Page 221 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Hank’s already moving. He kisses my cheek.

“Mission?” I whisper, throat tightening.

“Duty calls.” He cups my jaw.The kiss is hard.

“We’ll find you when it’s done.” Gabe follows, his fingers brushing my wrist—soft, lingering.

Then he’s gone.

The rest of the team follows, a parade of silent goodbyes—calloused hands on cheeks, quick kisses, lingering glances that say everything their lips don’t have time to. Blake presses his forehead to Sophia’s for a heartbeat. Walt murmurs something against Malia’s temple. Ethan gives Rebel a single look that steals her breath.

And then they’re out the door.

Gone.

The silence they leave in their wake is deafening. The café feels colder. Too quiet. The scent of espresso still hangs in the air, but all the heat is gone.

I exhale slowly, every nerve that had been primed for pleasure now fraying under the weight of absence.

Tonight won’t be about surrender after all.

Chapter 56

I textHarrison as I grab my go-bag from beside The Guardian Grind counter, the vinyl strap cool against my fingers. The scent of coffee beans and vanilla syrup clings to my hair and clothes, a comforting aroma that’s become as much a part of me as quantum equations once were.

Within minutes, the black SUV materializes at the front gate, a sleek, armored beast idling just outside Guardian HQ’s secure perimeter. Harrison always arrives early.

One of the many things about him that used to irritate me was his military precision, unflinching adherence to protocol, and ability to anticipate my movements. Now, that same predictability feels like security.

The air outside hits my face with a sharp chill that wasn’t present inside the coffee shop. The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting the sky in swaths of amber and gold. The lengthening shadows make the armed guards patrolling at the gate look taller and more imposing.

When I step through the gate, Harrison is already opening the rear passenger door. His black suit is impeccable as always, not a wrinkle to be seen, and his tie is perfectly centered. His eyesconstantly scan our surroundings, never lingering too long in one place—a habit born from years of protecting people like me.

“Miss Collins,” he says with a nod. Crisp. Professional. The two syllables of my name contain neither warmth nor coldness—just acknowledgment. “Ready?”

I slide in, the leather seat cool against my thighs, and tug the door shut behind me. The familiar scent of the vehicle envelops me—leather polish, the faint trace of Harrison’s aftershave, and the barely detectable hint of gun oil.

“Just need to grab a few things from the condo. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

The interior of the SUV is immaculate, as though it just rolled off the showroom floor—no dust on the dashboard, no fingerprints on the window glass, nothing out of place. Just like Harrison himself.

He adjusts the rearview mirror with precise fingers, their movement economical, before checking the perimeter. His gaze sweeps left to right, up and down, cataloging potential threats. Only when he’s satisfied does he pull away from the curb, the powerful engine purring beneath us.

“Will we be returning directly to HQ after?” His voice fills the enclosed space, steady and measured.

I watch Guardian HQ shrink in the side mirror, the massive compound receding until it’s just a collection of buildings against the skyline. The knot in my stomach tightens. Hank and Gabe are out there somewhere, facing God knows what, while I’m left behind with nothing but silence and speculation.

“Yes,” I answer, forcing myself to focus. “I’m staying at Jenna’s until they’re back.”

A short, precise nod. “Good plan. Consolidated security.” His hands rest at the perfect ten and two position on the steering wheel, his posture rigid but not tense. “Are you still sharing the guest room with Malia?”

The question, practical and security-oriented, brings a flash of memory: Malia’s infectious laughter as we sprawled across Jenna’s guest bed last time, swapping stories about ourmen, her perfume—something citrusy and light—mingling with the scent of the popcorn we share.

“Yeah. Rebel and Violet are with Sophia down the hall.”

“What about Mia? Does she stay, too?” His eyes briefly flick to mine in the rearview mirror, assessing, calculating.

“She has her own apartment.” I trace a finger along the door’s armrest, feeling the subtle grain of the leather beneath my fingertip.

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