“You like her?” I ask, half-teasing, half-curious.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Zane snaps, but the fact that he doesn’t outright deny it tells me everything. “This is about the job.”
“Sure it is,” I say, grabbing a sidearm from the safe by my bedside. “Text me the address. I’ll do the home assessment while you handle the workplace angle.”
“Appreciate it,” Zane mutters, his gratitude rough around the edges. “Just… be careful. Jason’s not a small-time threat. And there are kids involved.”
“I’ll handle it,” I assure him, pocketing the phone and heading downstairs.
As I move through the house, the air feels colder in the wide, high-ceilinged halls. Every polished surface, from the marblefloors to the ornate chandeliers, gleams in the dim morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s a place designed to impress, but to me, it’s always felt empty. Too much space, too quiet. The kind of house that swallows up sound and reminds you just how alone you are.
Olive is the only real warmth in this place. Still, it serves its purpose, just like everything else in my life. Purpose over preference—that’s my motto.
The faint smell of coffee wafts from the kitchen as I approach. Olive, my caretaker and the only constant in my life since childhood, is already bustling about, humming an old tune as she sets the table.
“Work?” she asks, glancing up from the coffee pot with knowing eyes.
“Always,” I say, grabbing a to-go cup she sets out without me asking. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wait up.”
Her lips press into a thin line, concern etched into the lines of her face. “Be careful, Asher.”
I give her a quick nod before heading to the garage.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of my SUV, I check the address Zane texted. A modest house on the outskirts of town. Twins. A stalker. Zane’s warning echoes in my head as I start the engine.
“Jason Whitmore,” I mutter to myself, gripping the steering wheel. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.”
I pull out of my driveway, the sun just starting to climb, painting the sky with streaks of orange and gold. Olive waves from the porch, coffee cup in hand. She’s been hovering ever since Zane’s early morning call, but I can’t blame her. She knows what it means when I leave like this—go-bag packed, sidearm holstered.
The drive out of my neighborhood is automatic, muscle memory. Wide streets, manicured lawns, and gates that promise safety no one can ever really guarantee. I barely register theturns, too focused on Zane’s voice still ringing in my head—‘I’m getting a bad feeling, Ash.’
But by the time I hit the freeway, everything changes. The city shifts around me, glass and concrete giving way to older neighborhoods. Fences sag, sidewalks crack. Mia’s world is nothing like mine.
The neighborhood is modest, quiet, but with enough character to hint at the lives of the families within. Small, neatly kept houses line the narrow street, each with its own version of charm: picket fences, sun-faded toys scattered on lawns, flowerbeds that speak to someone’s effort to make a place feel like home. I drive slowly, scanning for the address Zane sent me. There’s a familiarity to these neighborhoods—working-class, functional, where life is lived in full view of the street.
I nearly miss the house, the small number on the mailbox catching my eye just in time. Her place is unassuming, like the rest of the neighborhood. A little garden with a half-tamed wildness sits in front, as though someone had bigger dreams for it once but now just keeps it alive. The garden contrasts with the security cameras mounted discreetly at the corners. This woman is prepared.
Mia stands at the edge of the garden. Her hair catches the morning light—a soft, chestnut brown with hints of gold that make it look alive, like it’s dancing even when it’s still. It’s pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her skin is fair and smooth, but there’s a faint tiredness under her deep brown, almond-shaped eyes. Her cheekbones are high, her jawline delicate but firm, and her lips—full, soft, and slightly parted, as if she’s been caught mid-thought.
Even tired, she’s striking, with a posture that’s full of fierce determination. I see two little girls cling to her legs, and she holds them there with patience.
She’s taller than I expected, though still petite next to Zane. There’s a natural grace in the way she holds herself, even with two kids clinging to her legs. She’s wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, but the way they fit her, hugging curves she probably doesn’t even realize she has, makes it hard to look away. My gaze catches on the gentle curve of her neck and the way her hands move as her slim fingers brush one of the twins’ heads protectively.
There’s strength in the set of her shoulders, in the way she stands between her children and the world. And yet, there’s a softness, too—a vulnerability in the way her lips press together when she glances at Zane, as though she’s bracing for whatever bad news might come next.
I know I’m staring, but for a moment, I can’t seem to help myself. It’s been a long time since anyone’s made my chest tighten like this.
The spell breaks when my eyes move to Zane, standing a step closer to her than I would’ve expected. He’s battered, blood dried on his temple. He’s angled slightly toward the street, his body instinctively shielding Mia and the kids.
Zane, who never lets his guard down, has softened somehow, his usual razor-edged demeanor replaced with something almost gentle as he bends down to talk to the kids, who chatter happily with him.
It almost feels like I’m intruding, even though they’re out in the open. And for a moment, I wonder why Damon contacted Zane first instead of me. I should have been there before him.
I whistle under my breath to catch Zane’s attention. His head perks up, and he stands, looking for the sound before finally locating me. He steps away from the three of them and waves me over.
“Relief’s here,” Zane announces, breaking the moment. He nods in my direction, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. “He’ll do the house assessment while I check the hospital security.”
Mia’s eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see them fully—dark, deep, and guarded. There’s suspicion there, yes, but also something that feels like a test, like she’s sizing me up and deciding if I’m a threat. Her gaze doesn’t flinch, and I respect the hell out of that.
