“Soft move, Travis,” Henry mutters, breaking the silence. “You sure about this?”
I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “He’s not a cartel thug. Killing him would’ve been messy, and we don’t need that heat. If he’s smart, he’ll back off.”
Henry snorts. “He didn’t look like the backing-off type.”
My old Guard associate is right, and it gnaws at me.
I could’ve ended it here—neutralized the threat permanently.
But something stopped me.
Maybe it’s the way he stood his ground, or the glimpse of that Little side that makes my chest tighten. And as much as I know that he could be in on his law firm’s double-dealing, a big enough part of me thinks that he’s innocently doing what he thinks is right—even if he’s got it all wrong when it comes to the Guard.
Either way, I’ve rolled the dice, and now I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake.
The drive back to the city is long, the highway stretching out under a starless sky. I crank the radio, trying to drown out the doubts circling my mind.
Miles’ face keeps flashing in my head—those defiant eyes, that stubborn tilt to his chin. He’s trouble, and not just because of his hacking. He’s under my skin, and that’s a liability I can’t afford.
The more I think on it, the more I feel like I should have ended it all on the spot.
Back in the city, I head straight to the gym, needing to burn off the tension. Max’s already there, racking weights, his shirt soaked with sweat.
“You look like hell,” Max says, grinning as he spots me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing a barbell. “Rough day.”
Max raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push—we’re both Guards with enough experience to know that sometimes there simply is no point in talking things through. That can, maybe, come later. Right now, I need something else.
We lift in silence for a while, the clank of metal and my grunts filling the space.
My muscles burn, but it’s not enough to shake the image of Miles walking out that door, free when he should’ve been stopped.
Did I let him go because I believe he’ll quit, or because I didn’t want to hurt him?
“Spill it,” Max says finally, wiping his face with a towel. “You’re nowhere near hitting any PB’s and that’s putting me off my damn game too. What’s got you wound so tight?”
I hesitate, then give him the short version—Miles, the trap, letting him walk.
Max whistles low and long, a knowing look in his eyes.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, man,” Max says. “He’s not just a target. He’s a wildcard. And whatever he is, he isn’t some innocent who’s been caught up in a situation like my boy Kaite.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, racking the barbell. “But I’ve got eyes on him. He makes one wrong move, I’ll handle it.”
Max shakes his head, but there’s a glint of respect in his eyes.
“Just don’t let the kid get in your head,” Max says, patting me on the shoulder. “Or your heart either.”
I scoff, but his words hit too close.
I’m not that guy—not the one who falls for a target.
But Miles is different, and that’s what scares me.
It’s past midnight when I park across from Miles’ apartment building, the city quiet except for the occasional hum of a passing car. His fifth-floor window is dark, but I can picture him up there, curled up with that damn cow stuffy, plotting his next move.
I settle into my seat, sipping a lukewarm coffee from a thermos, my eyes locked on his building.
