow.” My name is spoken in a warning.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Akara Kitsuwon, the Omega lead.

“Farrow,” he repeats, his friendly expression now strict. Reminding me not to leave my position. His tailor-fit black Hugo Boss suit is identical to all of security.

Not exactly my style. I shrugged off the required suit jacket an hour ago. What remains: a black button-down tucked in black slacks. I run my thumb over my silver lip piercing and eye my boyfriend.

I can’t fall back in line yet.

Maximoff grows more incensed, his eyes flamed and body bowed forward with fervor. Like if he tries hard enough, he can mold the lopsided world upright.

I want to be beside him. To ease him back, to hold him. Cool him off. Even if his fuse has been justifiably cut short tonight.

Never did I think we’d end up here, just two weeks after I detained Maximoff’s stalker, who turned out to be Jane’s friends-with-benefits. I comb a hand through my dyed black hair, and I restrain myself from rushing to him.

See, I’m still the 24/7 bodyguard to Maximoff Hale, but I’m not supposed to protect him at this specific event.

Security rules.

And we all know how I feel about rules.

Behind me, the double door cracks open, and six heads turn. Mine included.

Oscar grasps the handle, widening the door for…a server in a tux. He balances a tray of champagne and descends the aisle.

Oscar lets his annoyance cross his face as he lets go of the handle, the heavy door closing itself. “It’s official,” he says.

I pop a bubble and tilt my head to the oldest Omega bodyguard, and also, one of my longest friends. “You’ve been demoted to a doorman,” I finish his thought.

“Not just me, Redford.”

“Technically, you’re the only one holding the door,” I say, half-interested because in my peripheral, I watch Maximoff shake his head repeatedly at the organizer and force out the word no.

Adrenaline pours through my veins, goading me to go to him.

“No one’s a doorman,” Akara says as he texts on his phone. “We’re guarding the entrance.” He pockets his cell, subtly reminding us of the stipulation we all agreed to.

Security Force Omega gained a decent amount of public fame after the Hot Santa video leak back in January. Tumblr pages are dedicated to Oscar’s little brother alone, and some fans will ask for our autographs when we’re on-duty with our clients.

To keep our jobs in security, we all agreed to a big change: no working large scale events.

Now it’s the middle of May, and Alpha is attached to our respective clients tonight. Protecting them. And we’re here doing a job that temp security could easily do.

I lean back casually on my heels and spit my gum in a trash bin.

Akara glances down the line of us, from Thatcher to Quinn to Donnelly, me, and Oscar. “Any of you want off-duty? Because you’re all free to leave at any time.”

No one moves a muscle.

The fee inside this event costs two grand. Out of our price range, and we all want inside to keep an eye on our clients from afar. Even if it means being regulated to securing the entrance.

By the way, that entry fee is one that Maximoff would never set. This is an event that Maximoff isn’t even running. One that he’d never construct in a lifetime.

One that has been unequivocally contentious from the start.

I study the escalating argument between Maximoff and the organizer. The middle-aged man seethes, his face beet-red, and he sneers a response through gritted teeth, slicing the air with his arm at Maximoff.

As though to say no.

And then he clutches Maximoff’s shoulder—that’s enough. I leave my position and head down the red-carpeted left aisle.

Several rows of wealthy pricks had been snapping photographs of Maximoff instead of the string quartet, and their lenses start to swerve towards me.

“Price to Farrow.” The Alpha lead’s voice blares through my earpiece. “Return to your position at the entrance.”

Maximoff’s muscles flex. He places a palm on the organizer’s chest to keep the man at arm’s length, but they’re both speaking over each other. Violinists drown out their verbal fight.

I never reach for my mic to reply.

“Price to Farrow,” Price repeats. “Maximoff has a bodyguard on his detail tonight and it’s not you. Return to your position.”

I’ve seen the SFA bodyguard hovering ten feet from Maximoff.

I even know that bodyguard. Bruno Bandoni is a fifty-two-year-old silent type with the stature of a heavyweight champion. Bald and bearded. I used to work alongside him in Alpha, only because he’s the 24/7 bodyguard to Loren Hale.

I don’t hate Bruno, but he’s one of the more regimented men and he’s not fond of me. Tonight, that’s definitely not changing.

“Akara to Price.” Akara speaks through comms. I’m too far away now to hear the Omega lead without my radio. “Let Farrow check on Maximoff. He’ll only take a minute.”

The event organizer hoists a threatening finger at Maximoff, one angered motion from grabbing his face.

Motherfucker.

“Omega isn’t making these calls at this event,” Price says through comms while my stride lengthens. “Alpha is in charge, and Farrow, if you reach Maximoff, then you’re officially off-duty tonight. You can stay here as security or as the boyfriend to Maximoff Hale. Choose—”

The forty-year-old’s freckled hand clutches Maximoff’s sharpened jaw, and I’m close enough to hear the man spit, “Listen.”

Instinct rams me, and I sprint the last two feet, wedging my body between them—just as Maximoff tears the unwanted hand off his face and then swings. I catch his fist in my palm and walk him backwards.

Come on, wolf scout.

Bruno yanks the organizer back by the collar, every movement a snap-second. Shorter than a breath.

Maximoff fumes, chest rising and falling heavily, and his red-hot fury still drills into the organizer behind me.

I open his fist that I caught and clutch his hand with my hand. Squeezing.

Maximoff blinks, his attention almost, almost mine.

Our chests press together, his gray Camp Calloway shirt, green jeans, and Timberland boots unlike the suits and tuxes in the orchestra hall. It’s his way of gaining a modicum of control during an event that’s completely out of his hands.

With my other grip on his shoulder, I walk forward, forcing him to keep walking backwards down the aisle. Nearing the stage. “Look at me,” I say, my voice husky. “Wolf scout.”

His chest falls, muscles still flexed.

My pulse thumps.

I skim his striking but also tensed face, and my hand slides across his broad shoulder and rises slowly up his neck. I hold his jaw; I tighten his hand in my hand, and my lips veer to his ear. “Maximoff Hale, will you marry me?”

He flinches, eyes widening and brows knotting with a thousand questions, and even more philosophical queries.