Page 4

Arden

I ’m officially convinced that bitch named Universe has it out for me.

As if I don't already have enough shit to deal with, my car refuses to start. I twist the key in the ignition one more time, just in case some miracle decides to arrive early. Nothing. Just the same stupid little clicking noise.

“Come on, Betsy, not today.” I lean my head against the steering wheel and let out a groan so loud it echoes in the silence.

I can’t afford to be late today or any day within my ninety-day probationary period.

I especially can’t afford for something to be wrong with my car.

If it isn’t already as painfully clear, I can’t afford a lot of shit right now.

I can just imagine Agent Grant standing at the entrance with a pleased look on his face as I rushed in.

I’d bet my lucky bra the man is convinced that I will fail and I think I’d actually roll over and die before proving him right.

Or swallow a handful of pushpins.

Or take my chances with He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Or help Helga clean her ancient revolver.

Anything else at this point is marginally better than proving Agent Grant right.

It’s been days, and I still can’t shake that … look in his eyes. I’ve tossed and turned more at night than I care to admit. I hate how he looked at me as if he knew me and had already decided I was a failure.

He doesn't know me.

He doesn’t know the nights I’ve spent memorizing every training exercise during FLETC, the hazing, or the bruises I carried from every failed attempt to get here.

He doesn’t know the hollow silence, the shadow of expectations I was trying to outrun. He doesn’t know about the assholes like Agent Corbin who fought tooth and nail to prove I wasn’t cut out for this line of work.

No, he doesn’t know me. But God, the look on his face? It was like he saw a ghost, and I wasn’t exactly sure I wasn’t looking right back at one.

Stupid, sadistic, devil of a man. He probably drinks little kids' tears for breakfast.

I shouldn’t care what he thinks.

“If you start, I swear I’ll get you an oil change.” I try to bribe Betsy, but turning the key in the ignition only produces the same clicking noise again.

With no other options, I call the one person I know will answer, though I’m pretty sure I might regret it later.

The phone rings four times before a groggy voice breaks through the line. “Arden? Didn’t I just hear you leave?”

I let out a sigh. “I was trying to, but my car won’t start.”

There’s a heavy pause, and I can practically feel her judgment through the phone.

“Arden,” Luna finally says, voice thick with a mix of sleep and frustration, “I told you to take Betsy to replace her battery weeks ago.”

I might recall having that conversation a few… dozen times. At least she’s not yelling. Yet . Though I can’t say that I don’t deserve it.

“I know, I know. I was planning to replace it after payday next Friday.”

A long sigh drifts over the line. “You do know I would’ve loaned you the money, right?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. As easy as it would’ve been to do that, my pride wouldn’t allow it. It’s not that I didn’t have it. I did, but I don’t anymore. I could’ve gotten a battery. However, Luna doesn’t know my money is tied up in other places I’d rather not discuss.

I know what she would say if she found out.

A few clinks and a muffled swear later, she’s grumbling in my ear. “Alright, give me a second.”

I wait in the dim, echoey parking garage, leaning against my car as I listen for Luna’s footsteps.

A few minutes later, she shuffles in, rubbing her eyes and tossing me a look somewhere between pity and “ I told you so. ”

She’s wrapped in an oversized hoodie, pajama bottoms, and slippers, and even with sleep still clinging to her, she looks aware enough to lecture me. “You owe me,” she says, already moving toward the hood.

“Put it on my tab,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, which she answers with an annoyed eye roll.

She pops the hood, pushing up her sleeves like she’s been up for hours. “Alright, tell me what it’s doing.”

“Nothing. Just clicks.”

Luna lets out a sigh, hands flying over the wires and connections in practiced movements, even in the dim garage light. Thanks to years of learning under Papa Joe, she's always been good with cars. Watching her now, I can almost hear the lectures he’d give us on oil changes, engine checks, and how you couldn’t just hope for a car to work. It needed respect. Regular care.

Things I, admittedly, overlook.

Often.

Sue me, I’m just a girl.

She pauses, lifting an eyebrow at me. “You know, if you’d just let me help out with the battery…”

“It’s fine, really. No pity party needed,” I reply, probably too quickly.

“Wasn’t offering one,” she replies, nudging my shoulder as she goes back to work. “But that pride of yours will leave you stranded one day. Alright, give it a try,” Luna says, stepping back with an exasperated sigh as I turn the key again.

Nothing. Just the same lifeless click.

I slump back against the seat, dread creeping in as I glance at the clock.

Luna’s lips press into a thin line, and she lets out a slow, resigned breath. “Okay, up. You’re coming with me.”

I look over at her in surprise. “Luna, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, believe me, I know .” She’s already walking toward her car. A sleek black coupe with tinted windows and quiet power, like her books, is somehow brought to life. She unlocks it with a sharp beep, then jerks her head toward the passenger side. “Now get in. I’ll never be able to live with myself if I stand by and let you get fired because you don’t know how to ride the Metro.”

Not needing to be told twice, I grab my things and slip into the seat beside her, glancing her way as she navigates the ramps out of the garage with one hand on the wheel, her other already reaching for the knob that controls the heat.

Luna drums her fingers on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to. We’ve always had this unspoken rhythm, the kind you only get with someone who’s seen you at your worst and stayed anyway.

Her parents took me in when no one else would—fed me, clothed me, and gave me a place to sleep when the world felt like it was caving in. Luna didn’t ask for a sister, but she got one anyway. And somehow, she’s never made me feel like an obligation.

She’s silent for a minute, but I can tell it’s just because she’s a little grouchy from being up earlier than noon on a weekday.

