Page 27

Arden

G rant’s words are still ringing in my ears as I slam the door to my room shut. She held her own, but she’s still a liability. Draws too much attention.

Liability. A fucking liability . His face is a liability.

I didn’t even mean to listen. I wanted to know what time to get up to meet the senator, but instead, I overheard him talking about me.

I throw my bag onto the chair, irritation bubbling under my skin. Every step forward I take, every time I think I do something right, Holden Grant shoves me two steps back. It doesn’t matter how hard I work; he always finds something to nitpick, some way to remind me I’m not good enough.

I need air. Space. A drink. Anything to stop me from thinking about his stupid face and the way his icy-blue eyes always criticize me everywhere I go.

Here, I thought we were finding middle ground. That we could exist without being at each other’s throat every other minute. And dare I say it, act like the team he preaches about. But no, today confirmed what I’ve known for a while.

Holden Grant doesn’t want a team. He’s a lone wolf. Alpha in his own right, but the sole and only member. Always has been, always will be. I don’t know how Tate’s put up with him for so long.

I dress quickly, pulling on tight black jeans, a leather jacket, and a black tank with a deep V-neck that hints at just enough without showing too much.

If I’m going to cool off, I’ll do it my way.

Stepping out into the main area, I spot Park on the couch, his eyes fixed on the TV like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He doesn’t even acknowledge me, so I don’t bother acknowledging him either.

He’s been acting strange too, and I cannot find it in me to care about what crawled up his ass.

This house is infected, and I need to get the hell out of here before I lose my mind.

Tate, however, looks up from where he’s reviewing something on his tablet. His brow furrows as he takes me in. “You going somewhere?”

“I need some air,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Just grabbing a drink from the bar we passed coming into town. It’s only about a mile or two up the road.”

Tate leans back in his chair, watching me carefully. “You know the rules.”

“I know,” I respond, holding his gaze. I needed to convince one of them to approve, and I sure as hell wasn’t asking the big oaf. “It’s just one drink. Nothing crazy.”

He studies me for a moment longer before exhaling. “Fine. Take your gun and keep your ringer on.”

I nod, grabbing my holstered weapon from the counter and clipping it to my belt.

“You look like you could use a drink or five,” Tate adds, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still hold a flicker of concern. “You sure you don’t want company?”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I need some time to clear my head. Alone.”

Tate doesn’t argue, just nods. “Keep your guard up. Call one of us if you need anything.”

“I will,” I say quietly, giving him a faint smile before heading for the door.

***

The cool night air hits my face as I step out of the SUV, and the flashing neon lights of the bar named Davidson’s come into view.

The frustration burning inside me doesn’t cool at the sight.

It flares and only gets hotter when I hear the faint sound of footsteps behind me.

I turn, my hand flying to my gun and aiming it at forehead level. Icy-blue eyes lock with mine, and within a heartbeat, my weapon is gone.

Before I can react, I’m pinned against the rough brick wall of the bar, my breath hitching as his solid body presses against mine. His hand grips my wrist, firm but not bruising, his other planted beside my head. Close. Too close.

“What did I tell you about hesitating, Rookie?” His low tone shouldn’t make my stomach flutter, but it does. The words are a taunt, his breath warm against my ear, and I hate that it sends a shiver racing down my spine.

I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze without flinching, my lips curling into a dangerous smirk. “What did I tell you about following me, Holden?” My sharp voice cuts through the electric tension crackling between us.

His lips quirk into something that isn’t quite a smirk but close enough to make heat pool low in my stomach, shooting straight to my core. “You think you can just waltz off in the middle of a mission, dressed like that , and no one would notice?” His eyes dip, slow and deliberate, lingering on the low cut of my tank top and the curve of my hips hugged by the tight black denim.

“Sorry I didn’t inform you, dear husband. You were busy on the phone,” I shoot back, my voice harder now, laced with indignation. I arch a brow, ignoring the way my pulse quickens under his unrelenting gaze. “And what’s it to you? You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?” His words are a low growl, his grip on my wrist tightening just enough to make me hyper aware of his strength. His eyes darken, filled with something primal, making the air between us impossibly heavy.

