Page 88 of Protect Thy Enemy

“But not to decide when I’m capable of doing it?”

“You were exhausted,” he replies evenly, his gaze flicking over me in a way that makes my skin heat. “I wasn’t going to risk it.”

His eyes linger for a fraction too long, trailing from my face to my neck. My pulse quickens under his scrutiny, and the memory of last night crashes over me like a wave.

I hate that my body responds to him, that even now, I can feel the pull between us like a live wire.

“This is myjob, Agent Grant,” I say, my voice firm. “Not some fairy-tale bullshit. I know last night doesn’t change that.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything, the tension between us thick enough to cut.

The door swings open, and Tate steps in, his brow arching as he looks between us.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, his tone casual but curious.

“No,” I say quickly, shooting Holden a glare before turning on my heel and walking out.

I want to text Luna. God, I wish I could.

She’s probably sent me at least three messages by now, asking if I’m alive, if I’ve eaten, or if I’ve done something reckless. But I can’t respond the way I want to, can’t let her in the way she deserves. Not here. Not now.

Being undercover means limiting communication and keeping ties to home at arm’s length. It’s necessary, but it doesn’t make it easier.

The last message I sent was bullshit, short, and sounded like a teleprompter:Can’t talk much while I’m away. I’m alive.

She didn’t like it. I could practically feel her irritation through the screen when she sent back:I know the drill, how much longer?

I haven’t answered yet. What can I say?

My chest tightens as I power the phone off and pocket my burner phone before heading to the garage where Holden’s waiting. The irritation from this morning still lingers, simmering beneath the surface, but I force it down. I can’t afford to let him get under my skin. Not right now.

I need to focus on the mission. Harris vouched for me and stood up for me, so I’ll be damned if I let him down.

He’s leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, his gaze cutting to me as I approach. His expression is as unreadable as usual, but something in the way his eyes flick over me and watch me, lingering too long, makes my stomach tighten with a familiarity that shoots straight to my core.

“We’re picking up Fallon again,” he says simply, pushing off the car.

“Obviously,” I mutter, climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive to the senator’s location is thick with unspoken words. I keep my focus on the window, refusing to look at him even when I can feel his gaze on me.

When we arrive, Fallon waits outside, his posture stiff and his expression irritable. He climbs into the back seat without a word, adjusting his suit as he settles in.

“Trouble in paradise?” Fallon asks, his gaze flicking between us.

Neither of us answers.

The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, but Fallon doesn’t push. He leans back in his seat, his attention shifting to his phone, leaving us to stew in whatever this is.

The warehouse we’re headed to this time is different. New location, same unsettling feeling. The building looms in the distance, all sharp angles and shadows. Every single one of these places feels designed to swallow you whole.

Holden pulls the car to a stop just outside the gates, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.

“You stay here,” he says, his tone clipped.

For once, I don’t argue. I unbuckle my seat belt, leaning back against the headrest as he steps out. The door slams shut behind him, and I let out a slow breath.

The sound of voices catches my attention, muffled but distinct, drawing my gaze to the side of the warehouse.

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