I stand frozen in the wreckage of my apartment, clutching Bean so tightly his fuzzy fur presses into my palms.
Travis’s here, uninvited, filling my space with his broad shoulders and that infuriatingly calm presence. The trashed room feels like a violation, but Travis’s insistence that he didn’t do it throws me. His eyes, sharp and steady, hold mine, and I hate how they make my heart stutter.
Travis’s the enemy, a Night Ops Guard, yet he’s standing here offering to protect me.
And now he’s… tidying up?
“Start with the books,” Travis says, his voice a low command as he grabs a toppled shelf and rights it with a grunt. “We’re not leaving this place a mess.”
I blink, disbelief rooting me to the spot.
“You’re serious?” I gasp. “You’re cleaning my apartment?”
He glances over, one eyebrow raised, that Daddy vibe rolling off him in waves.
“You want to live in a pigsty?” Travis barks. “Move, Little.Now.”
My cheeks burn, a flush creeping up my neck. I want to snap back, tell him to get out, but something in his tone—stern, unyielding—makes my body move before my brain catches up.
I set Bean on the couch and start gathering scattered books, my hands shaking with a mix of anger and something else, something I refuse to name. Travis’s energy, all gruff control and quiet authority, is driving me wild, and I hate him for it. I hate how my stomach flips when he calls me “Little,” how my fingers fumble as I stack books, hyper-aware of his gaze.
“You’re not my boss,” I mutter, shoving a battered copy ofThe Lion Kingonto the shelf. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
Travis chuckles, a low rumble that sends a shiver down my spine.
He’s picking up torn papers, his movements precise, like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Keep telling yourself that, Miles,” Travis growls. “But you’re doing exactly what I say.”
I glare at him, my face hot.
He’s right, and it infuriates me.
I’m a lawyer, an investigator, not some obedient kid.
But there’s a pull in his voice, a strength that makes me want to please him, and it’s messing with my head.
I focus on the books, trying to ignore the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he hauls a chair upright. He’s too big, too present, and every time he moves closer, my pulse kicks up a notch.
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of papers and the clink of glass as I sweep up a broken frame.
My apartment’s a war zone, and each piece I pick up feels like a piece of my safety crumbling. The note—Next time, you’re dead—burns in my mind. Was it Marcus Vane, the corrupt official I exposed? Or the Night Ops Guard, despite Travis’s denial? I hate not knowing, the doubt in my mind making my stomach flip.
I steal a glance at him, his jaw tight as Travis sorts through my scattered case files. He’s too calm for someone who just broke in here, but that doesn’t mean he’s innocent.
“You’re not staying here,” Travis says suddenly, breaking the silence. He’s standing by the fridge now, the knife in his hand as he pulls the note free and reads it. His eyes darken, and when he looks at me, there’s something new in them—concern, maybe, but it’s hard to tell with him. “This place isn’t safe. You’re coming with me.”
I freeze, a half-torn coloring book in my hands. “What?”
“You heard me,” Travis says, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “My place. We’ve got a lot to talk about, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until we figure out who did this. You’re not staying here, or anywhere else I can’t keep an eye on you.”
Travis’s tone leaves no room for argument, and my stomach twists with a mix of fear and defiance.
“You can’t just order me around,” I say, but my voice wavers. “What if I say no?”
Travis steps closer, towering over me, his eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t want to know.” His voice is low, dangerous, and it sends a chill through me. “This isn’t a game, Miles. Someone wants you dead, and I’m your best shot at staying alive.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding.
