Page 20 of Protect Thy Enemy

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, Iknowthat 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.

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