“We didn’tbond.”
“Hawk said the two of you argued like divorced parents for three hours.”
“More like she threatened to stab me.”
“Exactly.” He chuckles. “Chemistry. And as feisty as she is, I don’t think sheactuallyhas it in her.”
I flip him off without looking up.
Hawk exhales a deep breath, like he’s bracing to explain the logic behind his decision. “You’re the best fit.”
He’s right…
Mackenzi doesn’t trust any of us, but she reacts differently to me. I’m blessed with less polished hostility and more honesty. She pushes because she expects a reaction from me specifically.
And worse… I understand her.
I understand the fury of losing control of your own life, confinement, and being forced into survival mode before you’re ready because I grew up with it being the only thing that mattered. My parents were barely there, even when they were physically in the house. Both of them were too wrapped up in their own problems to notice whether the lights stayed on or if I’d eaten that day.
The neighborhood raised me more than they did, and I joined a gang before I was old enough to understand what it would cost me because survival felt more important than morality when you’re a kid with empty pockets and no one coming to save you. I did things I’m not proud of.A lot of things.So when I look at her struggling against confinement and fear, against having her freedom ripped away before she’s ready, I understand that fury in a way most people never could. And maybe that’s exactly why I can’t stand watching it happen to her.
Still, something about the assignment sits wrong in my chest. “She hates me.”
“No. She hatesthe situation. You just happen to be a big part of it,” Hawk replies calmly. “You’ll stay primary on her movements, escort protocols, and room security. If she moves, you’ll know where she is.”
“Meaning I’m her babysitter. Her shadow.”
“Meaning, if someone gets through our perimeter, they go through you first.”
Fair enough.
I nod once. “Understood.”
When we finish discussing our plan, Gunnar peels off to the perimeter, with one of the embassy guards at his side, already barking out patrol rotations and telling them about blind spots I also clocked earlier as we drove onto the property. Jagger swings open the back of the SUV and begins hauling out hard cases packed with additional surveillance gear, grumbling dramatically under his breath about how elite operatives shouldn’t double as movers. Hawk stays near the entrance long enough to issue a few clipped orders into his comms before heading deeper into the house to tear apart existing security protocols with the embassy’s regional security officer.
Which leaves me—lucky fucking me—heading inside to be the poor bastard responsible for keeping the furious diplomat’s daughter alive.
The mansion is colossal—three floors, east and west wings, staff corridors, service entrances, a wine cellar, and an underground panic room. I push open a set of double doors and step into the study that has been converted into our command center. Monitors already glow across the massive mahogany desk, with camera feeds populating across multiple screens. Front gate. Perimeter walls. Interior hallways. Nearly every inch of this place that isn’t a bedroom.
After patrolling the main floor, checking the windows, I make my way upstairs. My boots slap against the marblefloor as I approach Mackenzi’s room, light spilling from the crack of her slightly ajar door. I stop outside and listen, surprised when I find silence. No crying. No grumbling. No music.
Nothing.
I knock twice, garnering no response. When my knuckles rap on the door again, Mackenzi snaps from the other side, “What?”
“Security check.”
“Go away.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “Can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“Coming in,” I warn before pushing the door open to find her sitting on the window seat. “You thinking about climbing out?”
“Maybe,” she sasses.
I lean against doorframe. “The drop would break your ankle.”
