Page 19

19

HONOR

My worry mounts as I pace the house after my call ends with Oakley. It’s ironic that I want Chase safe—the man I’ve sworn revenge against—and not for any selfish reason.

“He can defend himself,” I tell myself.

It feels weird without him. Proof that he really has a presence. His energy lingers in the quiet corners, like the faint smell of his cologne or the way he always leaves his jacket draped over the same chair.

Gah! Since when do I have a problem being home alone?

I scoff to myself. Ridiculous. Besides, I’m not alone.

Laramie’s nestled against my chest, her tiny hand occasionally waving as though conducting her own secret orchestra. For someone so little, she already has an air of drama about her. Every move feels momentous, like she’s the star of her own silent film.

“Baby’s first concert,” I tease, swaying gently to our private rhythm. “What’s the song? Something classy? A little Mozart, maybe?”

I decide she prefers contemporary and hum a few lines of Forever Young before really committing to it, my voice rising into the empty room.

“Not much of an audience here,” I admit, giggling as I glance down at her. “You’re too little to judge, and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway.”

She gives me a look—or was it a smile? Or maybe just reflex? Too young for real smiles, they’d told me, but I decide to take it as a win.

“You liked that, huh?” I grin, leaning closer. “What do you think? World tour next?”

Laramie’s expression shifts into something that can only be described as a scowl—a full baby grimace, complete with furrowed brows.

I laugh. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

For a second, I swear her tiny face mellows. Another maybe-smile? Or a look of pity? Either way, my heartstrings aren’t just pulled—they’re tangled into knots.

The warmth of the moment wraps around us, so cozy that I almost forget where I am. Almost.

Then the lights flicker.

A split-second disruption. First, the overhead lights dim, then the faint hum of the appliances dies, leaving a hollow silence in its wake.

I freeze, my grip on Laramie tightening slightly. The lights click back on, but the moment of stillness lingers.

“Probably a surge,” I murmur to her, trying to keep my voice steady. “Chase said the house has backups. Nothing to worry about.”

Still, I glance around, walking toward the windows. Each one is sealed tight, the world outside unmoving.

Everything’s quiet.

The phone buzzes, breaking the silence.

“Hello?” I answer cautiously.

“Honor?” The voice is deep. He doesn’t sound rushed. “This is Huxley. I’m outside.”

“Oh, hi!” I press the phone to my ear, rocking Laramie lightly in my other arm. “You didn’t have to call, you know the code.”

“I know,” he says, and I can almost hear the shrug. “But it felt rude to just waltz in. First impressions and all that.”

I laugh at his remark. “Consider me impressed. Actually, I was already impressed with what you’ve done for Laramie.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I can’t promise I picked the right paint swatches.”

I laugh again, picturing the muscly Red Mark agent holding up pastel cards in a hardware store.

Just as I’m about to tell him to get in, I hear a faint metallic rattle over the line.

Huxley speaks up, his tone shifting slightly. “That’s weird. The door’s not opening.”

“Not opening?” I frown, stepping toward the front of the house. “What do you mean?”

“Code’s not working.” There’s a pause, followed by a faint beep in the background. “Did Chase change it again?”

“No,” I say, the knot in my stomach tightening. “At least, not that he mentioned.”

“Can you check the lock?” he asks. His voice is still calm, but there’s a note of quiet authority there now, the kind that makes you move without thinking.

With Laramie still in my arms, I pad toward the front door, bare feet against the hardwood. I peer through the window first. There’s Huxley, tall and—well, unexpectedly handsome despite his scar—his phone still at his ear as he stands near the keypad. He gives me a small wave, reassuring, but my nerves are already buzzing.

The lock looks… fine. Exactly the way Chase had shown me. No scratches, no dents, no signs of tampering.

“I don’t think so,” I say finally, my voice quieter now. “It looks normal.”

Huxley doesn’t respond right away. Through the glass, I see his jaw tighten slightly, the scar on his face standing out as he examines the keypad again. He punches the code in one more time, but this time the door doesn’t even give the courtesy of a whir.

“Hang tight,” he says. “I’ll check the back.”

I watch him disappear from view. But then I catch it. Is it a trick of the light? A shadow, maybe, or my own breath against the glass? But no—it’s there, a faint curl of cloudy air, swirling low to the ground like it’s testing the room.

“Huxley!” I call out, my voice trembling as I step back from the door. “Something’s wrong.”

There’s no response yet, just the sound of my own staggered breaths. The haze thickens, subtle but insidious, licking at the corners of the room.

“Hux!” My voice pitches higher this time. “Something’s going on here. Gas!” I glance around wildly as the cloud spreads, rising from the vents. “Just break the window and get me out of here!”

“I can’t. These are bulletproof windows. Go to the gym!” Huxley barks from somewhere outside. “Chase keeps masks there. Near the treadmills!”

The gym? My mind reels. I’ve been here a while, but this isn’t my house. It’s not muscle memory to know where everything is. Still, I clutch Laramie tighter, covering her nose and mouth with a bib, and force my feet to move, stumbling through the house as the air thickens around us. Every breath feels heavier, like my lungs are trying to drag in mud instead of air.

The gym looms ahead, its glass doors a faint blur through the haze. I shove them open and scan the room, my eyes darting past weights and machines until they land on the shelf by the treadmill. There it is—an oxygen mask. One of those sleek, high-altitude training models Chase probably uses to push himself harder.

I fumble with the straps, my hands trembling as I press the mask to my face and suck in a breath. The relief is instant, and I close my eyes for just a second to steady myself. Then I look down at Laramie.

“Okay, baby girl,” I whisper, my voice muffled behind the mask. “Your turn.”

I tilt the mask toward her, angling it so she can get a few precious breaths. But it’s too big, slipping awkwardly over her tiny face. She squirms in my arms, her little fists flailing as I try to keep her still. It’s not going to work.

I can’t stay here.

The thought slams into me. I glance at the vents, still spewing their mist, and then at the door. My phone—I need to call Chase. But where is it? My damn phone!

Panic claws at my throat, but I shove it down. Think, Honor. Think!

I keep adjusting the mask over Laramie’s tiny face, desperate to get her even a few more precious breaths. I take another strained breath through it, barely enough to dull the fire in my lungs. Every inhale feels like punishment. My vision edges toward darkness, and Laramie’s weight in my arms shifts, heavier now with the oxygen tank dragging at my side.

But I can’t stop. I won’t.

“Stay with me,” I whisper. I press my cheek against her head, grounding myself in her warmth. “We’re getting out of this.”

How? I don’t know yet. But I will.