Page 16

Holden

H er question lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind. Do you know someone named Leo?

I’ve spent years avoiding that name, boxing it away with everything else I failed to protect. But today, it all came rushing back.

Leo was more than a friend. He was the best damn agent I’d ever seen. Until the day he wasn’t. I still see his face in the shadows, the confidence in his grin right before everything fell apart.

And my father? He’d have said Leo made his own mistakes. That loyalty was a liability. My father always knew how to strip emotions from a mission, like carving flesh from bone. But what did that get him in the end? A flag folded over his chest and a son who swore to do things differently.

Now here I am, with Leo’s shadow, his own flesh and blood, and I can’t decide if helping her is honoring his memory or inviting the same destruction back into my life.

My gut reaction had been to lie, to shut down any possibility of her digging further into a name that could unravel everything. But the look in her eyes wasn’t just curiosity. It was vulnerability, raw and unguarded, something I’d never seen from her before.

She doesn’t know. That much is clear. Arden had no idea who her father really was or what he meant to me.

I shouldn’t feel relief. Relief isn’t something I deserve when I’m the one who made a promise to a man with a dying wish. “ Take care of her, Holden.” Leo’s voice echoes in my head, as sharp and unyielding as it was back then.

But the truth? I’ve done a terrible job of keeping that promise. I’ve been harder on Arden than I’ve been on anyone else, and for what? To convince myself she’s just another rookie? To pretend I don’t see him every time I look at her?

But that’s not the part that’s messing with me. It’s the pieces of her that are only hers—the quiet determination, the way she always gets back up. It’s maddening and magnetic, and I hate that I see her more clearly than I ever saw him.

The way her shoulders tense before she speaks, the spark in her eyes when she stands her ground, it’s there. But there’s something else, something else uniquely hers. Restraint.

Leo charged forward without hesitation. Arden stops just long enough to doubt herself before stepping into the storm. It makes her different, but I’m not sure if that will save or break her faster.

I rub a hand over my face, the tension in my chest tightening like a vise.

The knock on my door comes before I can spiral any further. I straighten, letting the familiar mask of indifference settle over me.

“Come in,” I call.

“You better be glad I like you,” a familiar voice says as the door swings open, and she strides in without waiting for an invitation. “I could get fired for giving you this.”

Alyssa.

I set my gun back on the table, following her into the living room. She moves like she owns the place, which she might as well. She’s been here countless times, though never for anything personal. It’s always business.

She plops down on the couch, brushing her coat back as she gets comfortable. Outside of Tate and Ma, she’s the only other person to ever sit on it.

But I barely register her presence.

Because no matter how much I try to focus on the present, Arden’s voice still lingers.

And I hate that it does.

“I know, and I appreciate it, Alyssa,” I say, grabbing the coffee I left on the counter.

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves off my thanks. “Where are they?”

Alyssa’s not like the others in intelligence. She’s efficient, blunt, and doesn’t dance around the edges. Plus, she’s Beckett’s ex. The same one he was dating when he fucked my fiancée.

I guess you can say we bonded over a mutual disdain for him, though I try to keep that history buried.

Alyssa, however, is very vocal about her hatred of Beckett.

“Over there.” I point at the small end table by the window where a stack of unsealed baseball cards rests. They were my grandfather’s, something I inherited after he passed. They’re worth more than I’ll ever need, but I have no use for them.

Alyssa’s got a soft spot for old memorabilia, so when she asked for them in exchange for a favor, I didn’t hesitate.

She walks over, gloved hands carefully picking them up. “You know, these are a hell of a lot more valuable than the favor I’m doing for you,” she mutters, examining one of the cards.

“That’s why I threw in a few extras,” I respond dryly.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Her focus shifts to the file she places on my table. The manila folder, thick and sealed, feels like a brick in the room. It sits there, daring me to open it. But I don’t.

Alyssa notices. She watches me for a second before saying, “You’re not going to look at it?”

“Not yet.” My answer is flat and noncommittal even though the question nags at me. Nightwalker . It could open a can of worms I’m not sure I want to deal with, especially given Harris’s reaction earlier. “Might be more trouble than it’s worth.”

Alyssa scoffs, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Right. Because you’re the type to leave things alone.” She fixes her coat, preparing to leave. “But suit yourself, Holden. Just don’t take too long. Information like that doesn’t sit well with people who know it exists.”

She starts toward the door, and for a moment, it’s like nothing’s changed between us. No matter how many times she walks out of my place, I always wonder what the hell she’s getting into. Who else does she provide “information” to, and if she’d ever sell me out.

But Alyssa’s good at what she does, and she’s never given me a reason to doubt her.

“Thanks,” I mutter, though she never responds.

