Page 25

Arden

A gent Grant is in a fouler mood than usual this morning.

The kind of mood that makes everyone instinctively stay out of his way. Everyone except me, apparently, because his avoidance feels intentional and calculated. It’s like he’s punishing me for a crime I don’t remember committing.

I thought his thanking me for the meal was some sort of white flag, a silent adamance that whatever tension between us would be ignored temporarily. At least for the duration of the mission.

But that white flag seems to be tinged in red, waved with an air of irritation and annoyance.

He doesn’t meet my eyes, not even in passing, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. The absence of his usual clipped remarks and withering stares only sharpens the edges of this strain between us.

But it’s not just his mood that lingers in my mind. It’s last night.

The way he stood in the doorway, shadowed but not unseen, his voice a low, unrelenting snarl that wrapped around me and squeezed tight. My breath had caught in my throat, my pulse kicking into a frantic rhythm as if my body knew something my brain refused to acknowledge.

And for a fleeting, treacherous moment, I thought I saw… something. Something was straining against his sweatpants; his figure was mostly hidden, but his presence was all-consuming. Heat creeps up my neck at the memory, shame mingling with something more dangerous. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

But I am.

The sound of the door creaking open pulls me back to the present. Tate walks in first, his usual easygoing swagger on full display. Park follows, silent and steady as always.

Tate grins the second he spots me, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. “Damn, Williams. You piss off Grant this time, or did he wake up on the wrong side of the universe?”

I glare at him, defensive before I can stop myself. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Uh-huh.” Tate smirks, leaning casually against the wall. “Sure you didn’t.”

The conversation dies the moment Grant enters. His presence hits like a cold front, the room shrinking under the weight of it. His movements are precise, his expression unreadable, but a tightness in his jaw betrays him.

I can’t decide if the tension radiating from him is worse than the way he refuses to look at me.

Tate straightens, his earlier teasing replaced by a quiet observance. Park doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. No one does.

Grant flips open the mission folder, the deliberate slowness of his movements somehow more intimidating than if he’d slammed it onto the table. When he speaks, his clipped voice is stripped of anything personal.

“We’re meeting Shaw at 1400 hours. You’ve all been briefed, but we’re going over this again to ensure no one screws it up.”

His eyes sweep over the team, but when they reach me, they linger just long enough to twist something in my chest. Then, just like that, they’re gone, back to the file in front of him.

He launches into the details, laying out every step of the plan. There’s something colder about him today, something harder. It’s not just his tone or his refusal to look at me. It’s the way he seems to be holding himself together by sheer force of will. It's like he’s one wrong word away from snapping.

Tate shifts on his feet, looking like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Park remains stoic, his gaze fixed on Grant with a quiet intensity.

When Grant finally finishes, he snaps the folder shut and looks around the room. “Questions?”

The silence that follows is deafening.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the mission, on Shaw, on anything but the weight of Grant’s presence. But it’s useless. The memory of last night, of that look in his eyes, won’t let go.

I tell myself I’m imagining it, that I’m reading into things that aren’t there. But then why does his coldness feel more personal than anything he’s ever said to me?

“Good,” Grant says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Dismissed.”

The team disperses, but I stay frozen for a second longer, my eyes trailing after him as he walks away without so much as a word in my direction.

***

It’s an internal battle not saying anything for the first ten minutes of the ride. My eyes flick to Holden, his profile cutting in the morning light. His hands grip the steering wheel with the kind of tightness that screams he’d rather be anywhere else.

Cold. Detached. A stark contrast to how he’d been last night.

I told myself not to think about it or let it cling to me, but here it is, clawing its way back. The way his voice had softened when he thanked me. The heat that simmered in the air when I opened that door. The way he’d looked at me like—

I’m starting to lose the battle as my patience thins, each passing second pushing me closer to snapping. I glance at him again, searching for any hint of what’s going on behind that stormy expression. But his jaw is locked tight, his gaze fixed on the road ahead like I don’t even exist.

“Are you going to keep ignoring me?” The question escapes before I can think better of it.

His eyes flick to me, brief and unreadable. “I’m not ignoring you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

His grip on the wheel tightens, but he doesn’t bite. Instead, the silence stretches again, thick and suffocating, and it’s all I can do not to scream.

I lean back in the seat, forcing myself to look out the window instead of at him. This shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. It shouldn’t matter that he’s acting like last night never happened, like I didn’t exist at all outside of the rookie he’s obligated to put up with.

