I nod, leaning back, sipping my espresso.
The boy is reluctant, and I get it—he’s built his life on chasing truth, not trusting guys like me.
But his hesitation is a problem.
I could push harder, employ sterner tactics—maybe a taste of discipline to make him talk—but I don’t want to break the boy’s spirit.
He’s the real deal, a Little with a heart full of fire, but when it comes to his work, he’s as serious as they come. That mix of vulnerability and steel is what makes him dangerous—and what’s got me hooked.
I watch Miles sip his espresso, the sun catching the gold in his hair, and I know this isn’t just about the Guard anymore. He’s a puzzle I need to solve, and right now I’m not sure if I’m saving the boy or dooming us both…
Chapter 9
Miles
“Yum,” I say, momentarily forgetting who I’m with—and why I’m with him.
The bagel’s warm in my hands, sesame seeds crunching as I take a bite, the cream cheese tangy and rich. The harbor’s morning bustle hums around us—sailors shouting, seagulls swooping for scraps, the sun climbing higher and warming my face.
Travis sits across from me at the café’s outdoor table, his third double espresso half-finished, his eyes steady on me.
There’s something about the way he listens, quiet but intense, that makes me feel seen in a way I’m not used to. It’s unsettling, but I’m not here to get cozy. I’m here to survive, to get answers, and maybe—just maybe—turn the tables on the Night Ops Guard.
I sip my espresso, the bitter kick grounding me, and decide to give him a piece of my truth. Not everything, but enough to keep him talking. If I’m stuck with him, I might as well see what he lets slip.
“You asked about my background,” I say, setting my bagel down. “Fine. I’ll tell you why I do what I do.”
Travis leans back, his arms crossed, that Daddy vibe radiating.
“I’m listening, Little,” Travis says, his voice low and gravelly.
I bristle at the nickname but push on, my gaze drifting to the harbor’s shimmering water.
“I grew up on the edge of a small city, near the coast,” I begin. “My grandfather had a ranch—big, sprawling, with golden wheat fields that glowed under the summer sun and a little orchard where I’d spend hours climbing apple trees. He called it Willow Creek, after the stream that ran through it. He’d built it from nothing, poured his whole life into it. He was a tough old guy, weathered hands and a laugh that could fill a room, but he was gentle too. He’d let me ride on his tractor, tell me stories about the land, how every inch of it held a memory—his first harvest, my grandma’s rose garden, the barn where my mom learned to ride a bike.”
My throat tightens, and I pause, picking at a sesame seed. “He taught me what it meant to fight for something you love. But when I was twelve, a company moved in—some big agribusiness called Horizon Agro, all slick suits and fake promises. They wanted the land for a chemical plant, said it’d bring jobs, prosperity. They started buying up farms in the area, but it wasn’t honest. They’d send lawyers to pressure families, spread rumors about land values crashing, even got the county to jack up taxes through their cronies in local government. My grandfather fought them tooth and nail. He’d stand at town meetings, voice shaking with rage, calling them out. But they were relentless—forged documents, claimed his land was rezoned for industrial use, even sent goons to intimidate him at night. I’d hear him pacing, muttering about how he’d never sell, how Willow Creek was his legacy.”
I swallow hard, the memory like a knife. “They wore him down. By the end, he was a shadow of himself—sleepless, gaunt, his laugh gone. They evicted him when I was thirteen, bulldozed the orchard before he could even pack. He died a year later. Heart attack, the doctors said, but I know it was heartbreak. Willow Creek was his soul, and losing it killed him. I was at his bedside when he passed, holding his hand, promising I’d make it right. From that moment, I swore I’d fight for people like him—farmers, shopkeepers, anyone crushed by the powerful. But I wanted to do it right, within the law, so no one could twist it against me. That’s why I became a lawyer, why I joined Knox & Rain. They’re about justice, not just money. And that’s why I can’t stand people like your Night Ops Guard, who think they’re above the law, doing whatever they want, no consequences.”
Wow.
Did I really just say all that?
But, it might be what I needed to give to get something back…
Travis’s jaw tightens, but his expression softens, just a fraction.
“Sounds like your grandfather was a hell of a man, Miles,” Travis says. “I respect that fire in you. Fighting for what’s right—it’s not easy.”
His words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of warmth.
Travis gets it, or at least he’s pretending to. But then he leans forward, his voice dropping.
“But what about Knox & Rain?” Travis asks. “You sure they’re as clean as you think? I’ve seen their client list. Some of thosenames—politicians, corporations—aren’t exactly saints. I could say more, but you tell me what you think about that.”
My stomach twists, and the warmth vanishes.
“What are you implying?” I snap, my bagel forgotten. “That I’m working for crooks? Knox & Rain fight for the little guy. They took on cases like my grandfather’s, went after companies like Horizon Agro. They’re not perfect, but they’re not what you’re making them out to be. You don’t get to question my work when you’re the one running with a vigilante gang.”
