Page 29

Arden

I wake up alone, naked, and sore.

The sheets are cool against my skin, but my warm body thrums with reminders of last night. Holden. His hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like he owned every inch of me.

We went a few more rounds, and every single one was better than the last. I thought it would be enough, but all it did was leave me wanting more.

I shove the memory away, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My muscles ache in places I hadn’t thought about in years, but I ignore the pain, reaching for my clothes.

It was a one-night stand. Nothing more. I’ve had plenty before, and this one doesn’t get to be different just because it’s him.

Except it is different , a voice in my head whispers.

“Shut up,” I mutter to myself, yanking on my leggings. I grab my shirt, tugging it over my head before I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.

My hair is a mess, in need of a touch up, and my neck. Oh my God, my neck. A faint mark blooms along the curve where his teeth had grazed too long, too hard. I run my fingers over it, a dark feeling I convince myself is irritation sparking under my skin.

I didn’t even notice. Fuck, I haven’t had a hickey since high school.

I dig through my bag for my concealer, dabbing it over the dark spot with practiced precision. The memory of his mouth on my skin makes my cheeks heat, and I force the thought away, focusing on covering every trace of him.

Satisfied, I tie my hair into a high ponytail, ignoring the faint ache in my scalp from him pulling too hard. A quick swipe of mascara, a little lip balm, and I’m ready to face the day.

Or so I tell myself.

The kitchen is buzzing when I walk in. Harris’s face is on the laptop screen, his voice calm but authoritative as he debriefs the team.

I don’t miss the way the room falls silent the moment I enter.

“Morning, Williams,” Harris says, his tone light but carrying a hint of concern. “Didn’t think you’d be joining us. Grant said you were beyond tired.”

Heat threatens to rise in my cheeks, and I grit my teeth, forcing a neutral expression as I grab a mug from the counter.

My eyes flick to Holden, but he doesn’t look at me. I swear my right eye twitches as he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the wall just past Harris’s face.

I look away, focusing on pouring my coffee. My hand doesn’t shake. Not much.

“I’m glad to see you up,” Harris continues, his faint smile tugging at the edges of the screen. “I heard you did well getting the senator out. Keep it up.”

“Thank you,” I say evenly, fighting the irritation bubbling under the surface. I still remember Holden’s conversation, which I overheard last night. If it wasn’t Harris he was speaking to, then who?

I glance at him again, half expecting him to still be looking away, but he isn’t. His sharp blue eyes are locked on me, as if he expected me to look his way, though his expression is unreadable.

By the time Harris signs off, my patience hangs by a thread.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Park asks, his tone low as the others filter out of the room.

I don’t bother hiding the edge in my voice. “Yes. I’m doing my job, like you just heard Harris say. Unless you mean something else?”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he shakes his head as he walks away, leaving me standing there with my coffee and my irritation.

What is it with these men? Is this some sort of fucked-up new season of Handmaid’s Tale I’m not aware of?

This entire house reeks of testosterone. By the time I find Holden in the gym, I’m ready for a fight.

He’s shirtless, his punches deliberate and precise as they land against the bag. His movements are controlled and efficient, but there’s a coiled energy in the way his muscles flex, like he’s punching something away.

“Why did you tell Harris I was tired?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even glance at me. “You were.”

“It wasn’t your decision,” I snap, stepping closer. “You don’t get to make those calls for me, Holden.”

He slows, his hands dropping to his sides as he turns to face me. His steady gaze is assessing, but I don’t miss the flicker of something darker when his eyes meet mine.

“I made the call because it was the right one,” he says, his tone calm, clipped.

“You don’t trust me to act normal?” I say, crossing my arms.

His eyes narrow slightly. “I trust you to do your job.”

“But not to decide when I’m capable of doing it?”

“You were exhausted,” he replies evenly, his gaze flicking over me in a way that makes my skin heat. “I wasn’t going to risk it.”

His eyes linger for a fraction too long, trailing from my face to my neck. My pulse quickens under his scrutiny, and the memory of last night crashes over me like a wave.

I hate that my body responds to him, that even now, I can feel the pull between us like a live wire.

“This is my job , Agent Grant,” I say, my voice firm. “Not some fairy-tale bullshit. I know last night doesn’t change that.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything, the tension between us thick enough to cut.

The door swings open, and Tate steps in, his brow arching as he looks between us.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, his tone casual but curious.

“No,” I say quickly, shooting Holden a glare before turning on my heel and walking out.

I want to text Luna. God, I wish I could.

She’s probably sent me at least three messages by now, asking if I’m alive, if I’ve eaten, or if I’ve done something reckless. But I can’t respond the way I want to, can’t let her in the way she deserves. Not here. Not now.

