Page 32

Holden

T he ballroom is alive with murmured conversations and clinking glasses, but none of it registers.

My focus is fractured, searching every corner and face for the person who matters most.

Arden’s gone.

I move through the crowd, careful to keep my expression neutral, but the pounding in my chest tells a different story. This isn’t right. She wouldn’t just vanish, not without a signal, not without a reason.

“Grant,” Tate’s voice cuts through the haze as I spot him near the bar, sipping something amber and far too calm for my liking.

I’m on him in seconds. “Have you seen her?” My voice is low, clipped, but there’s an edge to it that even I can’t hide.

Tate’s brow furrows slightly, his easy demeanor faltering once he realizes who I’m talking about. “I had eyes on her a second ago,” he says, setting his glass down. He scans the room, his sharp gaze narrowing as realization dawns. “Shit. She’s not here, is she?”

“No,” I bite out, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “And the senator?”

Tate shakes his head, looking genuinely rattled now. “I thought she was with him. I figured she could ha—”

“Save it,” I snap, the words colder than I intend. Apologies won’t bring her back, and every second we waste is another second she’s out there alone.

Before I can decide whether to shake Tate or leave him behind, my eyes catch movement near the far end of the ballroom. The redhead. She’s no longer beside the Russian. Instead, she’s gliding across the dance floor, blending in with the glittering crowd like a ghost.

I force myself to breathe, to keep my steps steady as I close the distance between us. Reacting rashly will only make this worse.

When I reach her, I don’t hesitate. “Dance with me,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.

Her lips curl into a smile, too amused for someone who should be scared, but she doesn’t resist. Like she expected me to come to her. She takes my hand, letting me pull her onto the floor.

The music swells, a slow waltz that belies the deadly tension between us. I place a hand on her waist, pulling her closer than necessary, and lean in just enough to make my words private.

“If you don’t want me to put a bullet in your head, I’d advise you to tell me where the fuck my wife is.”

The redhead’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes gleam with something dark, something sharp. “Fake wife, isn’t that right, Agent Grant?”

My jaw tightens, and I bare my teeth in what might pass for a smile. “You’ve got ten seconds to stop playing games.”

She tilts her head, her voice dripping with mockery. “You know, I’ve heard about you. Holden Grant, the man who shuts the world out to hide from his past. The man who could’ve been so much more if only he hadn’t lost himself when his mentor died.”

Her words hit their mark, but I don’t let it show. I tighten my grip on her waist, my fingers digging in just enough to make her realize she’s not in control here. “You really want to test me right now?”

“Test you?” she purrs, leaning in like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m stalling you, Agent Grant. And you’re letting me.”

The realization strikes like a gunshot, and I’m already moving before she finishes her sentence. I grab her arm, subtle enough to avoid attention but firm enough to leave no doubt about my intent, and steer her off the dance floor toward the shadowed hallway.

She stumbles slightly, but I don’t slow down. The moment we’re out of sight, I push her against the wall, the cold steel of my gun pressing against her temple.

“You want to try answering my question again?” I growl, my voice deadly quiet. “Where. The fuck. Is she?”

Her smirk deepens, like she knows exactly how close I am to losing control. “Fine, since you asked so nicely,” she says finally, her voice smooth as silk. “I’ll take you to her.”

I don’t lower the gun. “Get to walking.”

Her brows lift, feigned innocence painting her expression. “And the gun?”

“Not a chance,” I snap.

She laughs, a light, almost musical sound that sets my teeth on edge, but she obeys, turning down the dimly lit corridor.

The narrow hallway is lined with closed doors that stretch endlessly. Every step she takes feels like a test of my patience, my instincts screaming that she’s leading me into a trap. But it doesn’t matter.

If it’s a trap, I’ll spring it. And I’ll kill every last one of them to get her back.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence. “I’ve heard about you too, Natasha.”

She glances over her shoulder, her amusement flickering into something colder, sharper. “Have you now?”

“You think I don’t know who you are? Disappeared during FLETC, Russian ties, leaving a trail of bodies and whispers behind you. You’re not half as clever as you think you are.”

Her bravado slips briefly before her lips curve into a wicked grin. “Yet, here you are, following me like a good little soldier.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, keeping my focus on every shift of her body, every slight turn of her head. She’s enjoying this, and I hate that she’s got the upper hand, for now.

She stops in front of an unmarked door, her hand resting lightly on the handle. “This is it,” she says, her tone almost playful.

“Open it,” I bark.

She arches a brow, her fingers tapping against the door. “Oh no. I insist, after you.”

I grab her arm and shove her forward, keeping my gun trained on her as she steps inside. The room beyond is dimly lit, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

And then I see them.

First, I spot the senator. He’s slumped in a chair, not dead, just unconscious, his head tilted at an awkward angle.

Then my eyes land on the second figure, and it freezes me in place.

Arden. She’s standing just a few feet away, a gun in her hand. The barrel is pressed against a man’s temple, her expression unreadable.

For a moment, my brain refuses to process who the man is. Refuses to believe that Leo O’Malley, the man I buried in my mind years ago, is standing here. Alive.

The room tilts, the threads of every unanswered question tangling together until I can’t tell where one ends and another begins.

“What the fuck?” The words scrape out of my throat, low and hoarse, as if dragged from the weight of my disbelief.

Leo doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, calm. Like his daughter doesn’t have a gun pointed at his head, like he’s waiting for me to catch up.

Natasha’s gaze flicks between Arden and me. “Quite the reunion, isn’t it?”

Arden’s eyes flicker to mine for the briefest moment, something unspoken passing between us. But she doesn’t lower the gun.

Leo finally speaks, his steady voice almost amused. “It seems that you kept your promise after all, Holden.”