Years.
Years I’ve worked with Andrews.
He trained me, taught me everything I need for this life. But every so often, no amount of training can truly prepare you for something.
Maybe it was cocky of me to think that the relationship I have with Andrews was more. The pet name he gave me, the years of him cooking me dinner, of wiping my blood and stitching me up. I was hated within Apex Security because everyone thought I was his favourite.
And yes, I’d be lying if there hadn’t been a truth in that.
I knew he held a soft spot for me, and Luca Knight always said weaknesses would be the thing that gets you killed in our life. But that weakness was Owen in my eyes. Not the weakness I had for believing that I meant more to a man like Andrews.
I may be holding a gun, aiming at him, but the safety is on.
My trigger finger is not ready to fire. I am relaxed, because I thought I had the power.
But how wrong am I?
Andrews has always been sprightly, always fought dirty, and this evening is no different. He dives and reaches behind him, pulling the Glock that was tucked into his jeans, and fires in my direction.
Owen screams my name as I dive out of the way of the bullets, launching myself behind the other leather chair.
What in the actual fuck…
I land on the floor, the air knocked out of me, and I gasp for breath. My eyes land on those embers, and I blink back the tears.
Andrews shot me.
The man who saved me from the streets.
The man who saved me from my past and gave me my future.
The man I idolised.
The man who told me I would be free after this assignment.
The man who, in this very moment, I realised set me up.
It was nothing to do with Owen being the person from my past, and everything to do with Luca fucking Knight and the sodding hard drive.
I’m an idiot.
34
Owen - Age 18
Shedabscottonwoolonto my knuckles; the alcohol burning my broken skin, making me suck a breath through my teeth with a hiss.
“Sorry,” she says, her touch featherlight. “But I’ve got to clean them.”
I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub as she tends to my wounds. I’m stoic, watching her work as she methodically wipes the blood, cleans the cuts, and inspects them carefully before wrapping them up.
“I still think you could do with some stitches,” she whispers, her voice hoarse and broken. She clears her throat amidst the silent house. We are being careful not to wake James and Maria.
“They’re fine.” I clench my hand into a fist, the skin stretching and pulling against the slices. “See? Fine.”
“It doesn’t have to be fine all the time, you know.”
“You would rather me be honest?” Our eyes meet, and her icy blue eyes stare at me intently.
