Two men from the Seattle field office are waiting on the tarmac, dressed in dark suits and serious expressions. They step forward as we approach, their eyes flicking between Riley and me.
“Marshal Cole,” the taller one says, nodding once. “We’re here to take custody of Miss Thompson and get her to the motel.”
I feel Riley tense beside me, her fingers digging into my side. I don’t loosen my hold on her.
“Absolutely not,” I say, my voice low and final. “I’m staying with her. Until she’s fully settled in WITSEC, I’m not handing her off to anyone.”
The two agents exchange a look, clearly annoyed. The shorter one steps forward, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “This isn’t protocol, Cole. Stevens made it clear. We have orders to move her quickly and quietly. You’re not assigned to this part of the detail.”
I stare him down, my arm never leaving Riley’s waist. “Then consider this me changing the orders. She stays with me. End of discussion.”
Things get heated fast. The taller agent’s face reddens, his voice rising. “This isn’t how we do things. You’re compromising the entire operation by getting personally involved. She needs to be isolated. New identity. New location. You know the rules.”
I step forward, pulling Riley with me, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I know the rules better than you do. And right now the rule is that she stays under myprotection until I am damn sure she’s safe. You got a problem with that, take it up with Stevens. But she’s not going anywhere without me.”
Kane steps in smoothly, placing a hand on the taller agent’s shoulder. “Easy. Cole’s right. He’s been with her from the start. Let him stay on until the handoff is complete. We don’t have time to argue about this on the tarmac.”
The agents look pissed, but they back down. Kane gives me a long look, the kind that says we’ll talk about this later, but he doesn’t push it. We all pile into two waiting black SUVs, the engines rumbling to life with a low growl. I keep Riley tucked against my side in the backseat, my arm never leaving her. The leather seats are cold at first but warm quickly from the heaters. The city lights blur past the tinted windows as we drive through the outskirts of Seattle, the wet roads reflecting neon signs and streetlights in streaks of color.
The drive to the small motel is tense but quiet. Riley stays pressed close to me, her hand resting on my thigh, fingers occasionally flexing like she needs the reassurance that I’m still there. I can feel the exhaustion in her body, the way she leans heavier against me the longer we drive. When we finally pull into the parking lot of the small, nondescript motel, the neon sign flickers weakly above the office door. The airsmells like rain-soaked asphalt and distant ocean when we step out.
Kane and I flank Riley as we walk to the room, my arm still around her waist. The motel door clicks open with a keycard, revealing a simple room with two beds, a small table, and heavy curtains. The air inside is stale but warm. I guide Riley inside and close the door behind us, locking it securely.
She looks exhausted, her eyes heavy, shoulders slumped. I cup her face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks.
“Go ahead and try to get some sleep,” I tell her softly. “I’m right here. I’m watching over you. The other two agents are outside keeping watch. No one’s getting through that door.”
She nods, leaning into my touch for a moment before crawling onto the bed fully clothed. I pull the blankets over her, tucking them around her small frame. She looks so fragile lying there, but I know the strength she carries inside. I sit in the chair by the window, my eyes never leaving her as she drifts off.
Kane watches me from across the room, but I don’t care what he thinks. I’m not leaving her side.
25
Riley
I wake up slowly the next morning, the motel room still dim with the heavy curtains drawn tight against the windows, blocking out most of the daylight. The bed feels unfamiliar under me, too firm and too small compared to the big, warm one in Mason’s cabin where I had felt so safe and cherished. My body is sore in the most intimate places, a delicious ache that brings back flashes of everything we’ve shared. I stretch carefully, the cheap motel sheets cool and slightly scratchy against my bare legs, and turn my head toward the small table near the window.
Mason and Kane are both still awake, sitting in the two worn chairs by the small table. They look exhausted, dark circles under their eyes, but they’re alert, posturesstraight despite the long night. The room smells like stale coffee from the half-empty pot on the table and the faint chemical scent of motel cleaner that clings to everything. A small lamp on the table casts a yellowish glow, making their faces look tired but determined.
Mason’s steel eyes soften the moment they meet mine, but there’s a hardness around the edges that tells me he hasn’t slept at all. His flannel shirt is rumpled, sleeves rolled up to show the strong lines of his forearms, and the sight of him makes my heart do that familiar flutter even through the exhaustion.
“Did you two sleep at all?” I ask, my voice still husky from sleep as I sit up and pull the thin blanket higher around my shoulders. The fabric is rough and smells faintly of laundry detergent, nothing like the warm quilts back at the cabin.
They glance at each other, then both smirk in that way only men who’ve seen too much together can. Mason’s smirk is small and tired, barely lifting the corner of his mouth, but Kane’s is wider, almost amused, crinkling the corners of his kind eyes.
“No,” Kane says, leaning back in his chair with a low chuckle that fills the small room and makes the tension ease just a little. “Not a wink. Your boyfriend heredoesn’t believe in sleep when there’s protecting to be done.”
I like Kane. He has a kind energy despite the hard lines of his face and the tactical gear he still wears. He treats me like I’m a real person, not just a package to be moved from one safe house to another. I smile at him, pulling the blanket tighter around me as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Does Mason ever sleep while on duty? Or is he always like this? All intense and watchful, like the mountain itself decided to grow legs and stand guard?”
Kane laughs, a deep, genuine sound that bounces off the thin walls and makes me smile wider despite everything. “Oh, he sleeps. Sometimes. There was this one time during a long surveillance op up in the mountains. We were supposed to be on watch rotation. Mason took first shift and refused to wake me up when his time was over. I woke up six hours later to find him still sitting there, rifle across his lap, staring into the trees like he could will the enemy into existence just by glaring hard enough. When I asked him why he didn’t wake me, he just grunted and said, ‘You were snoring too loud. Figured the bears would get you first if I left you alone.’ I told him I don’t snore. He said, ‘Exactly. That’s how I knew something was wrong.’”
I laugh softly, the sound surprising even me. It feels good to laugh, even for a moment, in the middle of all this fear. The sound bubbles up light and bubbly, cutting through the heavy atmosphere in the room. Mason just shakes his head, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the tiniest hint of that rare smile I love so much. It makes my heart squeeze. Even tired and worried, he still tries for me.
Before I can ask Kane for more embarrassing stories about Mason, there’s a sharp knock on the door. My stomach drops instantly, a cold knot forming deep inside. Mason and Kane are on their feet in a second, hands near their weapons, bodies tense and ready like coiled springs. Mason moves to the door first, checking the peephole with careful precision before opening it just enough to see who’s there. The two men from last night step inside, their expressions professional but cold, eyes scanning the room like they’re assessing a shipment rather than a person.
I don’t like them. Not even a little. It’s not just because they tried to separate me from Mason last night at the airfield. There’s something about their eyes, the way they look at me like I’m cargo instead of a scared woman who just wants to live her life. Their suits are too crisp, their postures too rigid, and the faint scent of cheap cologne and bureaucracy clings to them.
Mason doesn’t like them either. His shoulders go rigid, his posture shifting as something sharp and protective settles over him, thickening the air between us.
