There it is.
I lean back, exhaling slowly. “You know I haven’t done private protection in years.”
“I know,” Orion says. “I also know you’re still one of the best operators I’ve ever trained with.”
“Let’s not forget your sister would rather eat broken glass than work with me.”
“She doesn’t have to like it, she just has to be safe.” Something in his voice shifts. “And I trust you more than anyone else on this planet with her life.”
The silence that follows is thick. I stare at the rubber flooring between my boots, chest tight with something I can’t quite name. Trust like that isn’t given lightly. Not by Orion. Not ever.
“She won’t want me around,” I say finally. “Not after everything.”
He nods once. “Probably not. But she’ll handle it, she’s a big girl.”
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes. You’re not just capable,” he says without hesitation. “And you’re not done yet. Sitting alone with your ghosts isn’t healing, we both know you’re hiding.” His gaze sharpens, but there’s warmth he reserves for a few people under it. “This will give you purpose and structure. A reason to keep moving forward instead of circling the same regrets.”
My jaw tightens. He’s not wrong, and that might be the worst part.
He stands, stretching his arms as he walks away. He suddenly stops before turning back to me. “Lucian?”
My name, not my childish nickname.
I look up, meeting his steely gaze.
“I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but if you hurt her again,” he says evenly, “I will destroy you.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Not intentionally.”
He nods. “I know.”
That’s it–no posturing or warning shots. Just trust, balanced with love and the kind of accountability only real friendship earns.
I sit alone in the half-lit gym, leg aching, chest tight, heart pounding with something dangerously close to hope.
And the question isn’twhat did I just agree to?
It’s whether I’m finally ready to become the man Orion already believes I am.
11
Lucian
The phone rings, sharp and insistent, cutting through sleep like a blade.
I jolt awake, disoriented, tangled in sheets that feel heavier than they should. My braid has come undone sometime in the night, hair sticking to my jaw and neck, my shoulder damp with sweat. My residual limb throbs with that familiar, stubborn ache like it’s checking in to make sure I haven’t forgotten it exists. My knee isn’t much better. I pushed too hard yesterday, and my body is keeping receipts.
I squint at the clock on the nightstand.
4:59 a.m.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The phone keeps ringing.
I groan, roll onto my back, and fumble for the receiver, forcing myself upright before bringing it to my ear. “Yeah?”
