Page 87 of Protect Thy Enemy

Except it is different, a voice in my head whispers.

“Shut up,” I mutter to myself, yanking on my leggings. I grab my shirt, tugging it over my head before I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.

My hair is a mess, in need of a touch up, and my neck. Oh my God, my neck. A faint mark blooms along the curve where his teeth had grazed too long, too hard. I run my fingers over it, a dark feeling I convince myself is irritation sparking under my skin.

I didn’t even notice. Fuck, I haven’t had a hickey since high school.

I dig through my bag for my concealer, dabbing it over the dark spot with practiced precision. The memory of his mouth on my skin makes my cheeks heat, and I force the thought away, focusing on covering every trace of him.

Satisfied, I tie my hair into a high ponytail, ignoring the faint ache in my scalp from him pulling too hard. A quick swipe of mascara, a little lip balm, and I’m ready to face the day.

Or so I tell myself.

The kitchen is buzzing when I walk in. Harris’s face is on the laptop screen, his voice calm but authoritative as he debriefs the team.

I don’t miss the way the room falls silent the moment I enter.

“Morning, Williams,” Harris says, his tone light but carrying a hint of concern. “Didn’t think you’d be joining us. Grant said you were beyond tired.”

Heat threatens to rise in my cheeks, and I grit my teeth, forcing a neutral expression as I grab a mug from the counter.

My eyes flick to Holden, but he doesn’t look at me. I swear my right eye twitches as he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the wall just past Harris’s face.

I look away, focusing on pouring my coffee. My hand doesn’t shake. Not much.

“I’m glad to see you up,” Harris continues, his faint smile tugging at the edges of the screen. “I heard you did well getting the senator out. Keep it up.”

“Thank you,” I say evenly, fighting the irritation bubbling under the surface. I still remember Holden’s conversation, which I overheard last night. If it wasn’t Harris he was speaking to, then who?

I glance at him again, half expecting him to still be looking away, but he isn’t. His sharp blue eyes are locked on me, as if he expected me to look his way, though his expression is unreadable.

By the time Harris signs off, my patience hangs by a thread.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Park asks, his tone low as the others filter out of the room.

I don’t bother hiding the edge in my voice. “Yes. I’m doing my job, like you just heard Harris say. Unless you mean something else?”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he shakes his head as he walks away, leaving me standing there with my coffee and my irritation.

What is it with these men? Is this some sort of fucked-up new season ofHandmaid’s TaleI’m not aware of?

This entire house reeks of testosterone. By the time I find Holden in the gym, I’m ready for a fight.

He’s shirtless, his punches deliberate and precise as they land against the bag. His movements are controlled and efficient, but there’s a coiled energy in the way his muscles flex, like he’s punching something away.

“Why did you tell Harris I was tired?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even glance at me. “You were.”

“It wasn’t your decision,” I snap, stepping closer. “You don’t get to make those calls for me, Holden.”

He slows, his hands dropping to his sides as he turns to face me. His steady gaze is assessing, but I don’t miss the flicker of something darker when his eyes meet mine.

“I made the call because it was the right one,” he says, his tone calm, clipped.

“You don’t trust me to act normal?” I say, crossing my arms.

His eyes narrow slightly. “I trust you to do your job.”

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