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CHASE

Embrace the suck. It was drilled into me back when I was a SEAL, a motto for enduring whatever hell was thrown my way. Back then, it was second nature—push forward, adapt, survive. As a civilian? Not so much.

Maybe because the suck doesn’t feel real. What Honor told me almost defies logic. How could she be that girl from Kalispell? Her parents murdered, and I—I was the one who made her hide beneath her mother’s body? Yet, somehow, it makes perfect sense.

The familiarity that struck me when I caught her face from a certain angle. The way I wondered if I’d met her before, or if she just reminded me of some actor I couldn’t quite name. They make sense now. I don’t need a certain angle anymore. I knew her. And she was a fucking actor.

Montana is vast, yet it isn’t. Did I find her? Or did she find me?

Did everything happen just to tighten the tether of my guilt even further?

If so, whoever designed my life nailed it.

The memory of finding her—frozen, looking at me with those eyes that begged for help—still haunts me. The moment I carried her, trembling and terrified. The streak of her mother’s blood on her T-shirt. The words I spat out, telling her to run. They’re all knotted inside me now, refusing to loosen.

Having Honor in my life—not just as the girl I saved, but as the woman I loved—only tightens the chokehold. And the worst part? I still love her. Maybe I was too blind to see it, too used to living with no attachment. But now I know—you don’t just erase a feeling that strong.

This isn’t just a suck. It’s a fucking void.

Letting go has always been my specialty. No drama, no mess—always with women who understood the unspoken agreement: ‘let’s see what happens.’ Nothing that required me to dig too deep or get too vulnerable. It worked.

Until Honor.

I didn’t choose to fall for her. If I could strip away accountability, I’d say it was out of my hands. On a normal day, she wouldn’t have been my type—single mother, entangled with the last man on earth I’d want to cross paths with, and capable of walking away as if I were nothing but a smudge on her boots. Sure, I screwed up. Badly. But I didn’t kill her father. That blood isn’t on my hands, no matter what she’s chosen to believe. And haven’t I shown her, time and time again, that I deserve a second chance?

What hurt more? The fact that I believed her. I believed she’d opened up to me, that she loved me the way I loved her. She never said the words, but for God’s sake! Love is supposed to be more than just words, isn’t it? Or is that just another lie we tell ourselves?

Whoever she is—or was—and whatever brief chapter of my life she occupied, one thing’s certain: I fell for a liar. A damn good one.

But life goes on. Right now, life involves welcoming Red Mark’s newest recruit, Rhea Sable. The command center finally has a queen.

I walk into the conference room where she and Red Mark’s head of HR are wrapping up the paperwork.

“Welcome aboard, Rhea,” I say, extending a hand.

“Thanks, Mr. Samson,” she replies. Shoulders back, chin up—confident but not cocky. I like that.

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” I motion for her to follow as Ethan falls into step beside us.

The tour begins with the basics, but even the basics at Red Mark HQ are impressive. The kitchen is equipped with state-of-the-art appliances, enough coffee machines to fuel a small army, and a communal table that feels more like a place for war councils than casual meals.

“We keep it stocked,” I tell her, gesturing toward the pantry. “If you’re a coffee drinker, this place is heaven. Ethan practically lives here.”

“Hey,” Ethan protests with a laugh. “It’s not my fault I like caffeine and snacks.”

Rhea smirks but says nothing, her eyes taking in every detail. She’s sharp. I can already tell she’s cataloging everything for future use.

We move on to the armory, where the weapons and gear gleam under the fluorescent lights. Rhea’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the way her gaze lingers, equal parts respect and curiosity.

“So far, we’ve got six ground personnel,” I explain as we step into the command center. Screens light up the space, a digital nerve center buzzing with activity. “During mission-critical moments, this is where we coordinate with them and monitor their progress. That includes working with Bozeman PD.”

“Got it,” she says, her tone all business now.

“We’re still finalizing some setups here,” I continue. “That’s where you come in.”

Her face lights up. “Sweet.”

I can tell she’s itching to dive in, but there’s one last stop I want to make. “There’s one more area I’d like to show you.”

We head to the training area, the sound of muffled voices and equipment filling the air. The space is vast, with a sparring ring, punching bags, and at the far end, the pièce de résistance—the climbing wall.

Rhea’s eyes narrow as she takes it in. “Can I?” she asks, already shrugging off her blazer.

I smirk, stepping aside. Happens every time. “Be my guest.”

She glances at Ethan, tilting her head as if issuing a silent dare. “Ethan, you in?”

“Hell yeah!” he says, already kicking off his shoes to grab a better grip.

The two of them take to the wall like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. It’s a draw, but Rhea’s determination make it clear—this woman isn’t just here for the digital side of things. She’s a fighter, through and through. That’s what makes a true Red Mark recruit.

As they drop back to the ground, still catching their breath, my phone buzzes. Freeman.

“Sorry,” I say, stepping back as my phone buzzes insistently in my hand. “Ethan, can you take Rhea back to the command center?”

“No problem,” Ethan says, still grinning from the climb.

I walk toward my office, swiping to answer. “Samson.”

“Chase, it’s Freeman,” comes the captain’s voice, straight to the point. “I’ve got bad news.”

“Don’t hold back,” I say, bracing myself as I push open the office door.

“Damon Stone,” Freeman begins, the name alone setting my pulse into a low boil. “He’s managed to weasel his way out again. Put the blame squarely on his wife.”

“What?” I stop mid-step, my grip tightening around the phone. “Mira? How?”

“Turns out I was right. Crime of passion. Stone claims his wife acted out of desperation, trying to prove her loyalty to him after having an affair. Says she was so twisted up over him, she killed her lover to make a point.”

“And people bought that bullshit?”

“The system did,” Freeman replies. “She’s been arraigned. It’s a matter of time before the man himself walks free.”

A heavy silence follows his words. Freeman clears his throat. “Listen, Chase. I know this doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t with me either. But the evidence—or what’s left of it—backs his story. For now, he’s untouchable.”

“That’s how it goes,” I mutter.

“Has Child Protection found a foster family for his kid?”

“No. But he’s safe,” I say—omitting the fact that I’m assuming.

“Be smart about this, Samson. Don’t play the hero,” Freeman warns.

“Noted,” I reply, ending the call just as an email about the completion of my house repairs lands in my inbox.

After weeks lodging in a safe house that wasn’t meant for me, haunted by the shadow of a woman who was supposed to embody honor, I can’t wait to finally sleep in my own bed.