Page 23 of Protect Thy Enemy

“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.

Chapter Eight

Holden

Ilean against the far wall, arms crossed. Harris is sorting through his notes, flipping pages with the kind of meticulousness that makes you question if the man’s ever rushed a single moment in his life.

Tate, as usual, stands near the observation window, his hands in his pockets, his assessing gaze scanning the simulation floor below. He hasn’t said much since the debrief wrapped up, but I can feel his approval hanging in the air, even if he doesn’t voice it.

I focus on the file in my hand, flipping through the reports from yesterday’s simulation. It’s all there in black and white: objectives met, targets neutralized, asset secured. On paper, it’s a success. But success, I’ve learned, is a fragile thing. Easily shattered by hesitation, miscalculation, or worse, arrogance.

And Arden Williams...

I stop at her name on the roster, the letters as sharp as the image of her hesitation in my mind.

I saw it. Felt it. That brief pause before she moved into the final room, her weight shifting as if the burden of the entire exercise was crushing her at that moment.

“She’s green,” Tate says, his voice breaking into my thoughts.

I glance up. He’s still watching the floor, but his words are directed at me.

“They’re all green,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

“She’s better than most,” Tate counters, his head tilting slightly. “A little rough around the edges, sure, but she’s got potential.”

Potential. The word grates, not because it’s untrue, but because it feels like an excuse.

She’s reckless. She’s a pain in my ass.

“She hesitates,” I say, closing the file with a sharp snap. “Potential doesn’t mean anything if she can’t make decisions under pressure.”

“And that’s why she’s here,” Tate says simply, finally turning to face me. “We don’t get to shape finished products, Grant. That’s not our job. We’re supposed to guide them.”

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