Page 68 of Protect Thy Enemy

Grant sets the bags down near the stairs, straightening and rolling his shoulders. He glances around the space, his sharp eyes taking everything in.

“We’ll need to do a sweep,” he says, his tone all business now.

I nod, my own nerves settling. This is it. The start of whatever this mission is going to throw at us.

“Fine,” I reply, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my stomach. “Let’s get to it.”

Lord, please make sure I make it out of here in one piece.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Holden

The treadmill whirs beneath me, my strides steady and mechanical. Sweat drips down my neck, the burn in my legs barely making a dent in the frustration pressing against my ribs. I push harder, the sound of my steps filling the room, drowning out everything else.

It doesn’t help.

Arden’s face lingers in my head. That hard look she gave me in the car, her words clipped and cold. She’s angry, and I can’t blame her. But she doesn’t know. And she can’t know.

Leo.

The name sits heavy, a stone in my chest that I can’t shake. It’s my fault. He made the call, but I should’ve stopped him. Traded places. But telling her wouldn’t change anything. Not what happened, not the way she looks at me now.

I hate lying to her. More than I should. But the alternative? She’d never forgive me. If she didn’t already hate me, she would then.

Yet the thought sticks. Her hating me shouldn’t matter, but it does. It sits wrong, like an itch I can’t reach.

I slow the treadmill, stepping off and grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my face.

The workout hasn’t helped. It never does.

The house is quiet as I make my way to the living room.

I stop short when I see the plate on the table, covered with a napkin. For a second, I don’t move and just stare at it.

She left it.

She’s furious, but she still left me something to eat.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. I glance toward the hallway. Her door is shut, the faint glow of light visible underneath.

The food sits untouched on the table as I drop onto the couch, my head leaning back against the cushion.

Lying to her feels like breaking something fragile, but telling her the truth? That would shatter everything. And I can’t figure out why that matters so much. It just does.

I lean forward, grabbing the plate she left for me. She actually cooked. Grilled chicken, perfectly roasted vegetables, and buttery mashed potatoes. My jaw tightens as I take a bite, the flavors reminding me of home, of something softer than the push and pull that’s become second nature between us.

She didn’t have to do this. Yet she did.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, not my stomach. My appetite’s shot, but I finish it anyway, cleaning the plate before placing it on the rack to dry. My phone buzzes, dragging me out of my thoughts.

Ma: Are you coming to Sunday dinner?

I run a hand down my face, leaning back into the couch. I could’ve sworn I told her I would be away, but I guess not.

Me: No. I’ll be away for a while.

Me: I’m sorry. I’ll add Tuesdays onto the schedule for the foreseeable future.

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