Page 5 of Protect Thy Enemy

“Agent Williams?”

I turn to find an older man with a no-nonsense expression and penetrating gaze standing there. His hair is going gray around the edges, but nothing about him reads soft.

“I’m Supervisory Agent Patrick Harris. You’ll be reporting to me during the evaluation.”

I close the space between us and offer my hand. “Agent Harris. It’s a privilege.”

It’s the truth. I’ve read the stories. Heard the rumors. Special ops legend, war hero, all of it. The kind of man who doesn’t hand out praiseorsecond chances.

Harris studies me for half a beat before handing over a badge. “We’ll see if you still think that in a few weeks.”

Fair enough.

I’m clipping the badge to my jacket when the door opens again. Two men enter. Both carry the same air of authority, but that’s where the similarities end.

The first one with dark hair, tailored suit, and a half-smirk that looks like it’s been earning him trouble since birth steps forward with an outstretched hand.

He reminds me of Luna.

“Agent Tate.”

I take it, my grip steady. “Arden Williams.”

“Welcome to the team.” His voice is smooth, like the kind that usually gets its way. But there’s something in his tone like he’s already measuring me.

I wish I could say that’s the first time I’ve felt that.

Since the beginning, it’s been a game of comparisons. Like I’m being weighed against a scale no one ever explains. I used to think it was because of how I looked—normally being one of the only Black women in a room full of people who aren’t. But this feels... different.

Behind him, the second man stays quiet. Taller. Broader. But there’s no charm in his expression, no effort to be approachable.

Where Tate radiates ease, this one is contained. Unmoving. Controlled in a way that makes you wonder what he’d look like if he wasn’t.

His suit is darker. His presence a little heavier. And when his icy blue eyes meet mine, I feel it.

A flicker. A pause.

He looks at me like he’s trying to solve a problem, and I can’t decide if I’m the problem or the solution.

“Agent Grant,” he says. His voice is low, gravel-lined, like he doesn’t speak unless there’s a reason.

The name lands like it has weight. Holden Grant. I know it. Everyone in the agency does.

Brilliant. Cold. Deadly.

And apparently exactly as unwelcoming in person as his reputation suggests.

I keep my expression neutral. “Pleasure.”

He doesn’t respond. Just drags his gaze over me once, then dismisses it like he expected more.

But instead of shrinking under the weight of his gaze, I meet it. Head-on. Maybe it’s pride or spite or something in the middle but I refuse to let him rattle me. If he’s looking for weakness, he’ll have to dig deeper than that.

The moment sticks longer than it should.

Something about him scrapes at my nerves. Not because of the way he looks at me, but because a part of me notices too much in return.

His face is like an impenetrable fortress. Infuriatingly unreadable but still annoyingly magnetic. The kind of man who knows exactly how much of himself to reveal. Which is nothing.

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