Page 12 of Breaking Point

“Warden.” She spins her glass, turning to face the crowd like I am.

“Ms. Hughes.”

This encounter will go just like last time: Silence. The occasional moment of eye contact. Frowning.

She clears her throat, tapping the rim of her drink with a perfectly manicured nail. “So what’s your scene?”

I hide my confusion with a glance across the club, keenly aware of everyone weaving across the space. “Excuse me?”

“Your scene,” she repeats. “I don’t pin you as a line-dancing, dive-bar type of guy. So… What’s your scene?”

We shouldn’t have this conversation, a voice warns.

If this is going to work, it’s best to keep things professional. Another part of me points out the fact that she’s right.

This isn’t my scene.

“My job is to keep you safe, Ms. Hughes. Not make friends.”

Her smile grows tight. Polite. “Did my father happen to mention what the job entails? Or am I supposed to trust you because he’s the one signing your check?”

“If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that I take my job seriously, Ms. Hughes. We don’t have to be friends for you to trust that I’ve never failed before… That doesn’t change now.”

She scoffs at that, not quite looking at me. “It’s nothing against you personally. Trust just seems silly when you’re being paid for it.”

I watch as she raises her glass and takes a slow sip, eyes drinking in my reaction carefully. She makes a valid point. Trust in my line of work is about credibility. I built my reputation at Viserion and even before that in the military. Protecting comes easily. But maybe it’s unrealistic to ask someone to blindly trust me if it really came down to it.

I lean back, gaze still focused on the crowd. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.”

“Be specific.”

“I already know you worked for Char-” She stops herself suddenly, and I can easily name the wave of hurt that flashes across her face.

Not my business, I remind myself.

She clears her throat. “The Benenatis. What about before?”

“Before that, I was a bartender.”

Her eyes flash in surprise, but she remains otherwise neutral. “Interesting. Military background somewhere, I’m guessing?”

“Only eight years. Military academy and all.”

“Discharged?”

“Honorably.”

“Purple heart and everything?” she teases with a smile.

I nearly crack at that. Nearly. “Wouldn’t that be a story.”

She nods at my nonchalant answer, and when she briefly catches her father’s attention and smiles again, it seems to dawn on her that there isn’t anything she can do at this point.

The deal is done.

“My father trusts you.” I’m not sure whether she says it more to convince herself of it or to tell me.

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