Page 42 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

“King.” I jump when the woman speaks in a soft, sweet voice and look over my shoulder to see her following us.

Jesus they should put a bell on her or something.

That’s the first word she’s said since I got here.

Out of every word she could've chosen in the english dictionary she chose King ? What is this, a fever dream?

“All hail the king, I guess,” I mutter under my breath.

Maybe I should be grateful. These two have distracted me just long enough to forget why I was really nervous. I'm close to finding the man who might’ve helped create me.

Distraction gone. That thought slams into me harder than I was ready for.

“It’s my name,” the man grunts.

“Fitting,” I say, sarcasm laced through my voice as I eye the door in front of us. The nameplate reads Captain Jonathan —crooked as hell.

My stomach twists as King reaches for the handle.

There’s no way he’s my father, right? That’d be a pretty shitty foundation to build a relationship on.

But in my warped, illogical brain, it would make sense.

I haven’t seen his face, but the rough skin around his knuckles says he’s at least twenty years older than me—or he’s just been through hell .

Still, we’ve got one thing in common already—we both wear masks. That’s got to count for something.

As the door swings open, another man stands motionless, his hand extended as if he was preparing to leave. He quickly tucks it into his pocket and raises his other hand to pull a dark cigar from his crooked grin.

“I was getting worried they were interrogating you instead of following orders,” the man says with an accent similar to Caspian's British lilt. “Glad to see they brought you back in one piece.”

“We always follow orders,” King says flatly.

The girl brushes past both men and into the office like she owns it. I lean, trying to see what she’s doing, but Jonathan blocks my view, and King’s hand clamps around the back of my neck like I’m a kid who wandered too far from their parents.

“In case they didn’t introduce themselves, that’s King,” The man says, cigar now pointed directly at him, “and that’s Delilah. I’m Jonathan.”

I glance between them, expecting King to flinch at having a lit cigar aimed at his chest, but he doesn’t move. Jon clears his throat, and I snap to attention, extending my hand.

“Moe, sir.”

He lets out a short laugh, tucks the cigar between his teeth, and clasps my hand tight enough to make every tendon in my arm light up. “No need for the ‘sir.’ Just call me Jon.”

He finally releases me—barely—and throws an arm around my shoulder, steering me down the hall like we’re old pals.

“Moe, huh? That your real name?”

“Uh, well..." I glance around, trying to orient myself using the base layout I memorized, but nothing here helps. There are no numbers or names, just a stretch of cracked concrete and identical gray steel doors. It’s like I’m in a goddamn maze.

“Yeah,” I answer, still half-scanning the hall .

“That’s different. Not something you hear every day. Kind of like your hair.” He runs a hand through it before I can stop him, ruffling it like I’m twelve. I step away and force a laugh, because seriously—what is it with these people and no sense of personal space?

“If you want, you can change it while you’re here,” Jon offers. “Think of it like a callsign. Temporary. Useful.”

Almost everyone back home has one. I never really needed one because it always felt natural to use my real name.

Callsigns are for anonymity—for people who need to protect something but the only person I ever needed to protect was Caspian, and even then, he’s always felt untouchable. Like nothing could really get to him.

“Isn’t that technically what a callsign is?” I ask, eyeing the doors again. Behind a few, I catch muffled voices, the tapping of keyboards. Surely they're office spaces but it’s all too sterile. Like we’re not meant to remember any of it.

“Exactly. But you don’t have to take it with you when you leave.”

He slows and nudges his shoulder into mine, casual but deliberate.

“How about ‘Nuisance’?” King growls from behind.

“They say insults are a form of flirting,” I purr, glancing back over my shoulder at him, but the moment’s broken when he smacks the back of my head—not playfully like Sam. This one’s solid, reprimanding, like a father disciplining a son.

Oh god.

“My girlfriend calls me ‘Monster.’ I guess it can work here,” I say, trying to distract myself.

“Why didn’t they send Reaper? I like him.” King completely dismisses my statement, making me roll my eyes.

He means Sam but Reaper is his callsign.

“You tried to kill him,” Jon says flatly, lifting his arm to stub his cigar against a long black streak on the wall as we walk.

Judging by the layers of ash crusted into the concrete, it’s not the first time he’s done it.

Thank god the walls are fireproof, or this whole place would’ve gone up in smoke by now.

“It was one time,” King groans like we’re supposed to feel bad for him, and my teeth clench at the dramatics.

Jesus.

King slams his hand so hard against the wall that the sound is loud enough to make me jump. I whip my head in his direction just in time to catch him grumbling, “Fine. What about the other one? Tide?”

Of course. He’s referring to Caspian.

I clench my teeth, biting back the reaction.

Out of everyone, he’s the one they like?

I’ll never understand it. Caspian’s terrifying, commanding, intense, always looking like he’s ready to snap a neck without blinking—and yet people cling to him like he's magnetic. Meanwhile, I smile too much and get written off as charming instead of dangerous. It’s not something I envy, but I notice it.

I always notice.

I slow my steps, narrowing my eyes as Jon carefully steps over a cracked tile on the floor.

Oh my fucking God, wait… These hallways don’t have numbers, letters, or even signs.

There’s no directional guidance at all but now I notice the subtle markers; cigar burns on the walls, chipped bricks, and slight color variations in the floor tiles.

