Page 7

Arden

I officially lost count of the days, but Holden Grant’s smug face still lives rent-free in my head.

“You keep telling yourself that.” His words replay on an endless loop, a mix of criticism and disdain that burrows under my skin. Never mind that I executed that simulation flawlessly. Or at least I thought I did. It wasn’t enough. Nothing ever seems to be enough for him.

So here I am, two hours before my normal alarm, sparring with my old friend and trainer, West, in a desperate attempt to burn off the frustration that’s been bubbling at the surface since I started this new job.

He throws a right hook, and I dodge, my body moving on instinct. I counter with a low kick that lands squarely against his side, earning a grunt.

“Jesus, woman,” he wheezes, stepping back and holding up his hands. “What’s gotten into you this morning? You trying to kill me?”

“Just trying to get my head straight,” I reply, shifting my weight and circling him. My fists clench as the memory of Grant’s scowl flickers in my mind. “Rough day at work yesterday.”

West raises an eyebrow. “Rough, huh? You beat up a coworker again?”

“He grabbed my ass. That was warranted .” I scowl, slightly offended as I recalled the incident from two years ago. “But no, though I wish I could. Supervisor is giving me trouble, that’s all.”

West smirks, stepping back to shake out his arms. “Supervisor, huh? Let me guess, he thinks he’s God’s gift to the agency?”

I huff, crossing my arms. “Something like that. He acts like I can’t do anything right, like I’m the annoying gum stuck under his shoe.”

West tilts his head, studying me. “Sounds like a prick.”

“Prick is putting it lightly,” I mutter.

He throws a jab, and I block it easily, deflecting his follow-up with a sharp pivot. “So what’s his deal?” West asks, pressing forward with a combination of punches I dodge on instinct.

“Grant? His deal is that he’s an insufferable perfectionist who doesn’t know how to give a compliment if his life depended on it.” The words spill out before I can stop them, and my next kick is a little harder than necessary.

West catches it, his grin widening. “Hold on. Grant, as in Holden Grant?”

I blink. “You know him?”

“Not personally, but everyone’s heard of him. He’s got a reputation.” Of course, I don’t know why I’m surprised his sunny personality is known outside the White House.

Our very own hometown Grinch.

“For being an arrogant jackass?”

West laughs, shaking his head. “No, for being good. Like, stupidly good. The kind of good that makes people nervous. Three-time Valor Award recipient.”

I know that already. I may or may not have googled him a couple of times. Okay, maybe a hundred. His background is extensive. I was searching for an advantage, but I’ve never seen someone with a profile such as his.

Every time I thought I'd read everything, more just popped up. A new article, a new medal he won. A new president’s hand he was shaking. Those piercing blue eyes followed me to every web page I opened.

Thankfully, shame has no home here because I kept looking. It was nearly past midnight when I called it a night.

However, there was something about all of it that made me curious. Agent Grant still looks to be in his prime, so why was he teaching instead of doing? I know how the old saying goes: those who can’t do, teach, but he still looks to be very capable of doing.

Not to mention, he has the patience of a two-year-old, so I’m not sure teaching is his strong suit.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, he’s also the kind of good that makes people want to punch him in the face.”

West holds up his hands, palms out. “Easy there, tiger. Don’t take it out on me.”

I take a step back, exhaling sharply. “Sorry. He just…he gets under my skin, you know?”

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s that look in his eyes, like he can see my deepest, darkest secrets.

West’s smirk softens into something more thoughtful. “You sure it’s just irritation? Because the way you’re talking, it sounds like there’s more to it.”

I freeze, his words hitting a nerve I didn’t realize was exposed. “It’s irritation,” I say firmly, grabbing my towel. “Trust me.”

West shrugs, but the knowing gleam in his eyes lingers. “If you say so.”

West adjusts his stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Alright, let’s go again. Maybe another round will help you shake this guy off.”

I drop into a ready position, already itching to release some of the tension knotting in my chest. “Fine, but don’t hold back this time. I can handle it.”

West grins, his confidence radiating. “You asked for it.”

He moves quickly, throwing a combination of punches that forces me to stay sharp. I block, counter, and step into his space with a calculated jab that grazes his jaw.

“Damn,” he mutters, stepping back and shaking his head. “You really are mad. What’s he got you so worked up over?”

I don’t answer, my focus narrowing as I feint left and land a kick to his thigh.

“Alright, alright,” West says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You win. I’ll stop teasing. I get it. Holden Grant is the devil incarnate. No need to take it out on my legs.”

I lower my guard, breathing heavily as I wipe the sweat from my brow. “Sorry.”

West tilts his head, watching me closely. “As your friend, I’m going to add my two cents and say this feels like more than just anger. You’re fighting like you’ve got something to prove.”

