Page 3

Arden

W hen I started down this path, I gave myself one rule: don’t let them see you flinch, cry, or get angry.

Men are like wolves, circling, waiting for the smallest sign of weakness. I feel it the second I walk into any room. Their stares brush against my skin like cold steel. Every whisper and every glance feels like a judgment, as if they know something I don’t.

And maybe they do.

I’m still running the events of the day before in my head as I make my way through the hallway, each step heavy with nerves I refuse to let show.

They’ve given us the rest of the day off and said simulations won’t start until Friday. “ Take some time to get settled, explore the facilities ,” Harris said. His tone was neutral, but I caught the way Grant’s lip curled ever so slightly at the word “explore.”

Like he didn’t think I’d make it to the starting line, let alone survive the course.

The idea of wandering aimlessly through this place, pretending I’m not being judged with every passing second, makes my stomach churn.

Instead of taking in the sights after the tour, I decide to head straight for the one place that might offer some relief. The gym.

When Harris mentioned it was next to the simulation room, I didn’t expect much. Maybe some weights and a treadmill if I was lucky.

But what I find when I push open the doors is nothing short of impressive. The space is massive, with heavy bags suspended from the ceiling and top-of-the-line equipment spread out like a catalog for professional athletes.

Definitely an upgrade from the shoddy gym next to the Maryland Police Department’s headquarters.

My hands itch to hit something, to channel the tension coiling tighter with every passing second. I grab a roll of tape from a nearby bench and carefully wrap my knuckles. The slow pull of the tape is peaceful, each tug centering me just a little more.

I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. At first, I think it’s just another agent passing by. But then I see him.

Agent Corbin.

He’s across the hall, leaning casually against the wall, talking to someone I don’t recognize. His features are set in an expression that’s both bored and predatory like he’s weighing the value of whatever poor soul has his attention.

My stomach knots, and I force myself to look away, pretending I didn’t see him. Corbin has a way of noticing things like weakness, discomfort, or hesitation. Anything he can exploit. Prey upon. And the last thing I want is for him to think I’m still bothered by everything he put me through during training. It’ll just open the door for newer attacks.

I finish taping my hands and head straight for one of the heavy bags. With each punch, the events of the past two days creep back in, an unwelcome reminder that I’ve had to fight every step of the way to get here, yet this still feels like the beginning.

And I hate to admit it, but the look on Grant’s face is imprinted into my memory. I heard the warnings during FLETC about how impossible it was to impress him, but no one mentioned how hard it was to merely co-exist with the man.

Not to mention, paired with the absolute last person on planet earth I prayed—like actually got on my knees and begged the man upstairs—that Agent Brandon Corbin would vanish after the academy, disappearing into some corner of the agency far, far away from me.

But luck has never been my strong suit. The big man and I have what you can call a rocky relationship.

Corbin finished his training program right after I started mine. Somehow, he’d decided I was his favorite target.

He isn’t the loud, obvious kind of bully. No, no, that’s too easy. Corbin likes his cruelty to feel personal. He’d do things like hide my clothes after training, forcing me to dig through the men’s locker room to find them.

Once, during a sparring session, he’d fought dirty, grabbing a fistful of my hair to throw me off balance. And then there were the comments, always delivered with a sly grin and designed to make me feel small.

But he isn’t the type to get in any real trouble. Corbin is just careful enough to stay out of the instructors’ crosshairs, and he charms his way out of situations that should’ve ended with him cleaning toilets for a week.

So seeing him here is yet another punch to the gut I didn’t see coming.

“You punch like a girl,” he says, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. But I don’t stop. I’ve heard far worse from him and his buddies.

I land another punch, harder this time, pretending it’s his face instead. The bag swings on its chain, creaking softly.

“Ignoring me, huh?” He moves closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. They scream with a confidence that comes from thinking they’re untouchable. “Guess that’s one way to deal with criticism.”

“I’m busy. Go bother someone else, Corbin,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

He laughs, sharp and hollow. “Busy proving you deserve to be here?”

My hands still, but I don’t look at him. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Maybe not to me,” he says, circling to the other side of the bag so I can’t ignore him. “But you sure as hell have a lot to prove to Grant. To Harris. To Tate. And to everyone else wondering how someone like you skipped the line. Must be nice.”

I turn to face him then, keeping my expression neutral even as my chest burns with a hatred so deep. “I earned my spot here, just like everyone else.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Sure you did. You know, some of us actually had to work for this. Some of us weren’t handed opportunities on a silver platter just because we had—” He stops himself, but the insinuation is clear.

“Just because we had what?” I ask.

He smiles, slow and mocking. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I tighten my fists and return the gloves to the bag, throwing a hard right hook that rattles the chains.