“Not even close,” I whisper, leaning in just enough to feel the heat radiating off him. My lips barely move, but the defiance in my tone is unmistakable. “You don’t get to tell me where I can or can’t go. I’m just getting a drink.”

“It’s against protocol,” he says, the words laced with frustration, but there’s an edge, a thinly veiled jealousy that sends a thrill through me.

“Yet here I am.” I shrug, the movement brushing me against him, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens. “Tate didn’t seem to care.”

“You don’t report to Tate,” he snaps, his voice dropping even lower, rough with restrained fury. “You report to me.”

The corner of my mouth lifts in a slow, teasing smile. “Oh, is this you pulling the ‘husband’ card?”

“You are my wife.” The words come out like a growl, his grip on my wrist pulling me closer, so close I can feel every hard inch of him against me. His eyes bore into mine, daring me to deny it.

“Only undercover,” I bite back, my voice dripping with venom, even as something inside me twists in response to the heat radiating off him. My heart pounds, my body betraying me in the worst way. I have to fight to keep from clenching my thighs together.

His silence is telling, his lips parting as if to fire something back, but nothing comes. I yank my wrist free from his grip, my fingers brushing his as I do, and take a deliberate step forward, erasing the sliver of space between us.

“What’s the matter, Holden ?” I murmur, my voice sultry and intimate, dripping with a tone I’ve never heard before. “Going to file another anonymous complaint to HR? Run crying to Harris and tell him how much of a liability I am to this mission again?”

His nostrils flare, his jaw clenching so tightly I wonder if he’ll crack a tooth. But he doesn’t say a word.

I lean in, close enough that my breath skims over his skin, the proximity leaving me dangerously aware of how intoxicating he is. “I thought so,” I whisper, the words a knife slipping between ribs. “Mind your business.”

His chest rises and falls, his restraint tangible, but he doesn’t step back. His voice, when it comes, is rough, a warning wrapped in heat. “You’re playing with fire, Rookie.”

I smirk, brushing past him, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air as I walk toward the bar, my voice floating over my shoulder. “Good thing I love the burn.”

The music in the bar is loud enough to drown out my thoughts, which is exactly what I need. The bass thrums through the air, mingling with laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. The dim lights cast a warm, hazy glow over the crowd of people packed close together, moving to the beat of the music.

Eyes flick to me as I step inside. A few linger, curiosity mixed with interest, but I don’t pay them any mind. Let them look. I didn’t come here for them.

I head straight to the bar, weaving through bodies swaying to the music, the heat of the crowd pressing against me like a living, breathing thing. The counter is polished, reflecting the faint glow of the overhead lights.

“Whiskey,” I say as I lean against the bar, the word leaving my lips like a command.

The bartender glances up, a man with tattoos snaking down both arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His sharp jawline and easy smile make it clear he’s used to attention, and I’m not above enjoying it.

“Coming right up,” he says, his voice smooth.

I watch him work, his movements efficient and almost hypnotic. The glass slides across the counter toward me a moment later, amber liquid swirling as he sets it down.

“On the house, for a pretty lady,” he says, leaning in just slightly.

I raise a brow, my lips curving into a smirk. “Flattery gets you everywhere, doesn’t it?”

He chuckles, leaning on the counter as his dark eyes hold mine. “Only when it’s true.”

I take a slow sip of the whiskey, the burn spreading through my chest, dulling the sharp edges of my irritation. “Thanks,” I say, my tone light and teasing.

“Anytime,” he replies, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer before he moves to serve someone else.

I nurse my drink, letting the buzz settle in as I survey the room. It’s been too long since I’ve let myself unwind like this and done anything just for me. The thought makes me smirk bitterly against the rim of the glass. The last time I got laid feels like another lifetime.

“You dance as good as you look?”

The confident and deep voice comes from behind me. I turn, coming face-to-face with a man who looks startlingly similar to the bartender, with the same sharp features and the same tattoos snaking down his arms. Brothers, maybe.

“Wanna find out?” I say, setting my glass down.

He doesn’t wait for me to change my mind, taking my hand and leading me onto the dance floor. The music shifts to something slower, the bassline heavy and deliberate. He moves behind me, his hands light on my hips, guiding me to the rhythm.

It’s easy and effortless, but there’s nothing personal about it. It’s a distraction, just like the whiskey.