His words strike a little too close to home, but I keep my expression neutral. “Maybe I do.”

“To him?” West presses, stepping closer.

I glare at him, grabbing my towel. “I don’t owe him anything.”

West shrugs, smirking again. “Whatever you say. But if you ever decide to deck him, let me know. I’d pay good money to see that.”

A reluctant laugh escapes me as I toss my towel over my shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re like a little firecracker waiting to explode,” West teases, already backing toward the water cooler. “Go cool off before you set the whole place off.”

I laugh as he retreats to the other side of the gym, but the moment he’s gone, the tension creeps back in.

After sparring with West, I thought the frustration burning in my chest would ease. It didn’t. The shower helped cool my body, but my mind is still reeling.

Agent Grant isn’t just under my skin. He’s like a parasite, crowding every inch of my body and doing everything possible to make me question myself. His voice echoes in my head: “I just hope your skills aren’t as lackluster as your punctuality.”

God, I hate him.

After adding an insane amount of gel to my hair, I pull it back into a tight bun before stepping out of the locker room with my gym bag slung over my shoulder. My muscles ache in that satisfying way they always do after a good workout, but the satisfaction is fleeting.

The moment I turn the corner, I walk straight into someone. However, the apology dies in my throat the second I smell this person. No, I’m not a creeper, but as much as I hate to admit it, I know that smell.

Who do I have the absolute displeasure of walking into? Holden Grant.

Of fucking course. I’ve never seen him here before, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he comes to this gym. Most agents do. It’s the closest one to the White House.

Still, the man is like an unwanted pimple. Popping up at the least convenient time.

My bag nearly slips from my shoulder as I stumble, but I catch it and quickly straighten. He doesn’t move, just stands there, staring down at me like I’m an obstacle in his perfectly ordered world.

“Williams,” he says, his voice low and clipped. He never says it as a greeting; it’s a challenge. Everything with him seems like a challenge.

“Grant,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

His eyes flick over me, lingering just a fraction of a second too long on the skin exposed thanks to my tank top and the curve of my jaw. A flicker of something passes through his expression, something sharp and fleeting, but it’s gone before I can name it.

“Devil’s incarnate, huh?” His face is impartial as ever, but I could’ve sworn I saw his lip twitch as if he was fighting a smile.

“So you heard that?” I ask, forcing nonchalance into my voice.

Grant’s eyes flick to mine, sharp and assessing. “Hard not to.”

Of course, he heard it. The gym is only so big. If he was in proximity, he probably heard the whole conversation.

“I’m not going to apologize.” I don't know why I say it. I should want to dig myself out of the grave, not help them get to the six-foot mark quicker. Maybe it’s my pride, or perhaps it’s stupidity. Whatever it may be, it has me crossing my arms over my chest. The words come out steady, a clear contradiction to my racing pulse.

I know I’m approaching dangerous territory, but irritation is not allowing me to care.

“I didn’t expect you to.”

There’s no bite to his tone, no sarcasm. Just a calm, quiet certainty that makes my defenses bristle. It’s like he knows me better than I’d ever let him, and it pisses me off.

“You train here often?” he questions, his gaze finally snapping back to my eyes.

“I like to stay sharp,” I reply with a shrug. “Gotta work on that lackluster performance.”

Okay , maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but it slipped out before I could catch it.

The corner of his mouth twitches again. And I swear I can’t tell if it’s amusement or irritation. I make the executive decision not to stay and analyze it. I step around him and head to the exit but stop dead when I hear his voice behind me.

“You know, constructive criticism isn’t personal, Rookie. It’s preparation. If you can’t handle it, you’re in the wrong field.”

I whirl on him before I can stop myself, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “I can handle it just fine. What I don’t appreciate is being treated like I’m the black sheep, literally , when I’ve worked just as hard as everyone else, if not twice as hard, to get here.”

You know how the saying goes: when you’re a woman, regardless of race, in a male-dominated field, you have to work twice as hard and be twice as good. It’s nothing new. I just hate how it bothers me so much. How he bothers me so much.

His expression hardens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to bite back. But instead, he steps closer, the space between us shrinking to nothing.

“You want to prove you belong?” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Take this as your first lesson, Rookie. Stop letting me get under your skin.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat as his gaze locks onto mine. Something in his eyes, dark and heated, makes my pulse stutter.

Before I can respond, he steps back, his expression returning to its usual cold mask. “You’ve got a long day ahead, Williams. Try not to let your emotions get in the way. And be on time this time. Harris hates when we’re late.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in the hallway with my heart pounding and my mind racing.

***

I arrive at the simulation training room with just enough time to pull myself together.

