Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Colt: Morning. Update. Also important question. How’s it going with the girl?
Jace: Fallen in love yet?
Crewe: Ignore them. We have movement on the D.C. consultancy tie.
I exhale, rubbing my thumb once across the screen, and then type back.
Me: I’m not in love. Focus.
Another buzz.
Banks: Pulled records on A. Shaw. Old DoD contractor. Off books. Shell layers deep. Name pops near a “Prospect” property buy years back.
My jaw sets hard enough to ache. Prospect again. That word keeps surfacing like a body that won’t stay sunk.
Nash: We’re heading to a storage unit tied to the shell. If it’s a dead end, we pivot. Elena’s people wired funds already. Enough to keep us in the hunt. Tell your principal thanks.
I stare at that for a beat.
Elena Sands doesn’t do half measures. She said she’d send resources, and she did. Money, contacts, probably a few favors that will cost her later. She’s playing this like a chess match, sacrificing pawns to protect her queen.
Rowan.
I don’t love that metaphor, because Rowan isn’t anyone’s pawn, but it’s how Elena thinks. I type back.
Me: Copy. Move smart. Don’t get tunnel vision. Check in.
Colt responds immediately.
Colt: Is she pretty though?
My grip tightens on the phone.
Pretty.
The word is too small. Too lazy. Like describing a hurricane as “breezy.” Rowan is pretty, sure. Long brown hair that catches light like copper when she moves. Warm brown eyes that miss nothing and make you feel seen even when she’s cracking jokes. Lips that were made for trouble.
But it isn’t just her face. It’s her brain. The way she connects dots. The way her humor shows up right when fear tries to take the wheel. The way she fights to keep control even when the ground shifts under her. She’s brave. Not the loud, reckless kind. The quiet kind that keeps showing up even when it hurts.
However, I don’t text any of that.
Me: She’s under my protection. That’s all you need to know.
Jace sends a laughing emoji that I ignore on principle.
I set the phone face down on the counter and start moving again, this time with purpose.
Breakfast. Rowan needs fuel. Protein. Something real in her stomach. She can live on sarcasm, but it won’t keep her steady if we have to run.
I pull a skillet from the cabinet, light the burner, and crack eggs into a bowl. The sound in the quiet kitchen is loud. Shell against ceramic. Whisk scraping. Butter hitting hot metal with a soft hiss. Coffee goes on next. Drip machine. Fresh grounds. The smell starts to bloom, dark and rich, and the house feels less like a bunker. I slice fruit while the eggs cook. A banana. Strawberries. Bacon in a second pan, because fat and salt do wonders for morale.
As I move, I think about last night again. Her voice when she asked me to stay. Not demanding. Not manipulating. Honest.
Please.
The way she looked at me like I was the only solid thing left in her world. I’ve been looked at like that before. Usually by people in shock. People who are one breath away from breaking. It’s not flattering. It’s a burden.
With Rowan, it felt different. Like she hated needing me, but trusted me anyway.
I flip the eggs, keeping my face neutral even though no one’s here to see it.
My phone buzzes again.
Crewe: Storage unit could be a lead. Paper trail shows payments from a nonprofit that matches Rowan’s story. Might be crossover between your case and ours.
I stare at the message, heat rising in my chest. I should be there. I should be on the ground with them, boots in dirt, helping kick doors, verify intel, keeping my brothers alive.
Instead I’m making eggs in a safe house kitchen. The thought tastes bitter. Then I glance down the hallway. Rowan’s door is still closed. And I remember the text on her phone.
You can’t hide behind soldiers forever.
Whoever sent it wanted her afraid. They succeeded. But not enough. Not while I’m here.
I type back.
Me: Keep me updated. If you confirm link to Rowan’s case, send everything. We’ll adjust.
I toss the phone aside and plate the food. Eggs folded soft. Bacon crisp. Fruit on the side. Coffee poured into a mug. I’m setting the plate on the table when I hear a soft shuffle in the hallway.
Rowan appears in the entryway like a question mark.
She’s barefoot, hair mussed, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder like it has no respect for my blood pressure. Her eyes are half-lidded, still hazy with sleep, and her face looks younger without the armor on.
She blinks at me, then at the table. “Is that… breakfast?” she asks, voice rough.
“Yes.”
Her nose scrunches. “You cook?”
“I can feed myself.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I lean back against the counter, watching her cross the kitchen slowly, like her body is still negotiating with gravity. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, then looks at me again.