Page 56

I text Harrison as I grab my go-bag from beside The Guardian Grind counter, the vinyl strap cool against my fingers. The scent of coffee beans and vanilla syrup clings to my hair and clothes, a comforting aroma that’s become as much a part of me as quantum equations once were.

Within minutes, the black SUV materializes at the front gate, a sleek, armored beast idling just outside Guardian HQ’s secure perimeter. Harrison always arrives early.

One of the many things about him that used to irritate me was his military precision, unflinching adherence to protocol, and ability to anticipate my movements. Now, that same predictability feels like security.

The air outside hits my face with a sharp chill that wasn’t present inside the coffee shop. The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting the sky in swaths of amber and gold. The lengthening shadows make the armed guards patrolling at the gate look taller and more imposing.

When I step through the gate, Harrison is already opening the rear passenger door. His black suit is impeccable as always, not a wrinkle to be seen, and his tie is perfectly centered. His eyes constantly scan our surroundings, never lingering too long in one place—a habit born from years of protecting people like me.

“Miss Collins,” he says with a nod. Crisp. Professional. The two syllables of my name contain neither warmth nor coldness—just acknowledgment. “Ready?”

I slide in, the leather seat cool against my thighs, and tug the door shut behind me. The familiar scent of the vehicle envelops me—leather polish, the faint trace of Harrison’s aftershave, and the barely detectable hint of gun oil.

“Just need to grab a few things from the condo. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

The interior of the SUV is immaculate, as though it just rolled off the showroom floor—no dust on the dashboard, no fingerprints on the window glass, nothing out of place. Just like Harrison himself.

He adjusts the rearview mirror with precise fingers, their movement economical, before checking the perimeter. His gaze sweeps left to right, up and down, cataloging potential threats. Only when he’s satisfied does he pull away from the curb, the powerful engine purring beneath us.

“Will we be returning directly to HQ after?” His voice fills the enclosed space, steady and measured.

I watch Guardian HQ shrink in the side mirror, the massive compound receding until it’s just a collection of buildings against the skyline. The knot in my stomach tightens. Hank and Gabe are out there somewhere, facing God knows what, while I’m left behind with nothing but silence and speculation.

“Yes,” I answer, forcing myself to focus. “I’m staying at Jenna’s until they’re back.”

A short, precise nod. “Good plan. Consolidated security.” His hands rest at the perfect ten and two position on the steering wheel, his posture rigid but not tense. “Are you still sharing the guest room with Malia?”

The question, practical and security-oriented, brings a flash of memory: Malia’s infectious laughter as we sprawled across Jenna’s guest bed last time, swapping stories about our men, her perfume—something citrusy and light—mingling with the scent of the popcorn we share.

“Yeah. Rebel and Violet are with Sophia down the hall.”

“What about Mia? Does she stay, too?” His eyes briefly flick to mine in the rearview mirror, assessing, calculating.

“She has her own apartment.” I trace a finger along the door’s armrest, feeling the subtle grain of the leather beneath my fingertip.

“Same building?”

“No. It’s adjacent. Close, but there aren’t enough beds for all of us, unless one of us sleeps on the couch. Mia’s not a fan of that.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just watches the traffic with hawkish intensity, his breathing so measured it’s almost imperceptible. Outside, the coastal highway unfurls before us, a ribbon of asphalt bordered by wild grasses and scattered cypress trees bent permanently sideways from the relentless ocean winds.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the silence of two people who’ve weathered storms together, who understand that some things don’t need saying.

Then—

“Do we have an expected return date for your team?”

The phrasing catches me— your team, not the team. As if he acknowledges what those men mean to me and what I’ve become to them.

“No. They don’t tell us anything.” I shake my head, watching the scenery blur past. The ocean glimmers in the distance, sunlight fracturing across its surface like shattered glass.

It’s a bitter truth I’ve had to swallow since falling in love with men who deal in classified information and high-risk operations. The not knowing. The waiting. The fear that gnaws at your insides until you want to scream.

“Understood,” he says, tapping his turn signal. The soft, rhythmic clicking fills the cabin. “Just wanted to make sure we know how long to keep you under full protocol.”

The way he says it—full protocol—makes me think of all the procedures I used to hate. The convoy cars. The exit routes. The constant background hum of surveillance. The way my father’s security teams shadowed my every move, reporting back my choices, my conversations, my life.

