Chapter 8 Travis
Travis
I push open the door to my apartment, the heavy steel swinging silently on well-oiled hinges.
“Here we are,” I say, momentarily taken back to my childhood home, a small shack where me and my four brothers crammed into one tiny bedroom together.
The place is big—too big for just me, really—a corner unit in a sleek residential block in the city’s business district.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline, but the interior’s sparse: a leather couch, a coffee table, a TV mounted on the wall, and a few bookshelves lined with my dog-eared novels and philosophy texts.
No pictures, no knickknacks, just clean lines and empty space.
It’s functional, like me, but as Miles steps inside, his backpack slung over one shoulder, I feel a tinge of embarrassment.
It’s not exactly homey. Far from it, in fact.
He pauses in the entryway, his eyes scanning the room, that damn cow stuffy peeking out of his bag. His lips twitch, and I brace myself for whatever’s coming.
“Wow,” he says, his voice dripping with sass. “Nice place, Travis. Did you hire a psychopath to decorate, or are you just waiting for the serial killer vibe to kick in?”
I snort, caught off guard, and shut the door behind us.
“Keep your opinions to yourself, Little,” I say, trying to sound stern, but a laugh bursts out before I can stop it.
Damn, he’s funny.
That sharp wit, the way he doesn’t miss a beat—it’s the kind of humor I’d throw right back at him in a different life. I’m the joker of the Guard, always ready with a quip to cut the tension, and Miles is giving me a run for my money.
“You’re lucky I’m not charging you for the view,” I add, nodding at the windows.
Miles rolls his eyes but smirks, and for a second, the air between us feels lighter, like we’re not a Guard and a threat locked in a dangerous dance.
But I shake it off, checking my watch.
It’s late, and his face is pale, the stress of the day—his trashed apartment, that chilling note—etched in the shadows under his eyes. The boy is exhausted, and I need him sharp for what’s coming. We’ve got a lot to figure out, and I’m not letting the boy crash and burn on my watch.
“Time for bed,” I say, my tone firm, all Daddy. “You’re wiped, and we’ve got a busy few days ahead. You need rest.”
Miles blinks, his defiance flickering but not flaring.
“Bed? Already?” His voice is soft, almost petulant, and it stirs something in me—something I shove down hard. “Come on. You can’t be—"
“You heard me,” I say, pointing toward the guest room down the hall.
“You’re gonna be a good boy and listen, or this arrangement’s gonna get real uncomfortable, real fast. Try any tricks, and there’ll be strict consequences.
” I let the words hang, my gaze locked on hers, making sure he feels the weight of them. “Understood?”
I watch as his cheeks flush, a pink glow that makes my chest tighten, and he nods, scurrying toward the bedroom like a kid caught sneaking cookies. I watch him go, her ass peachy inside his jeans, the stuffy’s head bobbing in his bag.
Damn… that blush, that smile, that ass.
It’s doing things to me I don’t want to admit.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the mission. He’s not here to be my Little—he’s here because he’s a threat, and someone else wants him dead.
I need to stay sharp.
With Miles tucked away, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and pour myself a whisky, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light.
I settle onto the couch, the city’s glow filtering through the windows, and open my encrypted files on Knox we share a taste for the bitter stuff, the kind that jolts you awake and keeps you sharp. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a crack in the wall between us, and I’m not sure I like how much I like it.
The barista drops off our drinks, the tiny cups steaming, and I lean back, watching him sip. Miles’ nose wrinkles at the first taste, but he powers through, and I can’t help but admire his grit.
The sun’s climbing higher, warming us both, and I decide it’s time to shift gears.
“Miles,” I say, my voice softer but firm, “I’m not your enemy. I want to work with you, not against you. Someone’s after you—trashed your place, left that note. I can help you find out who, but you’ve gotta meet me halfway.”
I watch as Miles thinks things over.
He sets his cup down, his eyes narrowing.
“You think you can charm me into spilling everything?” Miles snorts. “I’m not falling for it, Travis.”
I chuckle, leaning forward, my elbows on the table. “So you think I’m charming?”
His cheeks flush, and he pouts, but a small smile tugs at his lips, betraying him. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Miles mutters, but the spark in his eyes says he’s not as immune as he wants to be.
I hold his gaze, keeping my tone steady. “I’m serious, Little. You want to stay alive? You need to be honest with me. Tell me about your background, your investigations, your bosses at Knox & Rain. I know they’re hiding something, and I’m betting you do too.”
Come on.
Crack.
Give me just a little something…
Miles stiffens, his fingers tightening around his cup.
“I’m not your snitch,” he says, his voice sharp. “I’ll think about it, but don’t hold your breath.”
I nod, leaning back, sipping my espresso.
The boy is reluctant, and I get it—he’s built his life on chasing truth, not trusting guys like me.
But his hesitation is a problem.
I could push harder, employ sterner tactics—maybe a taste of discipline to make him talk—but I don’t want to break the boy’s spirit.
He’s the real deal, a Little with a heart full of fire, but when it comes to his work, he’s as serious as they come. That mix of vulnerability and steel is what makes him dangerous—and what’s got me hooked.
I watch Miles sip his espresso, the sun catching the gold in his hair, and I know this isn’t just about the Guard anymore. He’s a puzzle I need to solve, and right now I’m not sure if I’m saving the boy or dooming us both…