I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. When I open them again, he’s slipped back into the crowd without a word.

I don’t have time to process it before I feel him.

Heat radiates against my back, the familiar presence making my breath hitch. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Holden.

He’s close, his chest brushing against me as his hands settle on my hips. His firm touch is possessive, and I feel the tension in him, the restraint barely holding him together.

“You think this is funny?” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “Running off, acting like a bad little wife?”

The words send a shiver racing down my spine, sharp and electric.

I don’t respond, my body moving instinctively to the rhythm, and his hands tighten in response. His fingers glide over the curve of my hips, down to my thighs, and back up again, setting every nerve in my body alight.

“You like being trouble, don’t you?” he murmurs, his dark voice full of restrained fury.

I tilt my head back just enough for his breath to skim over my jaw, the proximity intoxicating. “You followed me,” I challenge.

His grip tightens, his thumbs brushing just under the hem of my shirt, the contact searing. “You made me.”

I press back against him, a slow, deliberate movement that draws a low growl from his throat. The music fades into the background, the world narrowing to just this—his hands, his voice, and the heat of him against me.

“Do you like making me angry, wife?” he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

“Maybe,” I say, my voice breathy, teasing.

“You shouldn’t,” he growls, his hands sliding higher, every touch a silent warning.

But I do. God, I do.

His hands find my waist again, pulling me tighter against him as the tension between us builds, slow and heavy, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

For a moment, it feels like the rest of the room disappears—the crowd, the music, everything fades into nothingness. It’s just him and me, the space between us crackling with a heat threatening to consume us both.

His hands shift, sliding up my waist with a slow deliberation that makes my breath catch. The rough pads of his fingers graze just beneath my ribs, skimming the edge of my underboob, a whisper of contact that sends a ripple of heat coursing through me.

I bite my lip, my pulse hammering in my ears as his voice cuts through the haze, low and rough against my ear. “Is this what you came here for, Rookie?”

The way he says it makes my chest tighten, his tone dripping with accusation and something darker, something primal.

“Find a quick fuck?” he continues, his breath hot against my skin. “Blow off some steam?”

I don’t answer. I can’t because every nerve in my body is too consumed by the slow drag of his hands as they explore, testing the boundaries of my control.

“Tell me,” he growls, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Is this what you wanted?”

My thighs press together instinctively, a futile attempt to ease the ache building there. But he notices. Of course he notices.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet, dangerous promise. “You’re making it too easy to forget the rules.”

I don’t miss the shift in him, the hard, unmistakable press of his own arousal against my back. Thick and prodding. My breath stutters, my body betraying me as a surge of heat pools low in my stomach. My panties are impossibly wet, and I can’t even blame it on the alcohol.

His hands slide lower, his thumbs brushing just above the waistband of my jeans, teasing, testing, and trying to call my bluff. Every movement is slow as if he’s savoring the way my body reacts to him.

“You’re quiet now,” he whispers, the taunt laced with amusement and frustration. “What happened to all that back talk?”

I force a breath, my voice barely audible. “You seem to like me quiet.”

His low chuckle vibrates against my back, dark and intimate, sending a shiver racing down my spine. “Not like this.”

The hand on my waist tightens, pulling me back against him, his arousal pressing harder against me. The friction sends a jolt through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his voice like smoke, curling around me and setting me on fire.

I nod, the movement small, my throat too dry to form words.

“That’s what you do to me,” he says, his tone rough with barely restrained want. “Every time you run your mouth, every time you look at me like that, every time you breathe. I can’t think straight around you. That is how you’re a liability.”

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I hate how much I want him, how much I’ve wanted this for longer than I’m willing to admit.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks again, his lips brushing against my ear. His hands tease and torment, pushing me closer to the edge. “Tell me, wife.”

I swallow hard, my voice trembling when I finally manage to speak. “I didn’t—”

“Liar,” he cuts me off, his voice a quiet growl. “You came here looking for trouble, didn’t you? Just like you did that night with Beckett. And you found it.”

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. His hands, his voice, and his presence overwhelm every sense.

“I should leave you here,” he says, his hands sliding back down to my hips, his grip firm and possessive. “Let you find whatever it is you’re looking for. But I can’t, can I? I’d slaughter them all.”

