Page 93 of Protect Thy Enemy

“I insist, Mr. Smith.” Fallon astonishes, stepping back and gesturing toward the dance floor. “Show us how it’s done.”

Reluctantly, I offer Arden my hand, my jaw tightening as her fingers slip into mine. The feel of her skin against mine is enough to shake the little control I’ve managed to hold on to tonight.

As we step onto the dance floor, the low murmurs of conversation die down, and all eyes shift to us. The music swells, and I place my hand on her waist, pulling her close.

“You’re terrible at this,” she murmurs, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

“You’re lucky I’m even doing this,” I shoot back, my tone gruff.

Her lips twitch, a faint smirk playing at the edges. “You don’t like people looking at us, do you?”

“I don’t like people looking at you,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and something unreadable passes between us. For a moment, the room fades, the noise and the people disappearing as the world narrows to just her.

“You’re staring again,” she says softly.

“Maybe I like the view,” I reply.

Her cheeks flush, but the moment shifts as her body tenses against mine. Her fingers dig into my shoulder slightly, and her head tilts ever so subtly toward the edge of the room.

“Two o’clock,” she murmurs.

I adjust our position, maneuvering us just enough so I can follow her line of sight. My eyes land on a woman standing near the edge of the room, partially obscured by shadows, her bright red hair catching the low light. But it’s not her hair that snags my attention. It’s the man standing beside her.

The Russian.

The memory of that day slams into me. The loud crack of gunfire, bullets raining down toward Fallon, and Shaw’s fucking “test.” My jaw tightens as I watch the two of them, unease coiling low in my gut.

“Who’s the redhead?” I ask, my voice low and sharp.

Arden’s grip tightens on my shoulder, her fingers digging in like she’s trying to anchor herself. “Do you remember hearing about the woman who went missing during my FLETC class?”

“Vaguely,” I mutter, my focus flicking between the redhead and the Russian. The pieces aren’t fitting together, but the edges are sharp enough to cut.

Arden hesitates, her breath catching as she lowers her voice. “Do you remember when we went to pick up the senator, and you asked me what was wrong?”

I nod once, the memory immediate. She hadn’t fought me to get out of the car that time, and it was one of the few moments where her guard slipped. “Yes. What about it?”

She swallows hard. “I saw her that day, the redhead. She was standing on the side with some man. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I was… shocked. Everyone said she wentmissing, so I thought I was imagining her. I didn’t know what to do.”

I turn to face her fully, my expression hardening. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” she says quickly, guilt flickering across her face. “I know, but I couldn’t believe it was her. No one disappears like that without a trace. Not unless…” Her eyes dart back to the redhead.

"Unless what?” I press, my voice a low growl.

“There were… rumors,” she admits, her tone hesitant, like she’s walking a tightrope. “People said she was a Russian spy, that she was discovered, and that’s why she vanished.”

Her words hang in the air between us, heavy and damning. I glance back toward the redhead, unease knotting tighter in my chest. She’s standing too close to the Russian man, and their body language is too casual for strangers.

Something is wrong.

The threads of the past and present are tangling together, forming a web I can’t yet see, but the instinct clawing at me is undeniable. Whatever this is, it’s bigger than we’ve been led to believe.

Before I can say anything else, the redhead approaches Park. The way she moves, the way her hand brushes his arm, it’s subtle, but it sets off the remaining alarm in my head.

“Her and Park?” I ask, tension threading through my voice.

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