Page 6 of The Agent’s Curvy Seduction

The apartment is small. One room, basically. Bed in the corner. Tiny kitchen. Bathroom that barely fits a shower. I’ve lived here for five of the seven months and it still doesn’t feel like mine. I never fully unpacked. Part of me always knew I might have to run again.

I yank open the dresser and start throwing clothes into the duffel bag I keep under the bed. Jeans. Soft tees. Underwear. The one dress I own that actually fits my curves without making me feel exposed. I grab the small wooden box from the top drawer—the only thing I kept from before. Inside are three photos I never look at and the thin gold bracelet my little brother saved up to buy me for my sixteenth birthday. Underneath the photos is Mom's battered recipe book wrapped in an old dish towel. I don't open it. I haven't been able to since the crash. I shove the box into the bag and zip it closed.

When I come back down, he’s still standing in the same spot near the front window, watching the street like he’s already planning an exit route. His posture is relaxed but I can see the tension in his shoulders. He’s ready for something. Ready for someone.

He takes the bag from my hand without asking. His fingers brush mine. Warm. Rough. Calloused. The contact is brief but it shoots straight up my arm.

“Let’s go.”

I follow him to the SUV because every other option feels worse. He opens the passenger door and waits until I’m inside before he closes it. The click of the lock sounds final. The interior smells like leather and him.

He climbs in, starts the engine, and pulls away from the curb without another word. The city lights blur past the window. My heart is still hammering. I keep my hands locked together in my lap so he can’t see them shake.

After a few minutes of silence, I glance at him. His profile is all hard lines and calm control, like nothing about this drive costs him anything. One hand on the wheel, steady despite everything. The other rests on his thigh, unhurried. I force my eyes back to the window.

“Where are we going?”

“Silver Lake. I’ve got a cabin up in the mountains. Remote enough that no one finds us unless I want them to.”

I swallow. The heat from earlier is still sitting low in my stomach. I press my thighs together and stare at the dark road ahead instead of watching the easy, unbothered way he handles the wheel.

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He glances at me, just once, like the question itself amuses him a little. “It’s the only answer I’ve got right now.”

We drive in silence for a while. The city falls away behind us. Streetlights turn into dark stretches of highway. My mind keeps looping back to the way he said my real name. Like he’d been waiting to say it. Like it belonged in his mouth.

“You said the accident was staged.” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been tracking the men who ordered it for eight months.” His hands tighten on the wheel. “Your father wasn’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. They made it look like a tragic crash. They didn’t expect anyone to survive.”

The words land like stones in my chest. I’ve spent seven months believing it was a random accident. Bad weather. Bad luck. The idea that someone did it on purpose makes my stomach turn.

“And you think they’re still after me.”

“I know they are.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Your father told us he made a second copy. Michaelson knows that too. He believes your father left it with you somehow, whether you know where it is or not. As long as you're alive, you're the only person who might lead him to it. Either way, you’re a loose end. Loose ends get cleaned up.”

I wrap my arms around myself. The heater is on, but I still feel cold. “Why you? Why not local police or someone else?”

“Because this isn’t a local problem.” His voice drops even lower. “And because I don’t trust anyone else to keep you alive.”

The possessiveness in those words should scare me. It does. But underneath the fear is something warmer and more dangerous. Something that makes my pulse skip.

I turn my head and study him more carefully now that the initial shock is wearing off. The short blond hair. The hard line of his jaw. The way his throat moves when he swallows. There’s a faint scar near his left eyebrow I didn’t notice before. He looks like a man who’s survived things most people only see in movies.

“How old are you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

He doesn’t look away from the road. “Forty-seven.”

Twenty-seven years older than me. The number should make me pull back. Instead, it settles somewhere low in my stomach and stays there.

“You’re quiet,” he says after another stretch of silence.

“I’m processing.”