“No.” The denial tasted sharp on his tongue. “I’ve already got a job to do. I intend to return to black ops as soon as possible, if Commander Reichen will have me. Not as captain of another unit, but on my own.”
Tegan stared at him. “That would be a mistake, Micah. You’re a good leader. Better at it than I was or ever could be.”
The praise was unexpected, but it was the reflection in his father’s eyes that took him aback even more. There was pride there. Even admiration.
It took him a moment to find his voice. “I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t let my team’s deaths be in vain. What other reason is there for the fact that I survived and they didn’t?”
“Maybe the reason is upstairs preparing to walk out of your life. If you let her, that is.”
Micah shook his head, surprised to hear that advice coming from the formidable Gen One warrior whose long shadow Micah had walked in from the time he took his first steps.
“My life is this.” He motioned to the arsenal of weaponry surrounding him. “This is what I’ve trained to be. It’s what I know, what I’m best at. My commitment to the Order has been my destiny from the day I was born.”
“Yes, you are good at what you do,” Tegan said. “I’ve seen a lot of warriors come through the ranks over a lot of years, and you rose above them all. But that doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice everything else. It doesn’t mean you can’t be destined for other things too. Better things, like Phaedra.”
Micah let go of a low curse and ran his hand over his tense jaw. “You really think fate has something to do with the two of us?”
“I don’t know. Stranger things have happened.” Tegan chuckled, but there was a solemnity in his eyes. “I can’t tell you anything about fate. I only know what I see in you when you’re looking at her. Trust me when I tell you, son, life is for the living. I suggest you get on with it . . . before you let her walk away.”
Shit. The last thing he’d been expecting was a father-and-son bonding session after a week filled with deaths and disasters. Micah didn’t know what to say. Not about his unsolicited advice, or about the laser-sharp way he’d seemed to drill right into the heart of what Micah feared even more than failing at his promise to his team.
He feared the possibility that he might be falling in love with Phaedra.
Fuck, it was more than a possibility.
The hollow ache in his chest when he saw the hurt in her eyes today—hurt he had caused—had not dissipated in the hours since. It had only carved in deeper when he thought about her returning to the life she’d left behind in Rome.
She wasn’t even gone yet and he missed her already.
Tegan cleared his throat. “I’ll let you get back to your work. Lucan wants everyone in the war room in twenty minutes to review patrol missions for tonight’s sweep of the city.”
Micah nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Tegan dipped his chin in response, then pivoted to leave.
“Hey . . . Dad?” He paused as Micah called after him, swiveling his head to look over his shoulder. Micah swallowed, then gave his father a smile. “Thanks.”
Some of the stone that seemed to enclose Tegan cracked with the fond look he held on his only son. “Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support you. And I’ll be proud of you. I always have been.”
Their gazes locked and held for a long moment, then his father resumed his walk toward the corridor. Before he reached the threshold, the comm units both he and Micah wore on their patrol fatigues began to buzz with an incoming notification.
“That’s Lucan,” Tegan said, frowning as he glanced down to read the display. “Holy shit. Everyone’s needed in the war room on the double.”
Micah fell in beside him, their boots chewing up the distance to the war room where the rest of the Order’s on-site members were arriving at an urgent clip too.
There was no need to ask why they had been summoned.
Two large monitors on the wall were filled with the same breaking news report from a swank society gala taking place downtown. A stricken-looking anchorman stared into the camera from his studio as he described the situation inside.
“Again, this just in, we’re getting reports that a private function being held at the city’s historic opera house has been overtaken by a group of heavily armed individuals. Our sources inside the building tell us the men are holding close to fifty hostages, among them visiting diplomats, business leaders, and government officials.”
Lucan shot a look at Gideon. “We got any intel on this gathering?”
“I’m checking now.” Data filled another monitor in the room, halting on a page that displayed a roster of Who’s Who in D.C. society. “Ah, fuck me. You’re not gonna like it. The guest list for this gala? It’s almost entirely Breed.”
“Jesus Christ,” someone hissed.
The news anchor kept talking, resting his finger against the receiver in his ear. “What’s that? All right, we’re getting new information. Apparently, the armed men inside have a message they want to deliver. Is someone getting me that video link?” The anchor paused for a moment, then nodded at the camera. “Okay, stand by and we’re going to have that feed in just a moment—”
