Rain lashes the embassy windows steadily by the time we rotate into night watch.
The command center glows dimly beneath rows of surveillance monitors and blinking equipment, the air thick with stale coffee, electronics, and the aroma of three men who have spent a good deal of the day outside. Hawk sits near the communications board reviewing perimeter reports while Gunnar cleans one of the rifles with the kind of disciplined focus only former military men seem capable of.
Jagger is bored, which means I have, unfortunately, become his entertainment.
I stay planted in front of the security feeds, pretending to review perimeter schedules while camera footage cycles endlessly across the screens overhead. Pretending being the important word, because my attention keeps drifting elsewhere. Specifically to the second floor of the east wing. More specifically, the bedroom at the end of the hall.
We’ve been here a little under two weeks, and I know Mackenzi’s routines in ways I absolutely should not. Around seven-thirty every morning, movement hits the east hallway camera when she finally leaves her room. If she’s angry, she attempts to skip breakfast and paces instead. If she’s anxious, she wanders the library, pretending to find a book to read, but settling on either a very worn copy of The Bell Jar or a collection of Edgar Allen Poe. Every day, I catch her, at least once, standing at an expansive window staring toward the gates like she’s trying to remember what freedom feels like.
I can convince myself that knowing every second of her routine is my job.It’s believable-ish.It’s the things Idon’tneed to know to keep her safe that I can’t seem to pack neatly into a work-related box.
She’s smarter than she lets most people realize. Sharp enough with her wit to cut people open with a single sentence and smile while she does it. Half the time, I can’t tell whether she’s flirting with me or trying to start a fight.Probably both.She argues just for the thrill of it, pushes every boundary she can reach, then watches for reactions with that bratty little tilt of her lips like she enjoys being difficult.
And Christ, her laugh.
It sneaks up on me every damn time because there’s this small dimple in her right cheek that appears out of nowhere and changes her entire face. It’s a tiny—and beautiful—imperfection in her armor, making her look softer and less guarded.
I know about the tiny heart tattoo on the back of her shoulder, too—the one she tries to keep beneath her clothes and carefully arranged hair like she’s hiding it from her father. I adore how she tucks her hands into the sleeves of her oversized shirts when she’s uncomfortable. She rolls her eyes before she says something reckless. And I have decided that I make her nervous.
I shouldn’t know any of that.
“You’re doing it again.” Jagger’s voice cuts through the low hum of electronics and my thoughts.
I don’t look up from the monitors. “Doing what?”
“Brooding so hard, I can practically hear the tragic backstory music.”
Hawk snorts from the other side of the room before quickly regaining his composure.
“Fuck off,” I grumble, flipping Jagger the bird.
“I’m serious,” Jagger continues around a mouthful of pretzels. “You’ve been staring at East Wing Camera Three for ten straight minutes.”
“That’s because East Wing Camera Three covers a vulnerable access point.”
“Mhmm.” He leans back in his chair slowly. “And, I suppose, rewinding the footage twice was tactical, too?”
Shit.
My jaw tightens. “You got a point?”
“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely toward the screens. “You’re down catastrophically bad.”
Gunnar looks up briefly from the rifle he’s cleaning. “Catastrophic is accurate.”
Traitors. My brothers are fucking traitors.
“I’m surrounded by idiots.”
“Nah,” Jagger exhales lazily. “You’re surrounded by people watching you fall into the world’s most inconvenient crush.”
“What am I? Fucking fifteen? It’snota crush.”
“Right.” He points toward one paused screen. “Then why has that camera been frozen for the last thirty seconds?”
My eyes flick unwillingly toward the monitor. Mackenzi from earlier that afternoon fills the frame, moving barefoot through the west hallway with a book tucked against her chest and an oversized cream sweater slipping off one shoulder.The one with the tattoo.Her long, dark hair is pulled into a messy bun.
She looks unguarded in a way I’ve never seen her in person, and it does something ugly to me. Something protective and possessive. The vicious instinct settles in my chest before I can stop it, as if my body has already decided she belongs behind my back and under my protection. Not just mine to guard, but mine.
