If we have to sit here for days, we can do it without eating like we’re in a prison movie.
I move room to room, quiet steps, senses wide. The living room smells faintly of cedar and clean linen. The air has that cool bite of early morning, the house still holding onto night. Outside, birds start up in the trees, chirping like they’ve never heard of human violence.
I check the windows. Curtains closed. Latches intact.
Rowan’s door is shut, as it should be.
My chest tightens anyway but I keep moving. When I hit the kitchen again, my phone buzzes against my hip. I pull it out and see the group thread.
Colt: Morning. Update. Also important question. How’s it going with the girl?
Jace: Fallen in love yet?
Crewe: Ignore them. We have movement on the D.C. consultancy tie.
I exhale, rubbing my thumb once across the screen, and then type back.
Me: I’m not in love. Focus.
Another buzz.
Banks: Pulled records on A. Shaw. Old DoD contractor. Off books. Shell layers deep. Name pops near a “Prospect” property buy years back.
My jaw sets hard enough to ache. Prospect again. That word keeps surfacing like a body that won’t stay sunk.
Nash: We’re heading to a storage unit tied to the shell. If it’s a dead end, we pivot. Elena’s people wired funds already. Enough to keep us in the hunt. Tell your principal thanks.
I stare at that for a beat.
Elena Sands doesn’t do half measures. She said she’d send resources, and she did. Money, contacts, probably a few favors that will cost her later. She’s playing this like a chess match, sacrificing pawns to protect her queen.
Rowan.
I don’t love that metaphor, because Rowan isn’t anyone’s pawn, but it’s how Elena thinks. I type back.
Me: Copy. Move smart. Don’t get tunnel vision. Check in.
Colt responds immediately.
Colt: Is she pretty though?
My grip tightens on the phone.
Pretty.
The word is too small. Too lazy. Like describing a hurricane as “breezy.” Rowan is pretty, sure. Long brown hair that catches light like copper when she moves. Warm brown eyes that miss nothing and make you feel seen even when she’s cracking jokes. Lips that were made for trouble.
But it isn’t just her face. It’s her brain. The way she connects dots. The way her humor shows up right when fear tries to take the wheel. The way she fights to keep control even when the ground shifts under her. She’s brave. Not the loud, reckless kind. The quiet kind that keeps showing up even when it hurts.
However, I don’t text any of that.
Me: She’s under my protection. That’s all you need to know.
Jace sends a laughing emoji that I ignore on principle.
I set the phone face down on the counter and start moving again, this time with purpose.
Breakfast. Rowan needs fuel. Protein. Something real in her stomach. She can live on sarcasm, but it won’t keep her steady if we have to run.
