When he guards, p.1
When He Guards, page 1
He made a fatal mistake.
* * *
He lusted after the wrong woman. Let his need take over. Cassius “Cass” Striker knew that he should have never touched the sexy FBI agent, but he gave in to temptation and had the best one-night stand of his life with Agnes Quinn. It should have meant nothing. He should have been able to walk away…
* * *
He can’t walk away. If he does, she’s dead.
* * *
His enemies know about Agnes, and they plan to use her against him. He’s the leader of one of the most notorious motorcycle clubs in the US. His name stirs fear into the hearts of nearly everyone…and he has a giant target on his back. Those who want to bring him down have been looking for a weakness to use against him—they think they found that weakness in the form of Agnes. Now he either saves her or he watches her die.
* * *
She doesn’t need saving, but it’s super sweet of him to try.
* * *
She fell for the bad guy. Not something that typically happens given her occupation, but Agnes couldn’t quite help herself. She’d been drawn to Cass from the first moment, and now the world—uh, the “underworld” thinks that they are hot and heavy, that she’s a way to break the unbreakable leader of the Night Strikers. Cass is vowing to protect her, but the only way to do that?
* * *
Enter his world. Accept his claim. Eliminate all the threats that exist to them both.
* * *
She has to go in undercover, continuing to pose as Cass’s lover as they embark on a cross-country trip. She has to follow his rules. She has to seemingly sever her ties with the FBI. In other words, Agnes has to go deep and hard in an undercover mission as she and Cass take out some seriously bad guys. No worries, though. Agnes does love an undercover mission, so this should be fun.
* * *
The case is a nightmare. It is not fun. And if Agnes flashes her sexy smile at him one more time…
* * *
Cass is sure that he’s lost his soul, and he’s not even sure where his criminal life ends and the real man that he’d once been begins. He knows one thing, though. Agnes is trouble—and he wants her. Wants her so badly that maybe he’ll let the dark side of his nature off the careful leash he holds. And he’ll take what he wants as he damns the consequences. Threaten her? Try to use her against him? Worst mistake his enemies could ever make because Agnes is his.
* * *
Cass was never meant to be a protector, but he sure is one hell of a hunter.
When He Guards
A Protector And Defender Romance
Book 5
Cynthia Eden
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are not intentional and are purely the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional.
Published by Hocus Pocus Publishing, Inc.
Copyright © 2025 by Cindy Roussos
All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written consent of the author except for the use of small quotes or excerpts used in book reviews. No part of this work may be used in the training of AI models.
* * *
If you have any problems, comments, or questions about this publication, please contact info@hocuspocuspublishing.com.
v3
If you’ve ever wanted to ride into the sunset with a hot biker…ahem, this one is for you.
Ride hard, my friends. Read hard, too.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Up Next From Cynthia
Author’s Note
More Books By Cynthia Eden
About the Author
Chapter One
The sexy little FBI agent had no business walking into the packed bar as if she owned the place. A notorious dive, the place catered to motorcycle club members. The rough and the tough. The dangerous predators.
Not sweet-ass redheads in screw-me heels.
There was no way she should come strolling in, her thick hair loose around her shoulders, her heels too high, her skirt too short, and that top of hers far too tight as she ambled through the dangerous crowd and locked what were truly incredible blue eyes on him.
And she should not, absolutely should not, wink at him as she approached.
But she did.
Sonofabitch.
She winked at him, right before a crowd of far too eager and far too big MC members closed in on her and completely blocked her from his sight.
Cassius “Cass” Striker grabbed his beer bottle. He barely felt the cold glass beneath his grip. All he’d wanted was one night to just relax. Time to drink a freaking beer in peace. But was he gonna get that peace? Oh, hell, no, he was not. Because now he had to go and rescue the FBI agent who should’ve had more sense than to seek out the seediest bar in Atlanta. Everyone knew this was MC territory. You did not stroll in like you were—
“Hi, there.” She was right in front of him. All electric blue eyes and dark red hair. Full, sexy lips smiling.
He blinked. Looked over her shoulder. The crowd of bikers had dispersed. Mostly, anyway. A few threw curious glances his way. One even gave him a thumbs up.
What. The. Hell?
She reached out and put her hand on the battered sleeve of his black, leather jacket. “So, I am truly curious…” Her voice was very clear. A little husky. Definitely sexy. Also, a wee bit too loud because he knew every ear in the place was probably straining to hear them. “Just what does a woman have to do in order to get fucked by the leader of the baddest motorcycle club on the East Coast?”
He slammed down the beer bottle. It clinked against the bar top.
