Norah’s gaze dropped to the table. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “This is because of me.”
Before Marshall could protest, Miranda was on it.
“It’s not,” Miranda said immediately, whipping around to face her. “This is because of the Syndicate. You just had the questionable honor of being last night’s main event.”
Norah’s mouth pressed into a flat line that said she didn’t entirely agree.
“That reminds me. Thanks for thinking to get Cleo for me. I am glad she’s here safe.”
Miranda’s gaze narrowed and her eyes slid to Marshall. He gave a subtle shake of his head. There was no need to tell Norah that he’d been the one to insist someone go retrieve Cleo. “Of course,” Miranda replied graciously.
Marshall’s phone sat face-down between his elbow and his plate. The screen kept lighting up with secure pings—updates from Joey, Will, and a thread about rerouting comms. He hadn’t opened them yet. For the first time in a long time, he’d chosen the person in front of him over the intel.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, heavy and unhurried. Boot tread over smooth tile.
Ross McClain stepped into the kitchen a heartbeat later, filling the doorway.
His boss usually looked like a recruiting poster for competent leadership—pressed shirts, crisp jawline, that steady, unflappable calm that had helped convince Marshall to sign on with Black Tower in the first place. Now, he just looked tired.
His button-down was wrinkled under a navy blazer that had seen too many airports. His sandy hair stood up on one side like he’d run a frustrated hand through it in the last hour. There was stubble on his jaw, shadowing the lines bracketing his mouth. The blue of his eyes seemed duller, like Geneva had scraped some of the color out.
“Hey,” Miranda said softly. “Boss.”
He scanned the room. Took in the plates, the food, Norah’s hoodie, the way Marshall had angled his chair between her and the door without realizing it.
His gaze flicked to Norah, then back to Marshall. Something settled in his expression.
“Good,” Ross said. His voice was roughened by travel and too little sleep, but it still held that command edge. “You’re both in one piece. It’s nice to officially meet you, Norah. I’m Ross McClain. Welcome to Black Tower Security. I trust Miranda is making sure you have everything you need?”
Norah straightened in her chair automatically, like she’d just been called on in a board meeting. “She has, Mr. McClain,” she said. “I?—”
He lifted a hand, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Ross is fine. You’ve had a night. No formalities required.”
Her fingers tightened around the mug. “It was . . . eventful.”
“That’s one word for it,” Marshall muttered.
Ross’s gaze lingered on Norah for another beat—assessing, maybe checking for visible breakage. Then he looked at Marshall, and some of the general exhaustion sharpened into something more personal.
“Marshall,” he said. “I need a word.”
The old instinct rose automatically to reply “Yes, sir.” To be up and moving before the thought finished. He tamped it down, keeping his voice level. “Sure.”
Beside him, Norah’s shoulders hitched. “If you need the space, I can go home if?—”
“No,” Ross said quickly, then softened it. “You’re not in the way. I just need to talk to Marshall first.”
First. Not instead. Marshall caught it. So did Norah, if the small exhale she let out meant anything.
He turned toward her. “Hey.” He nudged her knee with his under the table, gentle. “Why don’t you grab a shower? Hot water’s decent here. Mostly.”
Some of the tension in her face eased at the faint attempt at humor. “You saying I smell, Kelley?”
He huffed a quiet not-quite laugh. “I’m saying it might feel good. It’s been a long night.”
Her gaze searched his like she could read the subtext there. He tried to project something steady.I’ve got this. You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.
“Okay,” she said finally. She set the mug down and pushed to her feet. The hoodie sleeves slid down over her hands. “If you touch my french fries, Miranda, we can’t be friends.”