Then she sighs as if the silence will kill her. “Next time, Arden, just let me buy you the damn battery.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I feel the emotions behind her words as they settle in the space between us.

Luna’s always been the voice of reason when my pride gets the better of me, but it doesn’t make it easier to hear.

***

I step into the debriefing room with literal seconds to spare, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. As expected, every head turns in my direction. I feel the weight of their stares but ignore it, keeping my chin high and my steps steady.

No Harris at the front of the room. No Agent Grant either.

Thank God.

My eyes dart around for an empty seat and land on one near the back. Perfect. Out of sight, out of mind. At least, that’s the hope.

I’m halfway to the chair when I hear it. A low, mocking voice cuts through the tense silence like a whip.

“Made it just in time, didn’t you, Williams?”

Agent Corbin.

He’s slouched in a seat near the middle of the room, arms folded and legs stretched out like he owns the place. His sharp grin is all teeth, a calculated display meant to bait me.

Before I can respond or ignore him, Park, sitting two rows over, shoots Corbin a sharp glare. The kind that could cut glass. It’s subtle, just a flick of his dark hazel eyes in Corbin’s direction, but the message is clear. Shut the fuck up.

Corbin’s grin falters for half a second, but he recovers quickly, leaning back in his seat as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Grateful for the silent intervention, I slip into the empty seat next to Park, my shoulders stiff with the effort of holding myself together.

I glimpse him out of the corner of my eye as I settle in, his jaw tight and gaze forward as I completely wipe my face of all traces of emotion.

But something about having him here is steadying, like an anchor in the chaos.

Just as I take a deep breath, Harris strides in, followed closely by Agent Grant. His presence sucks all the air out of the room. Even if I wasn’t looking, I had no doubt that I would still feel him.

I'm admittedly jealous of how he carries himself with effortless confidence. I bet he doesn’t have a single doubt in his mind about his ability or capability. He doesn’t have to prove to a single soul he belongs here since you can tell just by one look at him.

My instincts tell me to keep my head down, but my eyes betray me, lifting just as his dark gaze cuts through the room and lands directly on me.

It’s like he’s magnetized, always finding me. Or maybe it’s worse.

Maybe he’s hunting me.

No, Arden. That’s crazy . Why would he be hunting you?

I force myself not to react, locking my spine straight and turning my focus back to Harris.

The debrief wraps up, and I’m already halfway to the door when I feel him. My steps falter as Agent Grant cuts me off, standing squarely in my path.

“Agent Williams,” he says, his tone sharp enough to slice through steel. He nods toward the hallway, his dark eyes unreadable. “With me.”

Just my fucking luck.

For a moment, I consider arguing, fleeing, hell anything . But it’s something about the way he’s looking at me stops me cold.

My pulse kicks up, but I keep my face carefully blank. “Yes, sir.”

The hallway feels narrower than it should as I follow him. The click of his polished shoes echoes against the silence, but I keep my focus straight ahead.

At least I try to.

But it’s like I can feel the heat radiating from him as we walk. Against my better judgment, I flick my eyes to the sharp cut of his suit and how it perfectly fits his broad shoulders.

It only makes sense that the devil is good looking. I hate it. I hate how much I notice it. It’s suffocating, and I hate the way it makes my stomach twist.

My jaw tightens with every step, tension building in my shoulders as we make it closer to our destination. When we reach his office, he opens the door and gestures me inside. I step in without a word, the faint scent of coffee and cedar lingering in the air.

He closes the door behind him, the soft click of the latch louder than it should be. Turning, he leans back against his desk, crossing his arms. Again he's looking at me like that puzzle he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Agent Williams,” he begins, his voice calm but with a razor-sharp edge. “Let me be direct. Being late during your probationary period?” He tilts his head slightly, the motion calculated. “Not exactly the impression you want to make. I just hope your skills aren’t as lackluster as your punctuality.”

Lackluster?

The heat rises in my chest, anger curling low in my stomach. I clench my fists at my sides, willing myself to stay composed. I want to defend myself, but the reminder of his seniority holds me in place.

“It won’t happen again,” I say, my voice steady, even though I feel anything but.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” he replies, his tone like ice. Does he want me to argue with him? “This job doesn’t leave room for mistakes or excuses.”

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to nod. “Understood, sir.”

He watches me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to let it end there. But then, his voice cuts through the silence again.

“Harris sees something in you. For your sake, I hope he’s not wrong.”

The words hit harder than I expect, and I feel a flicker of something I can’t quite name. The urge to argue resurfaces. I want to tell him Harris isn’t the only one who sees potential in me, that I believe in myself, but for whatever reason I can’t find the words.

And honestly, the fight in me drained long before I got here. This morning was a lot for me, and I still have real-world problems to figure out. Like how the hell I’m getting home and where to get a MetroCard. And how to use it.

“Is that all, sir?” I ask, my voice sounding defeated, betraying the simmering frustration just beneath the surface.

“Yes,” he says, his jaw tight as though he’s holding something back.

I nod once, pivoting toward the door. “Thank you, sir.”

My hand is on the handle when I feel his eyes on me again, a heavy weight that makes me pause. For a second, I think he might call me back, but the silence stretches on.

I should hate him. Maybe I do. But under the frustration, buried beneath the clipped tone and retorts, there’s something else I can’t quite name. And I’m not sure which part of that scares me more.

I pull the door open and step out, letting it slam shut behind me. It’s petty, but it feels like the only power I have left in this exchange.

As I walk away, my chest feels tight, burning with an emotion similar yet so different from hate. Irritation burns hot in my veins, but beneath it is something else, something I don’t want to think about.

What’s his problem? And why does it feel like I need to prove something to him?