But it does. And it’s starting to feel like he’s doing it on purpose.

Fine. Two can play that game. I settle deeper into the seat, clamping my mouth shut and willing myself to ignore the knot twisting tighter in my stomach.

It’s childish but I’m well past caring.

Whatever his deal is, he can keep it. I have better things to do than waste energy trying to figure out Holden Grant.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The tension between us hasn’t eased by the time we pull into the warehouse lot, but Grant, or Andrew, or whatever the hell I’m supposed to call him, looks like he couldn’t care less.

He’s always been composed, but this is different. The brooding edge I’m used to is gone, replaced by something completely different. It’s unnerving how easily he shifts, like flipping a switch.

He cuts the engine and turns to me, his voice low and hard. “When we get inside, let me do the talking.”

I bristle immediately, but before I can argue, he adds, “Shaw’s the type who’ll test you just because he can. He’ll pick apart your brain, and if you push back in your regular pain-in-the-ass way, it won’t be me he’ll punish, it’ll be you. And I’d rather not kill him before the mission is completed."

That shuts me up fast, though the words sting more than I care to admit. He’s not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“Fine,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

He doesn’t move, only stares at me in slight disbelief.

“What?”

“I thought I was going to say a lot more to get you to listen.”

That causes me to roll my eyes. “I listen.”

His dark eyes linger on me for a second longer, calling bullshit without even saying a word. He steps out of the car, and I follow, falling into step beside him as we approach the building.

The air inside is damp and stale, the weak light from a single bulb swinging overhead casting long shadows against the concrete walls. Our footsteps echo, the only noise in the otherwise empty space.

The man from the surveillance photos is waiting. Shaw.

He’s leaning casually against a rusted support beam, his hands in his pockets, but there’s nothing relaxed about his presence. His eyes track us like a predator sizing up its prey. Everything about him, from the way he stands to the faint smirk on his face, screams control—screams dangerous.

Beside him stands must be Cruz, one of his 'associates'. He's a hulking man with a scar that cuts from his temple to his jaw who doesn’t move or even blink, his hard gaze locked on us as we approach.

“Andrew and Amelia Smith,” Shaw drawls, his voice smooth and cool, laced with amusement. “The honeymooners.”

Grant doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re here to work, not for pleasantries.”

Shaw’s smirk widens just slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Straight to business. I like that.” He pushes off the beam, stepping closer. “Anyway, Fallon’s paranoid, and for good reason. He’s made plenty of enemies, and most of them wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in him if they had the chance. Your job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Understood,” Grant says evenly.

Shaw’s gaze flicks to me, lingering for a moment too long, but he doesn’t address me directly. Instead, he circles us slowly, like a wolf stalking its prey.

“I don’t care who recommended you or how many jobs you’ve handled. You fuck this up, and it’s not just your reputations on the line, it’s your lives. Fallon’s trust doesn’t come easy, and neither does mine.” He stops in front of Grant, his smirk fading. “You keep him safe, and you stay out of the spotlight. No bullshit, no mistakes. Are we clear?”

I’m not quite sure those two things aren’t synonymous, but I don’t say that. I keep my mouth glued shut as the master ordered.

I almost roll my eyes at that. Almost .

Grant nods, his expression unreadable. “Crystal.”

Shaw steps back, his sharp gaze sweeping over us one last time. “Good. Because I don’t give second chances. Cruz will brief you on the details.”

Cruz steps forward, handing Grant a slim folder. His silence is…unnerving. Does the man talk, or does he just stand around looking like he’s straight out of The Godfather ?

I guess that’s pretty hypocritical for me to say. I haven’t said a word either. I guess both of our masters have us on lock.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at that too.

And to think Luna used to always say I didn’t know how to put my foot in my mouth. She would be proud to know my foot is safely lodged deep down my throat right now.

“Welcome to the team,” Shaw says, his smirk returning as he steps back into the shadows. “Don’t make me regret it.”

He disappears into the darkness, Cruz silently following him.

The weight of his words lingers, pressing down on me even as the tension in the room eases.

“Well,” I say, breaking the silence as soon as we get to the rental car, “that was fun.”

Grant doesn’t respond, his focus locked on the folder in his hands.

“Don’t forget to thank me later for not saying anything,” I add, unable to resist.

His jaw tightens, and he finally looks at me, his dark eyes colder than ever. “Get in the car, Williams.”

The use of my real name stings more than it should, but I bite back a retort and do as he says.

Whatever just happened, I get the distinct feeling it was only the beginning.