The room feels colder than usual, the hum of the fluorescent lights settling into my nerves. I secure the last strap on my vest, keeping my movements steady despite the adrenaline creeping into my chest.

Beside me, Park adjusts the grip on his prop weapon, his smirk fixed firmly in place. “Think you can keep up, Williams?”

“I don’t need to keep up,” I reply, running a final check on my gear. “You’ll be following my lead.”

Park’s lip twitches as he shakes his head. “We’ll see.”

The door opens with a soft hiss, and Harris steps in, clipboard in hand. Tate and Grant follow close, taking their places near the observation window. I can feel Grant’s eyes on me before I even look up. His gaze is sharp and cutting as if he’s already decided how this will end.

“This exercise is designed to test your ability to think under pressure,” Harris begins, his tone brisk. “It’s not about who gets the most takedowns or who moves the fastest. The objective is to clear the building, identify and neutralize threats, and protect the asset.”

Park leans slightly toward me, his voice low. “Guess that means you can’t run in guns blazing.”

I ignore him, keeping my focus on Harris.

Grant steps forward, his voice cold and even. “Every decision you make will be scrutinized. If you don’t move as a unit, you’ll fail. If you lose the asset, you’ll fail. If you hesitate…” He lets the word hang in the air, his eyes locking on mine.

“You’ll fail,” I finish, meeting his gaze.

Something flickers in his expression. I can’t tell if it’s approval or annoyance, but I bet it’s the latter. Either way, it’s gone before I can decipher it.

“Begin when ready,” Harris says, stepping back.

The buzzer sounds, and the door to the simulation room slides open.

Park moves first, his steps quiet but deliberate as he scans the dimly lit hallway. I follow close, weapon raised, my breathing steady. The first room is empty, just overturned furniture and scattered newspapers.

We move as a unit through the space, the silence stretching thin. My eyes flick between the corners of the room, the doorframes, the shadows that seem to move if you stare too long.

“Left side, clear,” Park says under his breath.

“Right side, clear,” I reply, my voice low.

The next hallway feels tighter, the walls pressing in as we approach the next room. I signal for Park to stop, listening for movement beyond the door.

A creak. Soft, barely there, but enough to send a spike of adrenaline through my veins.

I nod toward the door, motioning for Park to cover me as I move forward. My hand is steady as I grip the handle, pushing it open just enough to see inside.

The first shot comes fast, ricocheting off the doorframe.

“Contact!” I hiss, ducking back as more simulated gunfire erupts.

Park shifts beside me, taking position to return fire. “You good?”

“Fine,” I mutter, adjusting my grip. My heart pounds against my ribs, but my focus sharpens.

I lean out, firing two quick shots that take down the first target. A second one moves in from the left, but Park is already on it, his aim sharp.

“Two down,” he says, his voice calm.

I nod, stepping into the room to clear the remaining corners. The space is tight, cluttered with obstacles that make every movement feel like a risk.

“Asset secure,” Park says, gesturing toward the mannequin in the corner marked with a bright yellow vest.

But there’s no time to relax.

A shadow shifts in my peripheral vision, and I spin, firing before I fully register the target. The dummy collapses, but my pulse doesn’t slow.

“You’re still hesitating, Rookie.” Grant’s voice echoes through the comms, sharp and cold.

My teeth clench as I push forward, ignoring him.

The final room is larger and open, with high ceilings and too many angles to cover. I signal for Park to hold back, taking the lead as we move inside.

The first shot misses me by inches, and I drop to a crouch, returning fire. Park moves to my right, taking out another target before it can get too close.

“Watch your six,” he calls out, his voice tight.

I twist, catching movement behind me. My breath hitches as I fire, taking out the last target just as the buzzer sounds.

“Time,” Harris announces, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

I exhale, lowering my weapon as the tension bleeds out of my muscles. Park steps up beside me, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Not bad, Williams,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Not bad yourself,” I reply, though my chest still feels tight.

The door to the simulation room opens, and Grant is the first to step inside. His sharp and unforgiving gaze sweeps over the scene before landing on me.

“You almost got shot,” he says, his tone flat.

“We completed the objective,” I reply, meeting his eyes.

“You almost got shot,” he repeats, his voice colder this time. “You don’t get to hit the reset button in the field. You’d both be dead, end of story.”

It’s never enough.

My jaw tightens, but I don’t look away.

“You did well,” Harris says, stepping between us. “Both of you. But there’s room for improvement.”

“There always is,” Grant mutters, turning on his heel and walking away.

Fuck him.

Park watches him go, his grin returning. “You know, I think that’s the closest he’s ever come to giving a compliment.”

I let out a breath, shaking my head. “I’m not holding my breath for the next one.”

I’ll gladly take my half compliments, add them together, and pretend it’s a full one.