I used to find ways to slip away from Harrison, to shake his watchful eye. Cornell was the worst of those escapes—the culmination of my rebellion, the night I gave his team the slip and ended up in the hands of my father’s enemies, a bargaining chip, a commodity to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Now? I barely blink at the thought of being watched. It’s armor. And I’ve learned to live inside armor.

“I’m not planning on leaving HQ while they’re gone. Just this one trip to pick up a few things.” My finger traces the silver scars on my wrist—thin, faded lines that will never fully disappear. Reminders of what happens when security protocols fail.

“Understood. If you need to make another trip…” His voice trails off, the offer implicit.

“I’ll call, and thank you. I appreciate it.” The words aren’t empty—not anymore. This is the new me, the one who understands what’s at stake.

The SUV winds through residential streets as we approach the condo. The ocean comes into full view now, wild and untamed beyond the cliffs, white-capped waves chasing each other to shore. The rhythmic crash of water against rock reaches us even through the closed windows, a constant backdrop to coastal life.

When we pull up to the condo, Harrison doesn’t rush. He waits while three other members of the private team he brought—men whose names I’ve never learned but whose faces have become familiar—fan out like shadows, checking for threats and clearing the condo.

The engine idles beneath us, a steady vibration that matches the heartbeat thrumming in my ears. I watch one operative circle the perimeter. Another checks entry points—doors, windows, the garage. The third disappears inside, room by room.

Harrison’s stance never changes—relaxed but alert. Always watching. His breathing remains steady, his fingers loose but ready on the wheel. Only the minute tightening around his eyes betrays his focus.

Five minutes pass before he nods at me. “You’re clear.”

The condo’s just as we left it—clean. Still, a strange emptiness hangs in the air—not just silence but absence. Hank’s mug sits on the drying rack beside the sink, a ring of coffee residue still visible at the bottom. Gabe’s jacket is slung over the back of the bar stool like he’ll be back any second to grab it. A book lies open on the coffee table, a bookmark holding Hank’s place.

I stand in the entryway, letting their scent wash over me—sandalwood soap, the faint trace of gun oil, something deeper and more primal that’s uniquely theirs. I feel home, but not quite, not without them filling the spaces with their solid presence.

I pack fast—a duffel with clothes, my backup charger, another notebook, and one of Hank’s shirts because I can’t help myself. I raise the soft cotton to my face and breathe deeply, catching the lingering scent of him. The fabric is worn and soft against my cheek, a poor substitute for his arms around me, but it’s something.

My fingers brush against cold metal at the bottom of the drawer—Gabe’s dog tags. I hesitate, then take those too. The chain is cool against my palm, and the metal discs make a soft, musical sound as they click together. It’s not mine to take, but I need this piece of him.

When I step out again, Harrison’s already by the door, holding it open. One of his men is checking the perimeter again, his gaze methodically sweeping the street, the neighboring houses, and the landscape.

Nothing escapes his notice.

“Would you prefer I drop you at HQ gates? Or have me take you directly to Miss Jenna’s?” Harrison asks, his voice carrying easily in the stillness of the foyer. “I can drop you there if you prefer not taking one of the golf carts. It might be easier than having to carry that with you.” His gaze flicks down to the oversized duffel crammed with all my things.

“Jenna’s, please.” My voice sounds hollow in my ears, and exhaustion suddenly weighs my limbs down. “Thanks.”

The drive back to Guardian HQ feels longer, the winding coastal road stretching endlessly ahead of us. Shadows lengthen as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and crimson. The ocean darkens to indigo, whitecaps still visible as they crash against the jagged shoreline.

Harrison navigates the curves, the powerful SUV hugging the road as we climb toward the sprawling compound. The outer gate appears ahead, a sentinel of steel and concrete marking the boundary between civilian life and Guardian territory.

He slows as we approach, rolling down the window. The cool, salt-laden breeze rushes in, carrying the scent of pine and earth. A guard steps forward, recognition flickering across his face.

“Evening, Harrison,” the guard says, nodding to me in the back seat. “Welcome back, Miss Collins.”

The gates part with a mechanical hum, sliding open to reveal the sprawling Guardian campus. Even in the early evening, the place hums with activity—operatives moving between buildings, security personnel patrolling in pairs, and lights coming on in various structures as dusk settles.

Harrison drives slowly down the main artery, passing the operations building where Charlie team would normally be debriefing at this hour.

We continue past the tech building where Mitzy’s team works around the clock, past the training facility where I’ve watched Hank and Gabe spar countless times, and finally turn into the residential section of the compound. The buildings here are more subdued—three-story structures arranged in a horseshoe pattern around carefully maintained gardens.