Corbin lingers for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as if waiting for me to snap. It takes every bone in my body not to actually throw a quick right into his face. When I don’t say anything, he huffs and walks off, muttering something under his breath that I can't quite hear.

When the door swings shut behind him, I let out a slow breath. I’ve dealt with guys like him most of my life—jealous, insecure, and desperate to prove they have a bigger wanker. The best remedy is to ignore them and keep moving forward.

But as I land another punch on the bag, harder this time, I can’t help but feel the weight of his words. Must be nice. It isn’t nice. It’s exhausting. Every glance, every whisper, every expectation feels like a collar tied around my neck.

But I didn’t come this far to let anyone make me doubt myself, and I wasn’t about to start today.

Screw him, screw everyone.

I hit the bag again, and my muscles scream in protest, but I don’t stop. Not until the ache in my body drowns out the noise in my head.

***

After a quick shower in a matching luxurious bathroom, I go to the employee cafeteria I spotted during the tour. But I immediately regret it after paying for my lunch when I notice that the cafeteria is packed.

I try not to pay it any mind as I walk in, tray in hand.

I’m not in the mood to sit alone, but I’m not in the mood to make small talk either.

Before I could decide where to sit, I catch a familiar head in the distance.

Park.

He’s by the windows, leaning back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His eyes scan the room lazily, but there’s nothing casual in the perusal. He’s watching.

Still and precise, it’s the one thing that always sets him apart. Unlike everyone else here, Park doesn’t try to dominate the room. He doesn’t need to. His presence is more than enough, just like Agent Grant.

He catches my eye and tips his head toward the seat across from him, face void of all emotion. Not even a smirk. I hesitate for a moment before heading over.

“Williams.” He surprises me by speaking first as I sit down. His voice is its usual calm and low timbre. “You look… annoyed.”

“That’s because I am,” I reply, picking at my Caesar salad.

He says nothing, just raises an eyebrow and waits.

“It’s nothing. It’s just Corbin,” I admit finally, my voice tight. “He’s—”

“Bothering you again,” Park finishes, his expression and eyes darkening to a violent shade. The shift is so subtle that anyone else would’ve missed it. But I don’t. I’ve seen that look before, quite often back in FLETC.

He leans forward slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the table. “You want me to deal with him?”

The words are almost conversational, but they carry a promise. Park isn’t the type to offer lightly or bluff. My chest tightens, and I remember the last time someone pushed me too far, and Park decided to step in. Quietly and efficiently, he left the man with bruises I’m sure he still carries to this day.

That darkness loitered long after the incident was over, and no one bothered me much outside of Corbin and a few of his friends.

“I can handle him,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

He tilts his head, studying me for a moment before nodding. “Good.”

That’s it. No reassurance, no further questions. It’s not like he needs to say much to make his point, and I don’t need him to.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the tension from earlier slowly ebbing away as I focus on my food. Park leans back in his chair again, the smirk returning to his lips like a flip of a switch.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Park says suddenly, his tone casual but his words cutting.

“Corbin?” I ask, frowning.

Park doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the other side of the room. “People like him don’t last long,” he says finally. “Too loud. Too desperate.”

I want to ask what he means, but the way his expression darkens, paired with the quiet intensity in his voice, keeps me silent.

I can identify the second the air between us shifts, the silence thickening as I feel the weight of someone’s gaze.

My instincts prickle, and I glance around the room, my eyes locking on Agent Grant.

He’s standing by the far wall, arms crossed, his piercing blue eyes fixed on me with a fury that sends a chill down my spine. His jaw is tight and his posture rigid, but his eyes? They look as though he could cut me apart with the sheer intensity alone.

“What the hell is his problem?” I mutter, more to myself than to Park.

Park follows my gaze, his blank expression frozen in place. “Grant?” he asks, his tone flat.

"Who else?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Grant’s eyes flick briefly to Park, his blue eyes a dark storm, before snapping back to me. I should slap myself at the heat that threatens to rise to my cheeks. It’s followed by confusion and then irritation at the reaction.

I do not blush.

Especially not for men like Dr. Evil over there.

His stare lingers, unreadable, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s trying to intimidate me or set me on fire with his mind. Either way, it’s working.

I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze with the same defiance that has gotten me into trouble more than once. His lips press into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking before he abruptly turns and stalks out of the cafeteria.

Park leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You want my advice?”

“No,” I say automatically even though I could tell he would give it anyway.

“Ignore him,” Park says, his voice low but firm. “Grant’s the kind of guy who expects everyone around him to be a robot like him. Don’t let it get to you.”

Ironic coming from him.

I nod even though my stomach is still twisted in knots.