She waves me off without a word, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I glance at the file again, the itch to open it nagging at the back of my mind. But I don’t. Not now.

Instead, I grab my gym bag and head out. If I sit here any longer, I’ll start overthinking it, and that never leads anywhere good.

The gym feels heavier tonight as if the walls are holding their breath. I came here for the quiet, for the steady rhythm of fists hitting leather to drown out everything else.

But she’s here.

Arden stands near the lockers, her head bent as she wraps her hands with practiced precision.

Her skin glistens faintly under the fluorescent lights, and I catch the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she tightens the tape.

I shouldn’t notice these things. I shouldn’t notice her.

“Williams,” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet.

She looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly before her expression smooths into something neutral. “Grant.”

“Trainer gone?” I ask, nodding toward the empty ring.

“Family emergency,” she replies, tugging the wrap tighter. Her movements are efficient, but the tension in her shoulders wasn’t there earlier today during training.

“You done for the night?”

Her hesitation is brief but telling. “I was about to head out.”

I step closer, my voice low. “Don’t.”

She blinks, the faintest trace of confusion crossing her face.

“Spar with me,” I say, the challenge in my tone deliberate.

Her brows lift, surprise painting every inch of her face. “With you?”

“Unless you’re afraid,” I add, letting the words linger in the charged air between us.

Her jaw tightens, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. She doesn’t like being baited, but she hates backing down even more.

“Fine,” she says, stepping toward the ring. “But don’t hold back.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

We climb into the ring, and the space between us feels too small, too charged. She moves with purpose, her stance solid and her gaze focused.

I throw the first jab. It’s light, testing, but she dodges easily, her lips twitching like she’s holding back a smirk.

“You’re slower than I thought,” she says, circling me.

“Careful, Williams,” I reply, my voice tight.

She throws a quick hook, her glove grazing my ribs, and I catch the faint gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Been boxing since I was able to pick up a pair of gloves,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “West’s dad trained us.”

West again. The thought of her sparring with him close and familiar, riles in a way I can’t explain. It’s the same way I felt seeing her with Beckett.

I press forward, my movements sharper now, forcing her to keep up. She blocks a hit, her breath coming quicker, and for a second, I forget why this was a bad idea.

“You’re holding back,” she accuses.

“Because you’re still distracted,” I shoot back, stepping closer.

The next swing brings her closer. So close I catch the swiftest scent of vanilla. Her hand brushes against my chest as she blocks, her breath warm against my neck. For a second, everything else falls away.

Her eyes meet mine, and the air shifts again, heavier this time. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parting slightly as she looks up at me.

I don’t move. Neither does she.

We’re too close, breathing the same air, locked in some silent dare neither of us started—but neither of us is willing to end.

It shouldn’t be happening. I know that. But the tension between us is coiled so tight it’s hard to think straight. Everything else falls away. Just her. Just me.

My eyes flick down to her mouth. Her lips part slightly, and I catch the soft, unsteady inhale she tries to hide.

Her hand is still on my chest, fingers splayed like she forgot she put them there. Like she doesn’t want to move.

I should say something. Step back. Break whatever this is before it snaps.

But I don’t.

Because her touch is seeping into me, quiet and electric, and my body’s already decided what it wants.

My cock is rock hard, straining against my sweats, the outline visible in the space between us. If she looked down, she’d see just how far past the point of control I am.

And the worst part?

I want her to.

“Grant,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, and it’s enough to pull me back.

“Go home, Williams,” I say, stepping away, my voice harsher than I intended.

Her hand falls to her side, and her eyes flick to mine. She’s embarrassed or maybe even hurt, but she doesn’t argue. She nods once, turning on her heel and climbing out of the ring.

The door swings shut behind her, and the following silence is suffocating.

I rake a hand through my hair, forcing myself to breathe.

This was a mistake. A line crossed too closely.

Yet the ghost of her touch lingers, refusing to let me forget.

I feel another presence, but I know it isn’t her. It’s a more annoying one. Tate doesn’t say it, but I can feel his disapproval from across the room.

It’s in the way his jaw tenses, the way he leans back in the doorframe like he’s trying to bode his words.

He thinks I’m too hard on them. On her.

“You know, Holden,” he says finally, his tone low but pointed, “not every agent needs tough love to survive.”

I look at him, my expression blank. “And not every rookie has what it takes to survive without it.”

Tate shakes his head, his frustration barely contained. “You don’t even see it, do you? The way she looks at you. She’s not afraid of failing any mission. She’s afraid of failing you .”

His words hit harder than I expect, but I don’t let it show. I know he means well, he always does, but this is why I handle the rookies.

Tate’s strength is his heart, and mine? Mine is knowing how to shut mine off.