“I try.”
I settle deeper into the seat, still smiling despite myself, and let the quiet return without rushing to fill it. The road curves. Trees blur by. Sunlight warms the dashboard in pale gold bands. My nerves haven’t vanished. My fear hasn’t disappeared. But it isn’t owning me either. Not right this second.
And maybe that’s all either of us can ask for.
When I look at him again, his expression has shifted—not harder, but more focused. The humor hasn’t disappeared. It’s just tucked itself beneath the surface where his instincts live. Captain again. Protector again. The man who can sing a ridiculous love song one minute and plan for blood the next.
He catches me watching him. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
I smile faintly. “I was just thinking it’s unfair that you can be this irritating before nine a.m.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’ve always thought too highly of me.”
“No,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I think that’s the problem.”
His gaze flicks to me, quick and sharp, but before he can answer the gates of the club come into view ahead—wrought iron, old stone, manicured hedges, the whole place dressed up in money and memory and expectation. The world we’re driving into is polished and pretty and dangerous in ways that won’t show up on the guest list.
The smile fades from both of us by degrees. Not all at once. Just enough.
He slows the car, one hand tightening on the wheel. “Party’s over the second I say it is,” he says quietly. “You stay where I can see you. If anything feels off—anything—you tell me.”
The warmth doesn’t leave entirely. It just sharpens around the edges. “You planning to boss me around all day?”
“Yes.”
I huff a laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”
His mouth curves one last time. “For now, it’s enough.”
And God help me, sitting there with the sun on my knees and his stupid song still echoing in my head, I think maybe he’s right.
Chapter 21
Captain Jonathan
The moment the gates of the country club come into view, my instincts start screaming.
Not loud. Not panicked. Just that low, steady pull behind my ribs that’s kept me alive longer than most men I came up with. The kind that tells you everything looks right—and that’s exactly why it isn’t. The kind that never announces itself with fireworks, only with certainty.
I slow the car without meaning to, eyes sweeping the perimeter like muscle memory never took a day off. Uniformed security at the entrance. Civilian guards mixed in just enough to blur the line. Cars filter through in a neat, polite line, polished and expensive, families inside are dressed in white and navy and medals they only wear on special days. Greenport’s finest, past and present, wrapped up in tradition and pride. Men who used to command black ops now smiling beside women in pearls. Retired ghosts shaking hands in daylight like they were never built for darker things.
A perfect target.
Delilah shifts beside me, smoothing her dress over her knees, the white fabric catching the sun like it doesn’t know what it’s walking into. She looks… composed. Focused. Too calm for someone who’s survived what she has. That scares me more than if she’d been shaking. Shaking would make sense. This stillness reads like effort. Like she’s gripping herself together from the inside and refusing to let anyone see it.
I clock exits. Count bodies. Memorize faces. Note the valet stand, the side door near the service corridor, the two ornamental hedges that could hide a rifleman if someone were patient enough to crawl through dirt in a pressed suit. My gaze tracks reflections in tinted windows, slow-moving shadows, guests who look too interested in nothing at all.
Mikhail would love this.
He wouldn’t rush it. He never does. He’d watch first. Let us settle. Let us believe we’re safe because of the flags and the speeches and the illusion of control. He’d want maximum impact—physically, politically, emotionally. He’d want blood in a room built for memory and legacy. He’d want Greenport to bleed where everyone can see it.
And Delilah?
She’s not just collateral. She’s leverage.