Her eyes gleamed, dancing with amusement. Because, what, she thought this was some kind of joke? Did it look like he was laughing? “You’re playing with fire, princess.”
Instead of having some common sense and backing away—running away would be the smart choice—she leaned even closer, and her seductive, feminine scent wrapped around him. “Absolutely fantastic,” she told him. “I love getting hot.”
His back teeth ground together. “Agnes…”
“You remember my name. So good to hear. Delightful, in fact. I was a bit afraid that you’d forgotten me. I don’t want to be forgettable.”
She was not. She was a pain in his ass. A sexy pain in the ass, granted, but still a pain. He’d met her at the FBI’s main office in Atlanta a while back. And the FBI office? That was a place that the leader of the Night Strikers did not want to be, ever. But he’d been there because he’d been making absolutely certain that individuals who’d hurt his people paid the price, and FBI Agent Agnes Quinn had just strolled her hot self right up to him in the middle of that Bureau hellscape. She’d stretched out her hand to him and said, “I’m Agnes Quinn.” As cute and charming as you please. Like they were meeting for tea or something.
He had not introduced himself back to her. He also had not touched her hand. Feds and MC leaders did not shake hands. They did not mingle in public for fun.
They did not fuck.
But Agnes hadn’t been put off by his refusal to speak or touch her at the Bureau. Instead, she’d just asked with a bat of her long eyelashes, “Are you really as bad as they say?”
Oh, he was. Much, much worse, actually.
The woman should’ve had the sense to stay away from him. Instead, she was in his favorite dive bar. Right the hell in front of him now. Talking about fucking. He rose from the bar stool and towered over her. “I’m gonna have that sexy ass thrown out of here.” Deliberately, he kept his voice low, for her ears alone because he was trying to give her the chance to leave on her own accord. Look at him, being a semi-nice guy. That niceness would only last for about one more minute. “If you don’t turn around and get out of here in the next sixty seconds, I will have my men carry you out and toss you onto the street.”
Instead of appearing intimidated, she shook her head. Then she put her hand on his chest. She leaned close, too, so that it probably looked as if they were about to kiss. “I don’t think so,” Agnes told him, way too confident.
He blinked.
“I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would let someone else do the dirty work for him. If you want me out, I think you’d do it yourself. You’d put those big hands of yours on me, and you’d carry me out all by your—” Her words ended on a sharp gasp because he had just put his hands on her.
He’d wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the bar’s top. Now they were eye to eye, and any amusement that he might have momentarily felt fled. “You don’t want to know about me and the dirty work I do.” He did not have time to screw around with a Fed.
Though screwing with this Fed would be incredibly fun. Fucking the ever-so-hot Agnes? Hell, ye s.
No, no. Hell, no. It was not going to happen.
“Did Gray send you?” Cass demanded, referring to her supervisor at the FBI. Grayson Stone, FBI mastermind, mind fucker, all-around asshole. And…
The closest thing to a brother that Cass possessed. They were actually cousins. They’d grown up more as brothers, though, but that relationship was something that the majority of the MC did not know about. If you wanted to stay in power, you didn’t advertise the fact that you’d kill to protect an FBI agent. That just wasn’t the way shit was done.
“Gray has no idea that I’m here,” Agnes returned. Her hands had flattened on the bar top, one hand on either side of her body. “I don’t exactly run potential lovers by my boss. That would just be weird.”
What?
Her words had been a bit hard to hear because there’d been a flurry of sudden shouts behind him. The crew always got rowdy the later it became.
Her head cocked to the side as she looked beyond him, toward the noisy crowd. “I don’t want to tell you your business…” With one hand, she reached for the beer bottle that he’d put down on the bar top moments before. “But I don’t think this is a friendly group.”
No shit. He snorted. “If you wanted friendly, then you should have stayed the hell out of this bar. Only MCs come here.” Not just the Night Strikers, either. The Bottomless Pit was supposed to be a neutral zone, of sorts. Only things had a way of not staying too neutral the later it got and the drunker the crowd became.
“You were here, so I had to be, too.” She raised the bottle.
So now the woman was drinking his beer? Drinking his beer, and, apparently, she’d been stalking him, too? Should that flatter him, terrify him, or annoy him? Maybe all of the above?
Her words definitely should not interest him. Should not. And why in the hell was he still holding her waist? Why was his gaze still locked on her face as he waited to hear whatever bullshit story she was about to spin for him next?
Random fact, she had a few freckles across the straight bridge of her nose. Oddly cute.
Dammit.
“Someone should really be watching your six,” she murmured as she scrunched her nose in what was an oddly adorable way.