He pulls me tighter, and the movement makes me gasp as my body molds against his. I can feel every hard line of him, the heat of his skin bleeding through his clothes, branding me.

“You’re a bad little wife,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the corner of my jaw. “But I’m the only one who gets to clean up your mess.”

The words are a growl, filled with frustration and something deeper, something darker, that threatens to unravel my last shred of control.

I don’t trust myself to speak, my body betraying me with every pulse, every shiver, every breath.

“And unless you want me to shoot every single motherfucker in here staring at you like they want a piece too, I’d advise you to get the fuck in the car.”

His quiet snarl cuts through the haze of heat and music like a knife.

Before I can react, he spins me to face him, his hands firm on my hips. His eyes, icy, stormy, and impossibly dark, lock onto mine, and the air between us shifts. It’s suffocating and electric all at once.

Logic deserts me, vanishing under his gaze. The fury there burns, but it’s tangled with something deeper that reaches past the anger and burrows into my chest.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns sharply, his hand gripping mine as he pulls me through the crowd, his pace deliberate. The heat of his touch is enough to short-circuit my brain, and I follow wordlessly, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

The night air is cool against my flushed skin when we step outside, but it does nothing to dampen the fire raging inside me. The car is parked a few steps away, and he doesn’t slow until we’re both standing beside it.

Holden yanks the passenger door open, his jaw tight as he avoids my gaze. The muscles in his forearm flex when his hand tightens on the edge of the door. “Get in.”

I do, the silence crackling like a live wire between us as he slams the door shut and rounds the front of the car.

When he slides into the driver’s seat, he doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak. His hand grips the wheel, his knuckles white against the leather, and then he floors it.

The engine growls as the car surges forward, eating up the pavement beneath us. The interior is dark, the faint glow of passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across his face.

He’s focused, his gaze locked on the road ahead, but the tension radiating off him is palpable. It coils in the small space between us, thick and heavy, and I feel it like a physical touch.

I want to say something, but I don’t trust myself. The words lodge in my throat, useless and unnecessary in the face of… whatever is brewing inside him and me.

The drive feels both endless and fleeting, every second stretching taut with unspoken words, stolen glances, and the weight of everything we’re too afraid to say.

When he finally pulls into the driveway, the car stops with a jolt. My hand moves to the door handle, but he beats me to it, stepping out and rounding the car before I can blink.

Holden opens my door, his movements quick. He doesn’t wait for me to step out; he’s already turning toward the house, expecting me to follow.

And I do.

The house is dark when we step inside, and the faint hum of the air conditioner is the only sound. Park and Tate are gone.

He doesn’t turn on the lights. Doesn’t say a word.

Holden strides into the living room, his movements fluid and controlled like a predator stalking its prey. Then he stops, standing in the center of the room, and pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

The sight of him steals the breath from my lungs. His chest is broad, muscles carved and lean, his skin kissed by faint scars that only make him look more dangerous.

My mouth goes dry.

He turns to face me, his blue eyes blazing in the darkness. “You’ve got about a minute, Arden.”

I blink, my pulse hammering in my ears as his words settle over me like a challenge.

“A minute to tell me to walk the fuck away,” he continues, his voice low, rough, dripping with restrained desire. “To say this isn’t what you want.”

I don’t move.

“This is your chance,” he says, taking a step closer, his gaze locked onto mine. “Because tonight, there’s no mission. No cover. No rules. Just you and me. Fake husband and wife. And I’m about to show you exactly what it feels like to be mine .”

He stops a breath away, the heat rolling off him making it impossible to think.

But I don’t tell him to walk away. Maybe this would do us both good. To get it out of our system.

The moment he realizes, something in him snaps.

Holden closes the distance in one swift movement, his hands gripping my waist as he yanks me off the floor. His mouth crashes against mine, fierce and demanding, his kiss stealing the last shreds of my sanity.

I gasp against his lips. My hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching at him as if I might fall apart otherwise.

His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my hips as he presses me against him, his body hard and unyielding. The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, like he’s determined to unravel me piece by piece.

The room spins, every thought drowned out by the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he consumes every inch of me with just a touch, a kiss.

And I let him.