Being undercover means limiting communication and keeping ties to home at arm’s length. It’s necessary, but it doesn’t make it easier.

The last message I sent was bullshit, short, and sounded like a teleprompter: Can’t talk much while I’m away. I’m alive.

She didn’t like it. I could practically feel her irritation through the screen when she sent back: I know the drill, how much longer?

I haven’t answered yet. What can I say?

My chest tightens as I power the phone off and pocket my burner phone before heading to the garage where Holden’s waiting. The irritation from this morning still lingers, simmering beneath the surface, but I force it down. I can’t afford to let him get under my skin. Not right now.

I need to focus on the mission. Harris vouched for me and stood up for me, so I’ll be damned if I let him down.

He’s leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, his gaze cutting to me as I approach. His expression is as unreadable as usual, but something in the way his eyes flick over me and watch me, lingering too long, makes my stomach tighten with a familiarity that shoots straight to my core.

“We’re picking up Fallon again,” he says simply, pushing off the car.

“Obviously,” I mutter, climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive to the senator’s location is thick with unspoken words. I keep my focus on the window, refusing to look at him even when I can feel his gaze on me.

When we arrive, Fallon waits outside, his posture stiff and his expression irritable. He climbs into the back seat without a word, adjusting his suit as he settles in.

“Trouble in paradise?” Fallon asks, his gaze flicking between us.

Neither of us answers.

The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, but Fallon doesn’t push. He leans back in his seat, his attention shifting to his phone, leaving us to stew in whatever this is.

The warehouse we’re headed to this time is different. New location, same unsettling feeling. The building looms in the distance, all sharp angles and shadows. Every single one of these places feels designed to swallow you whole.

Holden pulls the car to a stop just outside the gates, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.

“You stay here,” he says, his tone clipped.

For once, I don’t argue. I unbuckle my seat belt, leaning back against the headrest as he steps out. The door slams shut behind him, and I let out a slow breath.

The sound of voices catches my attention, muffled but distinct, drawing my gaze to the side of the warehouse.

That’s when I see her.

My breath hitches, the air catching in my lungs as my eyes lock onto the figure standing near the edge of the shadows. She’s partially lit by the dim glow of a security light, but it’s enough for me to catch a glimpse of her red hair.

It’s impossible.

She’s supposed to be gone. Missing. The woman from FLETC, quiet but good and always a step ahead during drills. I remember the way she moved with an efficiency that could make anyone second-guess themselves.

Then she disappeared.

My stomach twists as fragments of conversations from FLETC surface in my mind. People asking where she went. Speculation. Whispers that no one could get in contact with her.

“Gone dark,” they said. “No trace, no explanation.”

Yet here she is.

I blink, half convinced she’ll vanish like a shadow in the wrong light, but she doesn’t. She’s standing there, as real as the tension coiling in my chest.

I glance toward Holden, who’s outside the car, his focus on Fallon. He hasn’t noticed her, hasn’t seen the way she’s lingering near the warehouse like she belongs here.

I check the rearview mirror instinctively, wondering how far behind Park and Tate are. They were supposed to be trailing us, keeping an eye from a distance. Would they see her too? Would Park recognize her?

My hand thrums on my thigh, a maddening rhythm that’s supposed to calm, but it doesn’t. My thoughts spiral as I stare at the woman.

Why is she here?

Does she know I saw her?

What the hell happened to her after FLETC?

A dozen questions flood my mind, each one heavier than the last. My heart races, adrenaline sharpening my focus as I try to make sense of the impossibility in front of me.

She shifts slightly, stepping closer to the edge of the light. Her face is partially shadowed, but there’s no mistaking her. The same high cheekbones, the same calculating expression.

No one disappears without a trace like that without a reason. No one comes back without one either.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, a chill spreading through me despite the warmth of the car. I force myself to breathe, to stay calm, but the shock of seeing her isn’t fading.

“Everything good?”

Holden’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. He’s leaning down, his gaze sharp as it flicks between the windshield and me.

“Fine,” I say quickly, the word steady but hollow in my ears.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. He straightens, shutting the door with a sharp thud before walking back toward Fallon.

I glance back toward the warehouse, but she’s gone.

The unease in my chest tightens, spreading like a dark cloud through my thoughts.

What the fuck is going on? What does she have to do with Fallon?

No one knew what happened to her at FLETC. No one could explain why she vanished without a trace. And now she’s here, at a place she shouldn’t be, tied to people she shouldn’t know.

I glance at Holden again through the windshield. He’s focused, his stance tense but controlled as he waits for whoever Fallon is supposed to be meeting.

I should tell him.

But the words won’t come.

Instead, I sit there, shaking my thigh like it’s the only thing keeping me steady, and try to convince myself that I imagined it.