Not that he thought she was adorable. Adorable and sexy didn’t go together. She was sexy. Way too hot. As for his six, he had a whole team who watched his six,
“Good thing I’m here,” she added, and then she threw the beer bottle over his shoulder.
What in the hell?
Even as he heard the thud of the beer bottle connecting with something, Cass whipped around. The beer bottle crashed to the floor. Shattered. But it wasn’t the only thing that crashed to the floor.
A knife did, too. The knife that some tricky bastard had been intending to stab into Cass’s back. The bastard was just a few feet away, and the expression of utter fear and horror on his face was almost priceless.
“He was going toward your back,” Agnes explained in a casual voice. “I saw him pull the knife from the inside of his coat. Everyone else seemed busy fighting or drinking or…you know, making out in dark corners. So I had to intervene.”
She’d intervened…?
“You really should have better protection,” she chided.
“I can protect myself.” Deliberately, he turned to fully face the man who’d frozen. The prick who’d intended to stab Cass in the back.
“You weren’t doing it this time,” Agnes piped in from her perch on the bar behind him. “Thus, I stepped in like the amazing girlfriend I am.”
Girlfriend? Since when? They barely knew each other. Had they even exchanged more than a full minute of conversation before this night? Cass didn’t think so. But he’d deal with his girlfriend later. At the moment, he had a conniving jerk who needed to be handled.
Cass scanned the tats on the man’s arms. His hands. Cass grunted as he recognized the ink of a rival MC. All those skulls with thorns twined around them. But no sign of a tat that would show a position of power in that MC. “Seriously? You think you’ll jump ranks by plunging a blade into my back? Aren’t you precious?”
The creep’s eyes darted to the left. To the right.
The fighting and the music and the laughter and every damn thing else in the dark bar stopped.
Things tended to stop when Cass used that particular tone of voice. And when people knew he was about to kick ass. He was so ready to kick some ass. Dark tension had been riding him hard. Hell, the darkness always pulled at him. Lately, that pull was even more intense. The idiot before him had just given Cass the perfect excuse to let the beast within off the leash that normally held him in check.
For a beat of time, he studied the dumbass who’d come to the bar in order to attack. Shaved head. Long beard. Nose ring. Beady eyes. Those eyes made the mistake of darting to the discarded knife.
Cass sighed. “You don’t telegraph your intent, dumbass. You just attack. When you telegraph, that lets people like the cute redhead behind me…” He reached back. Maybe he gave her thigh a pat. Fine, there was no maybe about it. He did pat her thigh. Then his fingers lingered. The touch was supposed to be a sign for her to stand down. Not like he wanted her to fly into the fight that was moments away from occurring.
Yet…
His fingers lingered a little longer than necessary.
And stroked. Stroked right beneath the edge of her skirt. Touched smooth skin. Dammit.
Her skin was way too soft. “You should fucking cover up,” he growled at her. “It’s cold outside.”
Amused laughter greeted him. Her laughter. “You should focus on more immediate problems.”
He’d never taken his gaze off the immediate problem. So when the bald biker before him lunged for the fallen knife, Cass was ready.
The fool never made it to the knife. His face did connect with Cass’s boot, though, as Cass kicked the prick hard and sent him flying back. The would-be attacker slammed into a nearby table.
Cass’s crew cheered.
The table wasn’t meant to hold the jerk’s weight, clearly, and it broke with a loud creak and a crash. The attacker’s ass landed on the floor.
Did the jerk have the sense to give up? To turn tail and run?
Of course, not. The idiots who came, trying to take down Cass so they could claim the glory of killing the leader of the Night Strikers, never had that sense. Instead, the attacker grabbed a broken table leg, and, with a roar, the SOB was back on his feet. He drew back the hunk of wood, holding it behind his head, and he barreled toward Cass.
“Uh, tell me you’ve got this…” Agnes began, her words sharp with tension. “Cass? Cass!”
He had this. He launched forward, going in hard, and he rammed into the idiot before the biker could take a swing. Cass’s shoulder hit the guy’s torso, all of the breath whooshed from his prey, and Cass took that prick down.
Thunderous cheers broke out. The crowd closed in. Very, very tightly.
Cass kicked away the broken table leg.
“Strike! Strike! Strike!” The chants filled the air.
Hell. He was gonna have to give the crowd what they wanted.
Cass rose to his full height. He rolled back his shoulders. Shook out his hands. Got loose and ready. “You want to come at me?” Cass challenged the creep who thought the best way to attack was from behind. “Then you come at me directly. You don’t sneak up behind me like a coward. You hit me, face to face.” Cass smiled.
“Strike! Strike! Strike!” His MC members stomped their feet. Whistled.
