MIA
I findthe garden by accident.
The lake house itself is built for defense—high vantage points, multiple exits, thick walls. But the backyard is surprisingly soft. Wildflowers peek through overgrown grass, someone’s forgotten project left to bloom in defiance of neglect.
I kneel, brushing my fingers over a cluster of blue blossoms. Someone must have planted these once. Before everything became about survival.
“You should be resting,” Damon’s voice rumbles from behind me.
I don’t turn immediately. Instead, I pull a few weeds, giving myself a moment. “I could say the same for you.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and when I glance over, I catch him watching me. Not in the way a bodyguard observes their client, but something more… personal. Something that makes my stomach twist.
I look away. “You brought someone else here before, didn’t you?” My voice is careful, casual. “Another client.”
He exhales, stepping closer. “Yeah.”
I wait, half expecting him to leave it at that. But to my surprise, he continues.
“Her name was Julia Stokes,” he says. “Witness in a federal arms smuggling case. We kept her here for four months before trial.”
I glance up. “What happened?”
Damon’s jaw tightens. “She testified. The guy went down, and she went into witness protection.” His hands clench at his sides. “But they got to her, anyway.”
A cold shiver runs through me. “You mean?—?”
“She disappeared six months after relocation.” His voice is flat. “Officially, no evidence of foul play. But I know better.”
I sit back on my heels, staring at the dirt. I shouldn’t have asked. Now the weight of his loss sits between us, thick and suffocating.
“I don’t want that to happen to you,” Damon says quietly.
I swallow hard. “Me neither.”
Silence stretches. The only sounds are the rustling of leaves, and the distant call of a bird over the lake.
Then he crouches beside me, picking a piece of overgrown ivy and twisting it between his fingers. “I hate waiting, Mia. I hate feeling like we’re just sitting ducks.”
“We’re not,” I tell him. “You’re doing everything you can.”
His gray eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “It’s not enough.”
I twist the stray ivy between my fingers, pretending to focus on the tangled roots in the soil. But my mind isn’t on the flowers.
The soil is rough, dry. Neglected. Kind of like this conversation. Something I should have tended to sooner before it grew wild and out of control.
“I heard you the other day,” I say, voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
Damon doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “You’ll have to be more specific.” But the tension in his shoulders is unmistakable. A slight shift, a coiling of muscle, like he’s bracing for something.
I sigh. “About the way Zane and Asher are acting. I know you didn’t say it outloud, but I’m not that thick. I get what’s going on.”
“And?”
“And,” I say, forcing myself to look at him, “you think they’re too involved.”
His jaw ticks. “Iknowthey are.”
