Page 52 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“With replica swords.”

“That he openly admits aren’t real.” She pointed her fork at me. “He’s got more intellectual honesty than some tenured professors I could name.”

I took my last bite and turned sideways on the sofa, staring up at the dolphins on the screen. “Maybe he chose his life. Maybe it suits him.”

“Or he’s writing in his blog because he wants more and that’s his only option.”

“More isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.” More square footage. More horsepower. More staff. More prestige. That’s what men were built for, right, Dad?

“Coming from a man who has more of everything?”

I turned from the dolphins to look at her. For a second, I took her question for contempt or judgment, but the lift of her brows said it was simple curiosity. “You remember my father owns Pendragon Security? It was in… the article?”

“I remember.”

“When I left the Teams, I went to work for him. I wanted to be a number. I wanted to be one more faceless operator, not the owner’s son. I wanted to learn the family business from the inside. But my father had different plans.”

She took another bite of her cake, but didn’t say anything.

“In 2019, the CIA contracted with Pendragon for what they called Task Force Legacy.” I turned toward the television, which showed walruses sunning themselves on a huge rock. “Two CIA contacts, plus a group of Pendragon contractors. Our mission was to protect archaeologists and dig sites in Afghanistan.”

It was important work, and I’d been proud to be part of it.

“However, my father put me in charge of the Pendragon contingent, despite a few other men having more experience than me.” Two of them hadn’t been afraid to voice their displeasure.

“And that was the ‘more’ you didn’t want?”

“One of them.” I’d wanted to earn their respect, not be pandered to because of my last name. I’d called home to protest the assignment, but all he’d said was, ‘You’re a Penn. Act like it.’

My entire fucking life in two sentences.

“You know, Arthur…” Gwen put down her fork. “We met less than a week ago, but I’ve heard enough conversations between you and your team to know you deserve the role you’re in. Lance obviously trusts you, but disagrees with you because he’s your friend. And your analyst briefs you like he’s reporting to someone whose judgment matters.”

My throat tightened. I glanced at her, then back at the television. Those were the sorts of things my mother pointed out when I complained about my father’s nepotism.

“Speaking of judgment…” I shook off my pity party and turned to face her. “What Bridget said to you in the shop wasn’t just rude.”

Gwen went still, her eyes opening slightly.

Retreat, Penn. Retreat! But I couldn’t. I had to say it instead of letting another hour go by. “You weren’t finished, but she was awful to you, and you left because of it. I wanted to step in⁠—”

“Arthur, don’t.”

“I’m not asking you to explain.” Except I was, wasn’t I? What was I trying to accomplish? Maybe I needed her to confess so I didn’t feel too stupid for telling her about my father?

Gwen looked at the table, not at me, and the documentary narrator talked about ocean currents. “There was a man. Before. And he…”

I was sitting forward, leaning toward her. When had I done that?

“I can’t.” She stood and gestured at the bathroom near the door. “I should get ready for bed.”

But before she put any real distance between us, I shifted to the edge of the couch and grabbed her wrist.

Not hard. Not planned.

My fingers closed around it, and she stopped with her back to me. I held on.

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t look at me.