Page 23

Arden

“ I ’m going to miss you so much,” Luna says again, tossing yet another bag of toiletries into the trunk of my beat-up Infiniti.

This is going to take forever to unload and load again into the rental at the office. I sigh, leaning against the car and watching as she fusses over every little thing she’s packed, double-checking and triple-checking like I might starve or forget how to shower without her.

She does this every time I go on a “work trip,” so I’ve learned to let Luna, well… Luna. That’s the literally only way to describe it.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I say, my voice steady, though the words feel empty. The truth is, I don’t even know how long I’ll be gone.

Harris had been clear during the briefing, this assignment has no definitive end date. We stay undercover until the job is done. Whether that takes weeks or months is anyone’s guess.

Luna stops for a moment, resting her hands on the edge of the trunk as she looks up at me, her brow furrowed. “I hate when you have to go out of town for work,” she says, her voice quieter now, tinged with a sadness that sounds foreign to her usual chirpy tone. “What am I going to do without my emotional support bestie?”

I smile faintly, reaching out to nudge her shoulder. “You’ll survive. Barely, but you’ll survive.”

Her lips twitch into a half smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. For all her joking, I know this is hard for her. And after the mess with Tavia a few days ago, it’s hard for me too.

Luna doesn’t like to admit when she’s hurting, and I hate that I’m leaving her now, knowing how shaken she was after that fight. But this is the job, and she knows it as well as I do.

She lets her head rest against my shoulder, and for a moment, it’s like we’re kids again. Back then, I was the one falling apart, a sad little girl too angry to ask for help. Too broken to accept love. Luna was the one who pieced me back together. She always made it seem easy.

But now, looking at her, I see cracks I never noticed before. The fight with Tavia isn’t about me, but I’ve seen the same pattern a hundred times. Luna takes care of everyone else while letting herself fall apart.

“If things get bad,” I say softly, my tone more serious now, “call West. He’ll be here quicker than Papa Joe can change a tire.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the flicker of relief in her expression. “I don’t need a babysitter, Arden.”

“No,” I agree. “But having backup never hurts.”

She exhales, her shoulders slumping as she leans against the car beside me. “I hate this.”

I don’t reply. There’s nothing I can say to make it better, so I just rest my hand on her arm for a moment before pushing off the car. “Come on, one last bag. Let’s get this over with.”

When I pull into the lot, the sight of Grant leaning against one of the agency SUVs sends a flicker of irritation through me.

He’s scrolling through his phone, his expression as impassive as ever, but there’s a tension in his posture that confirms he still has the biggest stick known to humankind still up his ass.

Great.

The rest of the team, Tate and Park, are gathered nearby, engaged in conversation. They glance up as I approach, Tate flashing a grin while Park gives me his usual unreadable stare.

“Williams,” Tate calls out as I step out of the car, slamming the door behind me. “You ready to play house?”

“Can’t wait,” I reply dryly, yanking a duffel from the trunk and hoisting it onto my shoulder.

Tate walks over, peering into the trunk and letting out a low whistle. “Jesus, Williams. You moving in or opening a store?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Some of us like to be prepared.” And some of us have a best friend who packs like a doomsday prepper.

“Prepared for what? The apocalypse?” He leans against the car, grinning like he’s just cracked the world’s funniest joke.

It is kind of funny, but I don’t laugh.

Grant’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “She’s just making sure she’s fully stocked. In case she gets bored.”

I whip my head toward him, ready with a retort, but he’s already turned away, tossing his phone into the SUV and stalking toward the trunk of my car.

Before I can stop him, Grant grabs one of the heavier bags and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. He grabs another and drops it unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Hey!” I snap.

His eyes sweep over me briefly, lingering on the workout clothes I threw on this morning. The way his gaze darkens, skimming over me like a slow burn, sends a flicker of heat crawling up my spine.

I force myself to hold his gaze. “Watch what you’re doing. That’s my stuff.”

His lips twitch in the faintest smirk as if he’s already won some unspoken game. “If only you spent as much time packing as you did snapping, we’d be gone by now.”

I grit my teeth, stepping back as he slings the last bag over his shoulder and loads it into the SUV with infuriating ease.

“Let’s go, Rookie,” he says without looking back, his voice curt as ever.

I frown, glancing at the others. “What about Tate and Park?”

“They’re taking their own car,” Grant replies, opening the driver’s door. “You’re with me.”

Fucking.

Great.

I climb into the passenger seat, closing the door a little harder than necessary. The air inside the car feels stifling, the silence thick and heavy as Grant drives.

It remains quiet as we pull out of the lot, the hum of the engine filling the heavy silence. I stare out the window, arms crossed, trying to ignore the tension radiating off Grant like heat from a damn wildfire.

He doesn’t speak, his eyes fixed on the road, his grip firm on the wheel. Not that I want him to say anything. The last thing I need is another one of his snide comments to needle at my nerves.

