“You think I need guarding?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, controlled.
His gaze swept over me—shoulders, bandage, hands still clasped too tightly at my sides. He didn’t blink. “I think Hydra wants you back,” he said, low. “And until I know why, you’re not alone.”
The words should have felt like chains. They didn’t. They felt like a shield I hadn’t asked for, hadn’t dared to hope for. Beckett Cole was going to guard me.
But I couldn’t let him see that. So I gave him the only weapon I had left: a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t break.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that I caught the faint scent of gun oil and clean sweat, the battlefield clinging to him even here. His voice dropped to a rasp that made my chest tighten. “Everybody breaks, Voss. The question is who puts you back together.”
My mask nearly slipped then—nearly. The truth clawed at my throat: I wanted it to be him. I wanted to believe he could.
But I was Hydra’s creation, whether I liked it or not. And wanting was dangerous.
So I held his gaze, even as my heart hammered, and gave him the same answer I gave everyone who thought they could own me. “No one.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Not victory. Not anger. Something else. Something I didn’t dare name.
He didn’t press. Didn’t call my bluff. Just nodded once, like he’d filed away the lie for later, and turned to stand guard by the door.
My knees felt weak, but I managed to stay upright. Because Beckett Cole might keep me safe from Hydra, but no one could keep me safe from the way he was already dismantling the walls I’d spent years building.
12
Elara
The silence stretched, thick as smoke. Beckett stood by the door like he was carved out of stone, arms folded, gaze sweeping the room as if Hydra might crawl out of the shadows at any second.
I should have been relieved he wasn’t looking at me. Instead, it made me restless. Because part of me wanted that sharp attention turned my way—even if it burned.
“You’re wasting your time,” I said finally, just to break the quiet. “Hydra’s not sending assassins through the air vents tonight. I’ll be safe in my room; you can go to yours. You said this safehouse was safer than anywhere else.”
His eyes cut to me, steady, unreadable. “Hydra doesn’t wait for night. And they don’t care about rules of engagement. If they want you, they’ll come. And I’ll be here when they do.”
It should have sounded like a threat. Somehow it didn’t.
I wrapped my arms around myself, hating how small the gesture felt. “You don’t believe me,” I said softly. “Not about Hydra. Not about what I knew… or didn’t know.”
“No,” he said, blunt as a bullet. Then after a beat, softer: “Not yet.”
The honesty scraped raw. I swallowed against it, against the way it hollowed something inside me. “Then why guard me at all?”
He pushed off the wall, steps measured, deliberate. He stopped just close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. His voice dropped low, gravel rough.
“Because whether you’re telling the truth or not, Hydra wants you silenced. And I won’t let them win. Not ever.”
The room shrank around us, the air too tight, too charged. I felt the heat of him, the quiet promise in his words. And for one reckless heartbeat, I let my mask slip.
“Do you have any idea,” I whispered, “what it’s like to spend years smiling for cameras, shaking hands, pretending you’re untouchable—only to find out you were standing on rot the whole time?”
His jaw tightened. His hand twitched like he almost reached for me, then stopped. “Yeah,” he said. Just one word. Heavy. Certain. Like maybe he understood more than I’d ever guessed.
My chest ached with something sharp, dangerous. “You said everybody breaks,” I murmured. “What happens if I already have?”
This time, he did reach. Just a brush of his fingers over my wrist, where Hydra’s scar lived like a brand. Not possessive. Not commanding. Just… present.
“Then you let someone hold the pieces,” he said.
The touch was gone as quickly as it came, but it left me shaking harder than any interrogation.
