Chapter 9
Luke
“Huh? What the?” I gasp, as I jolt awake, my sketchpad sliding off my chest and thumping onto the mattress.
Swift’s tucked under my arm, his orange beak pressed against my cheek, and for a second, I’m disoriented, the dim light of the safehouse bedroom throwing shadows across the peeling wallpaper.
I must’ve drifted off, lulled by the quiet hum of the laundromat downstairs and the lingering buzz of my… moment. My cheeks burn at the memory, my body still tingling from thoughts I shouldn’t be having about Connor.
I shake it off, hugging Swift tighter, and glance at the bedside table. The apple juice is still there, half-empty, the plastic cup sweating in the stuffy air.
What time is it?
I grope for my phone, squinting at the screen—nearly midnight.
I’ve been out for hours, way longer than I meant to. The safehouse is quiet, but not silent. There’s a low murmur from the main room, Connor’s voice, gruff and clipped, like he’s trying not to wake me…
My heart kicks up a notch, curiosity overriding the embarrassment still simmering under my skin.
What’s he doing out there? I slide off the bed, careful not to let the springs creak, and tiptoe to the door, my bare feet silent on the worn carpet.
Swift’s still in my arms, a soft anchor as I press my ear to the wood.
“…confirmed hit list, Cole. His name’s on it.
” Connor’s voice is low, urgent, and it sends a chill down my spine.
“Haynes’s ties to Mallen and Garcia, Panama meetings last year.
We sure about this? Okay. Okay. Got it. Cartel money’s bankrolling his whole damn campaign.
Shell companies, Caymans accounts—it’s all there, dude.
He’s got something, I know it. A flash drive, maybe more.
If he doesn’t talk, we’re sitting ducks. ”
My breath catches, and I clutch Swift so tight I’m surprised his stuffing doesn’t pop.
Cartel money? A hit list? My name?
I knew Haynes was dirty—but this is bigger than I thought.
Not just corruption, but cartel-funded corruption, the kind that gets people killed…
People like me.
My stomach twists, fear and adrenaline mixing into a cocktail that makes my hands shake. I glance at my backpack, slumped against the wall, the flash drive and Carla’s list hidden inside.
Connor’s right—I’m holding back, and he’s onto me. But if he knows about the flash drive, he might take it, lock me out of my own story.
I can’t let that happen.
This is my shot, my big break, and I’m not letting some overprotective Daddy derail it.
I ease the door open a crack, just enough to peek through. Connor’s pacing the main room, his phone pressed to his ear, his bare torso gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat under the dim light.
Holy peli-corns, he’s still in great shape—muscles carved like a damn statue, his shoulders broad enough to carry the world.
My mouth goes dry, and I hate how my body reacts, all fluttery and warm, when I should be focusing on what he’s saying. Connor’s shirtless, his t-shirt slung over the couch, and every step he takes makes those biceps flex in a way that’s stupidly distracting.
I grip Swift tighter, trying to ground myself, but my Little side’s squealing, torn between wanting to hide and wanting to run out there and demand answers.
“Yeah, I’ll push him,” Connor says, his voice dropping lower.
“He’s stubborn as hell, but I’m not losing him to this.
Berlin was bad enough. Not again. Never.
” Connor pauses, running a hand through the silver-streaked part of his hair, and I catch a flicker of something in his tone—pain, maybe, or guilt.
“Get me those extraction options. If this goes sideways, I need a way out for him. Fast.”
Berlin? What’s that about?
My journalist brain kicks into gear, filing the detail away, but my heart’s racing for a different reason.
Connor sounds… worried.
Not just Guard-worried, but Daddy-worried, like he’s carrying more than just this mission on his shoulders. I want to be mad at him, to keep hating his bossy rules, but hearing him talk like that—like he’d burn the world down to keep me safe—makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to unpack.
I keep watching as Connor ends the call, tosses the phone onto the couch, and keeps pacing, his boots thudding softly. I can’t tear my eyes away, not from the way his muscles shift, not from the intensity in his face. He’s all focus, all strength, and it’s doing things to me I’m not proud of.
I bite my lip, clutching Swift like he’s the only thing keeping me from doing something stupid, like bursting out there and spilling everything just to see that look in his eyes soften.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
The flash drive, Carla’s list, the text—they’re mine, my leverage, my story. If I tell Connor, he’ll take over, lock me down, maybe even call Robert and pull me off this assignment.
I’ve worked too hard, chased too many leads, to let that happen.
Haynes’s going down, and I’m the one who’s gonna make it happen, cartel or no cartel.