They're not just walking me around—they’re teaching me how to navigate—training my brain to read a place without ever giving away its secrets.

“They’ve got personal matters to tend to. I’m the next best thing you’ve got,” I chime in, rolling my shoulders back as I glance around, cataloging every detail of this section. The placement of the security camera. The faint scratch marks on the left wall. The heat vent slightly crooked overhead.

This place is built like a fortress. If anyone tried to break in, they’d be lost in seconds. No windows. No bearings. Just a giant steel maze designed to chew up enemies and spit out bones .

“I’d say! Your mission statuses are impeccable,” Jon says, eyeing me. “Your acceleration from basic to high-level tasks is impressive. It’s probably the good genes in you. Your father was the same—picked things up the second they touched his hands.”

The words hit harder than I expected. He's talking about my adoptive father, and coming from Jon, they sound sincere, earned, not like Caspian, who compliments because he has to. But the comparison throws me off. I didn’t inherit anything, not like Caspian, who came out of the womb with a genius-level IQ and a superiority complex.

Everything I have, I bled for the moment his father took me in.

“He wasn’t—” I start to say, but I stop myself. “Thank you.”

Jon nods, then gestures forward. “You’ve probably got the layout already locked in. Our little tour taught you more than you realize. So, nothing more for today. There’ll be a briefing in the morning, training to follow, and if this lead pans out, we’ll head out the next.”

He pauses, gaze cutting toward King, who’s already trying to wander off down the opposite hall. Without missing a beat, Jon stretches up—he’s not even tall, maybe six foot max, but somehow he still manages to grab the back of King’s shirt and yank him backward like it’s nothing.

“Tour’s not done,” Jon mutters.

King grumbles, tugging at the weird shirt-mask thing he’s got on to fix it back into place. A streak of unnaturally dark hair slips out from under the fabric and I cant help but stare. At least it’s not red; then again, my mother’s was, so there’s no doubt I got my hair color from her.

“Right,” I say slowly, stopping when King turns to glare at me. His gray eyes stay locked on mine. They’re lighter than my own and almost blinding with how similar they are to silver.

“It’s yes, sir, ” he snaps.

I grin, even though my chest tightens. The way he says it feels too familiar–it reminds me of my adoptive father. This place seems to be full of mind games though so maybe thats all that's happening here. My brain is trying to convince me of the impossible.

“Damn it. You know we haven’t used titles since—”

“She came along,” King finishes Jon’s statement, but I can tell he didn’t say the right thing, considering how Jon jerks the fabric of his shirt, forcing the large man to come eye level with him.

“I was going to say that it’s been over four years since it’s been unnecessary, considering most of our work is either undercover or silent.

Understood?” Jon says in a low voice. I don’t know what this older man is capable of—hell, he looks like a big teddy bear if you ignore the scars flexing along his biceps and the hardened features of his face that definitely scream war—but whatever it is, it’s enough to keep King steady, not budging a muscle as he gives a slow nod of his head.

Jon breaks out into a smile again and lets him go.

“Need anything else today?” I ask. “I can start on files, help monitor surveillance feeds, or catch up on intel. Hostage recovery cases seem to be picking up lately, and—”

Jon laughs, tipping his head back before shaking it. “There’s only one other person on this base that eager. Most just want to get out of here as soon as they walk in.”

I shrug, tossing my bag over my shoulder. “It’s my job. I either do it well, or I don’t do it at all.”

“Bloody brilliant.” Jon claps a hand on my back. “Alright, then. If you can find the locker room, we’ll grab a bite later, and I’ll fill you in.”

He says it like a challenge–like I’ll get lost.

But I remember the blueprints. We passed three intersections. If I’m where I think I am, the west wing should be behind me. North leads to medical. East goes to weapons and training. South is barracks and common areas. Locker rooms should be–

“I’ve got this,” I say, stepping toward the right hall .

“You should be done in no time,” Jon calls after me. “And if I heard right, you brought your girlfriend?”

My breath catches and my steps stutter to a halt.

Raylen .

“She can join us. Might do her some good to see a glimpse of everything you’re hiding from her.

Fuck . Of course they knew. This is Greenport—the place where no one can touch their secrets, but they’ve already mapped out everyone else’s.

I try to play it off, but my fingers twitch around the strap of my bag.

“Uh, well—”

“That’s an order,” Jon snaps. I turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow—that voice—low, cold, absolute—hits like a freight train.

I groan quietly, feeling the web tighten around me. The mission? Easy. But this—this strange game of hiding truths and playing roles—this is where it gets messy.

“You too, King!” Jon yells.

“I’m on recruit duty tonight!” King fires back.

“Damn soldiers,” Jon grumbles. He throws a lazy wave over his shoulder as he walks away. “6:30. There’s a pub up the road—best burgers around. I’ll text you the address.”

I’m about to move when Jon calls back one last time.

“Oh—and Monster ? Stop stressing. She’s going to learn our world one way or another.”

And then King—unseen, somewhere down the hall—adds, “It’s about time someone showed these factions it’s inevitable.”

I exhale a laugh under my breath, shove my hands in my pockets, and start toward the locker room.

At least if they already know, that’s one less secret I have to keep.