Guarding the Virgin
Description
Lyra Morris wants a fresh start, but her manipulative ex-boyfriend, and the compromising video he holds over her, won't let her go. When Ashton Jennings, a hardened older man, arrives as the hockey team's new coach, she soon learns he's really her secret bodyguard, hired by the father who abandoned her. Their forced proximity sparks a forbidden tension neither of them can ignore. But one reckless night leaves Lyra pregnant, and suddenly everyone becomes a threat. With a stalker on campus and her ex growing violent, Lyra must decide if she can trust the one man who was never supposed to fall for her.
Chapter 1
Dec 23, 2025
Lyra’s POV
I almost gave Nate my virginity on a night that smelled like vanilla candles and broken promises.
Soft sheets beneath my back. Flickering shadows dancing across the ceiling. His face hovering above mine, so tender it made my chest ache with certainty. My heart slammed against my ribs as I reached up to trace his jaw, fingers trembling, every nerve ending sparking with nervous anticipation.
"I want you to be my first," I whispered.
His expression flickered—something I couldn't read passing through his eyes. "Wait, you're serious? You're actually a virgin?"
I nodded, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the clothes I'd already shed. "I wanted it to be with someone I trusted."
He laughed. Not a warm laugh. Not a nervous laugh. A cruel, mocking sound that made my whole body go cold.
"That's adorable." He leaned back, looking at me like I was a puzzle he'd just solved. "The desperate little virgin, saving herself for Mr. Right. Let me guess—you've been planning this moment since high school? Candles, romantic music, the whole fairytale?"
I stared at him, my heart pounding for entirely different reasons. "Nate—"
"God, you really are naive." He shook his head, but his hands were still on me, already moving again. "Whatever. It's fine. I can work with inexperienced. Just don't expect me to go slow—"
"Stop." I grabbed his wrist, pushing his hand away.
"What?" He frowned, annoyed. "Come on, Lyra. Don't be dramatic. I didn't mean it like—"
"Get off me."
"Seriously?" He laughed again, that same mocking sound. "You're going to make a big deal out of this? I was just joking around. Relax."
"I said get off." I shoved at his chest, harder this time, and scrambled backward until my back hit the headboard. My hands were shaking as I grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to cover myself. "Get out."
He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tight, something ugly flickering behind his eyes. Then he laughed—dismissive, cruel—and started pulling on his clothes.
"Fine. Your loss." He grabbed his jacket from the floor. "Good luck finding some perfect gentleman who's willing to put up with your inexperienced bullshit. Let me know how that works out for you."
I sat there in the silence, sheet clutched to my chest, staring at the candles I'd lit so carefully. The vanilla scent that had seemed romantic an hour ago now made me nauseous.
The memory shatters, and ice floods in to replace it.
I'm standing at the boards of Whitmore College's hockey rink, clipboard pressed against my chest, cold air biting my cheeks raw. As the team's student assistant, I handle everything Coach Miller doesn't have time for—stats tracking, equipment inventory, scheduling, coordinating with the athletic department.
But during practice, my main job is observation. The team lost last week's game, and Coach has been running them ragged ever since. I track it all. Every movement. Every weakness. Every player who's slacking and every one who's pushing through the pain.
Nate glides past my section for the fourth time, and my stomach clenches before I even meet his eyes. That smirk. That wink. That possessive tilt of his head.
I grip my pen until my knuckles ache and keep my gaze fixed on my clipboard.
"Looking good today, Lyra." He taps his stick against the boards near my feet. "We should talk after practice."
I don't respond. I've learned that responding only encourages him.
I joined this team for him. Took the assistant position because being close to Nate felt more important than anything else back then. Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
Now I want to disappear through the floorboards every time he skates near me.
Practice ends and the guys scatter toward the locker rooms, shoving each other, cracking jokes. I linger at the boards, organizing my notes, waiting for Nate to vanish first.
He doesn't.
He takes his time peeling off his gear, watching me pack up. When I finally make my move toward the exit, his hand clamps around my arm and yanks me backward.
"We need to talk."
"Let go of me."
He doesn't. He drags me into the shadowed alcove near equipment storage, where busted fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Our usual spot. The place where no one ever interrupts.
"Nate, I said let go—"
"Why are you being like this?" His voice dips into that wounded register he's perfected. "I'm trying to fix things between us."
"There's nothing to fix." I wrench my arm free. "We're not in a relationship. Why can't you just leave me alone?"
His jaw tightens. The wounded mask flickers, something harder surfacing underneath. "You don't mean that."
"I mean every word. We broke up. It's over."
"You do owe me something."
The words land heavy between us. I take a step back, my shoulders hitting the wall.
"We lost last week's game because I couldn't focus. Because you've been acting like a cold bitch for weeks." He moves closer, crowding my space. "The team is suffering because of you."
"That's not my problem."
"It is your problem." His hand slams against the wall beside my head. "Help me relieve some stress. Get on your knees, and maybe I'll be able to concentrate next week."
Disgust rolls through me, hot and sharp. "You're insane. I'm not doing anything for you."
"No?" He pulls out his phone, and something in his expression makes my blood run cold. "You sure about that?"
The screen lights up. A frozen frame fills it, and the ground disappears beneath my feet.
My face. Flushed. Eyes closed. Lying beneath him in nothing but my underwear, vulnerable and trusting and so pathetically hopeful. The night I almost gave him everything.
"Remember this?" His thumb hovers over the play button. "Every word you whispered about wanting me to be your first. About how special it was going to be. About how much you loved me."
My lungs refuse to expand.
"You want to keep playing hard to get?" He angles the screen closer, forcing me to look. "Walk away from me right now, and this goes to every group chat on campus by morning. Your friends. Your professors. Everyone gets to see exactly how desperate you were. How pathetic you looked, begging me to take your virginity."
The alcove shrinks. My vision blurs at the edges as the betrayal crashes through me. He was recording the whole time. Every whispered confession, every vulnerable moment—he captured it all, waiting to use it against me.
"So here's what's going to happen." His voice drops, bored. "You're going to get on your knees. And tomorrow, you're going to smile at me during practice. Understand?"
I can't breathe. I can't think. Every option I had just evaporated, leaving nothing but the cold concrete floor and the boy I once loved standing over me, waiting.
My knees bend. The floor rises up to meet them.
Nate reaches for his waistband, satisfaction spreading across his face.
My head snaps toward the sound. Nate freezes, his eyes darting past my shoulder into the darkness of the hallway.
Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Each one echoing off the walls, growing closer. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting shadows that twist across the floor. My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my temples.
Someone is coming.
The footsteps stop. Silence crashes down. Then a voice cuts through the stillness, deep and cold enough to drop the temperature ten degrees.
"I'd think very carefully about your next move."
Nate's face drains of color.
I twist around to see a man filling the hallway. Tall, broad-shouldered, mid-thirties, with dark hair and eyes that have already calculated exactly how much damage they intend to cause. He's not looking at me. Every ounce of his attention is fixed on Nate.
"Who the hell are you?" Nate's voice cracks.
"Three seconds to step away from her. After that, I stop asking nicely."
"This isn't any of your—"
"Two."
The single syllable lands heavier than a fist. With only one step taken forward, Nate stumbles backward, muttering something about this not being over, and disappears into the shadows.
The stranger turns those dangerous eyes on me, still crumpled on the cold floor.
"You're safe now."
But kneeling here, staring up at a man who just witnessed the most humiliating moment of my existence, I don't feel safe at all. I feel like I've traded one devil for another I don't yet understand.
Guarding the Virgin
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