I just need to be smarter, sneakier, braver.
I need to be a big boy, not the Little who wants to curl up with Swift and let Connor handle everything.
I ease the door closed, my heart pounding, and tiptoe back to my backpack.
I dig through it, my fingers brushing past Swift’s soft feathers to find the flash drive, tucked in a hidden pocket. It’s small, black, unassuming, but it’s got everything—encrypted files I haven’t even cracked yet, emails, bank records, names that could tie Haynes to the cartel.
I don’t know the full scope, but I know it’s big. Too big to hand over to Connor, not when he’s already talking about extraction and hit lists. I slide it back into the pocket, zipping it shut, and shove the backpack under the bed, out of sight. If he searches my stuff, he’ll have to work for it…
I allow myself a sneaky smile. I can run rings around Connor, whether he admits it or not.
I crawl back onto the bed, Swift still in my arms, and try to think. Connor’s out there, planning, protecting, but he doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him. And why should he?
I ghosted him three years ago, left him hanging after a kiss that still haunts me. I wasn’t ready then, too focused on my career, too scared of what a Daddy like him could mean.
Now though?
I’m still not ready, but I can’t ignore the pull, the way his presence makes my Little side want to surrender, even as my journalist side screams to keep fighting.
The cartel’s involved. That changes everything. I’m not stupid—I know I’m in danger, know those shooters in the lobby weren’t just random goons.
But backing off isn’t an option.
This story could define my career, expose Haynes for the monster he is, save lives if the cartel’s reach is as deep as Connor’s saying. I need to dive deeper, find more sources, crack that flash drive. And I need to do it without Connor shutting me down.
I glance at the door again, my stomach twisting. He’s out there, shirtless and pacing, probably planning how to “push” me into talking.
Well, good luck, Bossyguard.
I’m not that easy to crack. I hug Swift closer, his soft fabric calming my nerves, and make a decision.
I’m going to disobey him.
Not tonight—tonight, I’ll play along, stay in this room, let him think I’m being a good boy.
But tomorrow? I’m setting up another meet, maybe with Mike again, or someone new. I’ll slip out, get what I need, and keep my evidence safe until I’m ready to use it.
My Little side protests, whispering that I should trust Connor, let him protect me, but I shove it down. I’m Luke Modine, journalist, not some damsel who needs a Daddy to save him… even if that Daddy’s built like a Greek god and makes my heart do stupid things.
I grab my sketchpad, flipping to a new page, and start drawing—a pelican, fierce and proud, soaring over a stormy sea. It’s me, or who I need to be. Strong, fearless, ready to face whatever Haynes and his cartel buddies throw my way.
But as my pencil moves, my mind drifts back to Connor, to the way he looked pacing out there, all muscle and intensity.
I picture him bursting in here, catching me with the flash drive, his voice dropping to that low growl that makes my knees weak.
.. “You’re gonna talk, Little Scoop,” he’d say, and I’d fight him, push him, until he…
Stop it, Luke.
This is crazy.
It didn’t work out like this last time, and it won’t this time either!
I shake my head, focusing on the pelican’s wings, but it’s no use. Connor’s in my head, just like he’s been since that lobby, since that kiss three years ago.
I set the sketchpad aside, my hands trembling, and lie back on the bed, Swift clutched to my chest. The fear’s still there, curling in my gut, but so is the fire.
I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart, but the image of Connor’s bare chest won’t leave me. I can still hear his voice, that hint of pain when he mentioned Berlin, and it tugs at something deep inside me.
What happened there?
What’s he carrying that makes him so determined to keep me safe?
I want to ask, want to know, but I can’t. Not now. Not when I’m planning to go behind his back.
I roll onto my side, Swift’s beak pressed against my cheek, and whisper, “We’ve got this, right?”
Swift’s silence is reassuring, like he’s telling me to be brave, to be the big boy I need to be.
Tomorrow, I’ll find a way to slip out, to keep digging, to stay one step ahead of Connor and the cartel.
I’ll use every trick I’ve got—my drama-class charm, my journalist instincts, my sheer stubbornness—to get what I need.
But as I drift toward sleep again, my mind lingers on Connor, on the way he looked out there, all strength and scars and Daddy protectiveness.
I know I’m playing a dangerous game, disobeying him, keeping secrets.
I know he’s right about the danger, about the hit list, about Haynes’s ties.
But I can’t stop, not now, not when I’m so close.
I just hope I’m ready for what’s coming—because if Connor catches me sneaking out, it’s not just the cartel I’ll have to worry about…