Chapter 8
Travis
I push open the door to my apartment, the heavy steel swinging silently on well-oiled hinges.
“Here we are,” I say, momentarily taken back to my childhood home, a small shack where me and my four brothers crammed into one tiny bedroom together.
The place is big—too big for just me, really—a corner unit in a sleek residential block in the city’s business district.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline, but the interior’s sparse: a leather couch, a coffee table, a TV mounted on the wall, and a few bookshelves lined with my dog-eared novels and philosophy texts.
No pictures, no knickknacks, just clean lines and empty space.
It’s functional, like me, but as Miles steps inside, his backpack slung over one shoulder, I feel a tinge of embarrassment.
It’s not exactly homey. Far from it, in fact.
He pauses in the entryway, his eyes scanning the room, that damn cow stuffy peeking out of his bag. His lips twitch, and I brace myself for whatever’s coming.
“Wow,” he says, his voice dripping with sass. “Nice place, Travis. Did you hire a psychopath to decorate, or are you just waiting for the serial killer vibe to kick in?”
I snort, caught off guard, and shut the door behind us.
“Keep your opinions to yourself, Little,” I say, trying to sound stern, but a laugh bursts out before I can stop it.
Damn, he’s funny.
That sharp wit, the way he doesn’t miss a beat—it’s the kind of humor I’d throw right back at him in a different life. I’m the joker of the Guard, always ready with a quip to cut the tension, and Miles is giving me a run for my money.
“You’re lucky I’m not charging you for the view,” I add, nodding at the windows.
Miles rolls his eyes but smirks, and for a second, the air between us feels lighter, like we’re not a Guard and a threat locked in a dangerous dance.
But I shake it off, checking my watch.
It’s late, and his face is pale, the stress of the day—his trashed apartment, that chilling note—etched in the shadows under his eyes. The boy is exhausted, and I need him sharp for what’s coming. We’ve got a lot to figure out, and I’m not letting the boy crash and burn on my watch.
“Time for bed,” I say, my tone firm, all Daddy. “You’re wiped, and we’ve got a busy few days ahead. You need rest.”
Miles blinks, his defiance flickering but not flaring.
“Bed? Already?” His voice is soft, almost petulant, and it stirs something in me—something I shove down hard. “Come on. You can’t be?—"
“You heard me,” I say, pointing toward the guest room down the hall. “You’re gonna be a good boy and listen, or this arrangement’s gonna getrealuncomfortable,realfast. Try any tricks, and there’ll be strict consequences.” I let the words hang, my gaze locked on hers, making sure he feels the weight of them. “Understood?”
I watch as his cheeks flush, a pink glow that makes my chest tighten, and he nods, scurrying toward the bedroom like a kid caught sneaking cookies. I watch him go, her ass peachy inside his jeans, the stuffy’s head bobbing in his bag.
Damn… that blush, that smile, that ass.
It’s doing things to me I don’t want to admit.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the mission. He’s not here to be my Little—he’s here because he’s a threat, and someone else wants him dead.
I need to stay sharp.
With Miles tucked away, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and pour myself a whisky, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light.
I settle onto the couch, the city’s glow filtering through the windows, and open my encrypted files on Knox & Rain Law…