I fidget with the strap of my bag, trying to focus on anything but the fact that I’m trapped in this car with him for the next five hours.

“Stop fidgeting,” Grant says abruptly, his voice breaking the silence.

I glance at him, startled. His eyes don’t leave the road, but his tone carries that familiar edge, the one that always makes me bristle.

“I’m not fidgeting,” I snap, shifting in my seat.

He doesn’t respond, but I catch the faintest twitch of his lips like he’s amused. The nerve.

The first hour crawls by, the silence stretching thin, and I start to feel every bump in the road, every shift in the air between us. It’s suffocating.

“You’re nervous,” Grant says suddenly.

I stiffen, my gaze snapping to him. “I’m not nervous.”

His brow arches slightly, a flicker of disbelief in his expression. “Right. You always tap your fingers like that when you’re calm.”

I glance down at my hand, realizing too late that I’m drumming my fingers against my leg. I clench my fist, forcing myself to stop.

“Who are you? The keeper of emotions?” I mutter, looking back out the window. “Maybe you should focus on the road.”

Another twitch of his lips, this one unmistakable. “Focus on the road. Of course.”

I grind my teeth, resisting the urge to respond. The last thing I want is to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten under my skin or, even worse, proving that he’s dead on.

The silence fills the car again, but it’s louder now, deafening and scratching at the edges of my resolve. I watch the road blur past, the tension between us coiling tighter with every second.

Against better judgment, my thoughts wander back to Gran. Her words replay in my mind, tangled with the faint tremor in her voice when she mentioned him.

Leo. Gran could easily be mistaking whoever this Leo is for someone else. I know I’ve asked him this already and that this is a long shot, but… something about how quick he was to dismiss the topic the first time makes my words tumble out of my lips without a second thought.

“Leo worked at the White House, didn’t he?” I ask, my voice cutting through the quiet like a shard of glass.

Grant’s jaw ticks, his fingers tightening on the wheel. “Where’d you hear that?”

I keep my gaze fixed out the window, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “Does it matter?”

He exhales sharply like he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “You shouldn’t be asking about him.” Bingo .

Well, that’s not a denial.

I turn to look at him, searching for a crack in his armor, but his profile is carved from granite, his eyes locked on the road ahead. “Why not?”

“It’s not wise to chase ghosts,” he says, the bitterness in his tone slicing through the air.

Ghosts . The word lodges in my chest, cold and suffocating. “What does that mean?” Is Leo dead? No, Arden, don’t jump to conclusions yet.

“It means let it go.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to piece together the jagged edges of his words. “You’re lying . You know Leo.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his grip on the wheel tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Rookie. Leave it alone.”

I shake my head, frustration simmering just beneath my skin. “You’re the one who sounds like you know more than you’re saying.”

His gaze flicks toward me, cold and sharp. “I said drop it.”

The finality in his voice slams into me, but it’s not enough to quiet the unease creeping up my spine. Something isn’t right, but even I can see when I’ve lost. Plus, I don’t really feel like poking the bear any further.

Especially when I’m not sure he wouldn’t leave me and my fifty-two bags on the side of the highway.

I settle back into my seat, my fists clenching in my lap as I stare out the window. The word ghosts echoes in my mind, over and over, until the tension in the car feels like it might crack open the walls.

By the time we pull into the neighborhood, the sun has dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows over the neatly trimmed lawns and perfectly spaced driveways.

The houses all look the same, two stories, brick facades, and just enough personality to seem unique while blending into the suburban monotony.

The safe house is at the end of the cul-de-sac, tucked neatly between two identical homes. Grant parks in the driveway, cutting the engine with a sharp twist of the key.

“Out,” he mutters, his voice laced with irritation.

I’m not even surprised by his lack of manners at this point. I’m starting to think he was raised in a cave.

I step out of the SUV, stretching my legs and breathing in the crisp evening air. The neighborhood is quiet, almost eerily so, with only the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street.

Grant moves to the back of the SUV, popping the trunk and hauling out my bags without so much as a glance in my direction.

“You don’t have to—” I start, but he shoots me a look that silences me instantly.

“Just open the door,” he says, his tone curt.

I walk up the driveway, pulling out the key Harris had handed me earlier, and unlock the front door. The house smells faintly of cleaning supplies, and the air is cool and still.

The living room is modest, with neutral-colored furniture and a few generic pieces of artwork hanging on the walls. It’s the kind of place designed to be forgettable, a perfect cover for people like us.

Grant sets the bags down near the stairs, straightening and rolling his shoulders. He glances around the space, his sharp eyes taking everything in.

“We’ll need to do a sweep,” he says, his tone all business now.

I nod, my own nerves settling. This is it. The start of whatever this mission is going to throw at us.

“Fine,” I reply, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my stomach. “Let’s get to it.”

Lord, please make sure I make it out of here in one piece.