“You have my word.” I don’t believe him, but I pull the phone from my ear and hand it to Hawk. He takes it with little reaction and says a few words to my father before ending the call.
“Happy?” I grumble as the two of them lead me down the hallway. They are speechless as we exit Anderson Hall and make our way onto the quad.Hawk walks a few paces ahead, clearing a path. Damon is beside me, his presence a solid, immovable—intimidating—wall. I keep pace with them, arms still crossed, eyes flicking between the two of them as we walk.
“Where are wegoing?”
“To your dorm,” Damon answers flatly. “So you can pack a bag.”
“For how long?” I have a life here. Friends. A boyfriend. Midterms. My question goes unanswered, and I grouse, “The two of you are remarkable communicators. Ten out of ten.”
The trek to her dorm is a masterclass in passive aggression. She doesn’t run or try to escape. Instead, she walks with a rigid, furious posture. Every step is a statement. Every snarky question or comment is a small, sharp jab with the intention of getting a rise out of either of us. I’ve guarded heads of state, oil tycoons, and pop stars with egos the size of small planets. And I’m already starting to think that none of them was as much work as this feisty girl is going to be.
I stay beside her, close enough to grab if needed, but far enough not to escalate her already on-edge demeanor. My eyes track everything—doorways, blind corners, and the gatherings of students—but a stupid part of my brain keeps drifting back to her. To the tension in her shoulders, the stubborn tilt of her chin, and the fire burning in her dark chocolate eyes when she looks at me likeI’mthe villain.
“Left,” I bark when she veers off the main path.
“I know where I live,” she snips, not breakingstride.
“Then act like it.”
Jesus, Damon…
Picking fights with a nineteen-year-old isn’t a great look.
We reach her dorm quickly, Hawk leaving us to bring around the Tahoe from the lot nearest her lecture hall. The room is smaller than I expected. Half of it is cluttered and lived in, with fairy lights draped over a bookshelf and posters for bands I’ve never heard of taped to the walls. The other side is neat and organized in a way that feels intentional. Thick textbooks are stacked in clean lines beside paperbacks that appear to have been well-read. The desk is clear, except for a mug with three pens, a highlighter, and a dried flower. White linens cover the meticulously made bed.
I stay by the door. It’s instinct, but it’s also respect. This is her space.Was her space.
“All right…” I lean against the doorframe, trying to keep my tone casual. “Pack a bag.”
Mackenzi stomps to the tidy side like an insolent toddler, yanking open drawers and pulling things out faster than she can reasonably decide what she needs. “This is insane,” she mutters, tossing a stack of folded shirts onto the bed. “You realize that, right? Like, full-on insane. How long am I packing for?”
“Just pack your essentials.”
“Essentials? What does that even mean? Are we talking about a change of underwear and a toothbrush, or are we talking about my entire life? Because my entire life is here, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I rub a hand over the back ofmy neck, pausing while trying to remember that we are uprooting her from her routine with a sparing amount of information. “Do I need my laptop?” she continues, not waiting for an answer. “My textbooks? Am I doing school there? Or is that just… what? On pause now, too?”
“Essentials,” I repeat, as clueless as she is about how long she’s going to be sequestered in the embassy.
She grabs a pair of jeans, shoves them into an open suitcase on the bed, then immediately pulls them back out like she’s reconsidering. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s temporary.”I hope…
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Howtemporary? Do I at least get to know how long I’m going to be gone?”
“Until it’s deemed safe for you to return.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.” She yanks clothes from the closet hard enough that a couple of empty hangers clatter to the floor. “No answer? Cool… love that for me.”
She yanks open another drawer, pulling out a handful of clothes and tossing them onto the bed beside the suitcase, clearly more focused on the act of doing something than what she’s actually grabbing.
“Mackenzi, we’re on a schedule.” My patience is already fraying, threads snapping one by one.
“Right. The schedule. God forbid we interfere with the schedule,” she mutters, sifting through the pile of clothes strewn across the bed. Not packing—sorting. “This is not enough time. You realize that, right? People don’t just leave their lives in like… twenty minutes.”
She grabs a curling iron, three sweatshirts, and a tattered paperback before adding them all to the mess.
“Mackenzi,” I warn, my voice dropping a notch.
“What?” She spins toward me with a lacy bra dangling from her fingers. “I might need these things. I don’t know how long I’m being exiled for. A week? A month? The rest of my natural life? It would be nice to have some information.”
