He felt it now—sharp, specific, lodged under his ribs like shrapnel.
He was afraid that if he stayed, he’d make it worse. Afraid that if he pushed back against Hale in front of her, he’d force her into a corner she wasn’t ready for. Afraid that loving her out loud would cost her more than his silence.
So he’d done the thing he’d always done best.
He’d left.
The SUV reached the far side of the river. The city dwindled in the rearview mirror, a smear of glitter and shadows.
He took the exit ramp automatically, following the route toward the Black Tower headquarters. It was built into the op plan. If you get burned, you fall back, regroup, hit them another day.
Textbook.
He put his blinker on.
He hadn’t had an answer back then, beyond the loyalty drilled into his bones and the instinct that said if a grenade ever rolled into the room, he’d be the one to jump on it.
So he’d gone.
And she’d taken that as his answer.
He saw her again now, in his mind’s eye, only the image bled into the present. Gala lighting instead of porch light. Silk instead of denim. The same hurt in her eyes.
I’m not doing this twice.The thought came with the force of a body blow.
He flipped the blinker off and coasted onto the shoulder instead, letting the SUV roll to a stop under a lonely stretch of streetlight.
The engine idled, a low, steady rumble. His own pulse matched it, shaking slightly from whatever adrenaline hadn’t burned off yet.
He shoved the gear into park and scrubbed a hand over his jaw, rough stubble rasping against his palm.
“You left her,” he said quietly.
The windshield didn’t argue.
He’d walked out of the building and left her with a man he knew was dirty. With a senator who was being puppeteered by a woman who had a sitting president killed. All because it hurt to stay.
He let the accusation sit there, cold and honest.
Duty or love.
He’d always framed it that way.
Tonight had proved how easy it was to use duty as cover for fear.
Tonight had ripped off whatever illusion of control he’d been clinging to. Every nudge he’d felt since the day Summit appeared on the Syndicate’s radar—every quiet, persistent tug in his spirit—had been God telling him the same thing.Let go. Trust Me.
Marshall hadn’t listened. Control was safer. Predictable. His.
“I’m sorry I haven’t trusted You.” His voice was low, unsteady. “I want to. I just...don’t know how. Not with this. Not with her.” He swallowed hard. “We need your help. I don’t know how to fix what I broke with Norah. I don’t even know if I can. But I know this—I can’t leave her in there alone. Not with those people.”
He blew out a long breath, feeling the decision settle—heavy, certain—like chambering a round.
“She can hate me. Fine. But I’m not abandoning her again. Not to them.”
The old Marshall—the soldier who believed mission was everything, who built his identity on sacrifice and silence—would’ve stayed on the highway. Followed the op plan. Left the cleanup to Ross and Joey. Told himself distance was discipline.
But the man gripping the wheel now knew better.