“Unit?” Harrison asks as we approach the first building.

“Top floor, third from the east stairwell.”

“Where does Miss Sophia live?”

“Same floor, a few doors down.”

“And Miss Mia? You said she lives in a different building?”

“Yes, it’s the adjacent building.” I point to the structure across the garden courtyard, its windows reflecting the dying sunlight.

“Does she need an escort?” His question is casual, but he scans the courtyard, logging everything.

“No. Guardian HQ is very secure, and it’s not that far.”

Harrison gives another nod, nothing on his face but focus. He pulls into a visitor parking space near the entrance, killing the engine but leaving the headlights on for a moment longer, illuminating the pathway to the door.

“Wait here,” he instructs, stepping out to survey the area. His hand brushes the bulge beneath his jacket—a weapon, always within reach. He circles the SUV once, eyes constantly moving, before opening my door. “Clear.”

The night air hits me like a physical thing—cool, damp with sea spray, carrying the scent of wildflowers from the carefully tended garden beds. Crickets chirp from hidden places, their rhythm steady and soothing.

“Let me walk you to the door.” It’s not a request.

He grabs my bag, carrying it for me, then falls into step beside me, his stride matching mine, one hand remaining near his concealed weapon. His eyes never stop moving—checking rooflines, scanning the shadows between buildings, monitoring the path ahead.

We climb the stairs in silence, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Each landing offers a new vantage point, and Harrison pauses briefly at each, checking for threats before allowing us to continue.

On the third floor, behind Jenna’s door, the faint sound of laughter and the muted soundtrack of what sounds like an action movie can be heard.

Harrison follows me to the door, standing to one side. I look back at him, taking in the lines of his face and the unwavering dedication in his eyes. The man who once represented everything I resented about my father’s overprotectiveness now stands as a bulwark against the darkness I know exists beyond these walls.

“Thanks, Harrison.”

He nods once, a slight softening around his eyes the only indication that he hears the sincerity in my voice. “Let me know if you change location. I’m a simple phone call away.”

“I will, and thank you. I appreciate you.” The words feel inadequate for what I’m trying to convey. I understand now what I couldn’t before.

There’s value in what he does, and I regret every time I gave him the slip, especially that night at Cornell when my rebellion led straight to my captivity.

“Stay safe, Miss Collins.” His expression shifts, with the slightest crinkling around his eyes, a subtle acknowledgment of how far we’ve come.

Then he’s gone, footsteps retreating with the same precision they always have, leaving me at the threshold of safety, surrounded by the women who understand exactly what it means to love men who face danger as naturally as breathing.

I push open the door, the warmth and light spilling out in welcome.

Malia’s already inside, curled on the sofa with her laptop, a half-finished scone on a napkin beside her. Her hair is piled messily atop her head, a few stray curls framing her face. She looks up, her smile brightening when she sees me.

“Ally!” She sets the laptop aside, patting the space beside her. “We were just about to start the movie.”

From the kitchen, Jenna appears with a bowl of popcorn, the buttery aroma filling the apartment. Max follows at her heels, his tail wagging when he spots me.

“About time you got here,” Jenna says, but her smile takes any sting from the words. “Sophia and Rebel are on their way. Mia texted—she’ll be here after yoga.”

I drop my bag and sink onto the sofa, the cushions embracing me like an old friend. Malia immediately scoots closer, her familiar perfume—citrus and something floral—enveloping me.

“They’ll be fine.” She squeezes my hand, her fingers warm and solid against mine. “They always come home.”

Max nudges his way between us, his warm bulk pressing against my leg as he settles on the floor, his watchful eyes fixed on the door. Another protector, another guardian keeping vigil.

“They always come home,” I repeat, letting myself believe it.

Outside, night falls completely, the windows turning into black mirrors reflecting the warm scene within. Somewhere out there, Charlie team faces whatever demons Guardian HRS has sent them to fight while we wait for them to come home. It feels good to be surrounded by women who understand precisely what that wait feels like—the peculiar blend of fear and pride, anxiety and faith.

Charlie’s Angels, assembled once more, holding space for each other while our men are away. It’s not the same as having Hank’s solid warmth pressed against my back or Gabe’s arms wrapped around me, but it’s something.

It’s family.

By day, we keep the coffee flowing and our smiles bright.

By night, we wait.

Somewhere between the movie marathons and the takeout containers littering the coffee table, our guard slips. We let ourselves believe it’s just another mission.

Just a few days.

The laughter becomes real again.

The dread—manageable.