Trusting Hersh McDougal had once been the easiest thing I’d ever done.
That was the problem.
Because standing here now—with his hand wrapped around my wrist and those dark eyes locked on mine—I could already feel every wall I’d spent months building starting to crack.
And cracks got people killed.
“Hersh,” I whispered again.
The name slipped out softer this time.
More dangerous.
His expression changed the second he heard it.
Not Blaze.
Not Ranger.
Not the man everyone in Eagle River respected.
Hersh.
The boy I used to love.
“You remember me,” he said quietly.
I should lie.
I should keep lying.
That’s what witness protection trained you to do.
Survive.
Detach.
Disappear.
But standing this close to him made it hard to remember my own name, let alone FBI protocol.
I looked down at his hand still holding my wrist.
Warm.
Steady.
Safe.
God help me, that was the worst part.
Because for one stupid second, I wanted to lean into him and pretend none of this had ever happened.
No cartel.
No running.
No dead bodies in a Las Vegas parking garage.
