CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE JAX
Brandon Hayes meets me at a coffee shop three blocks from The Dominion, the kind of place that serves overpriced lattes to people who think caffeine is a personality trait.
He's already there when I arrive, sitting at a corner table with sight lines to both entrances, a habit ingrained from years of protection work that never quite goes away even during off-duty meetings.
"You look like you didn't sleep," he says as I sit down.
"I slept. Just not much." I signal the barista, order black coffee because anything fancier feels like wasted effort. "What's the status on Lana's apartment?"
"Security upgrades are nearly complete. New locks, reinforced door frames, and an upgraded alarm system with direct feed to our monitoring station.
We've also installed motion sensors at all entry points and improved camera coverage in the building's common areas.
" He pulls out his tablet and shows me the schematics.
"But given that Trask already knows the location, has documented her routines there, and likely has mapped every vulnerability in that building, I'm recommending she doesn't return.
Fresh location, clean slate, somewhere he has no existing intelligence on. "
The assessment matches what Lana and I discussed—or rather, what we implied before getting distracted by more immediate concerns. "Have you started looking at alternative properties?"
"Three buildings in The Crest, all with superior security infrastructure.
I can have showings arranged by Monday if she's interested.
" He swipes through listings—high-rise apartments with twenty-four-hour concierge service, key card access, the kind of places where strangers get noticed immediately.
"All three have been vetted for structural security.
No accessible service entrances like her current building. "
I review the options, mentally noting advantages and vulnerabilities. "Send me the details. I'll discuss it with her."
"How is she? Holding up okay after the break-in?" Brandon's tone is professionally concerned, the careful neutrality of someone who knows there's more to this situation than standard client protection.
"She's processing, especially about staying at the safe house until we determine next steps.
" I'm being deliberately vague about the personal complications, about the fact that I spent last night in her bed, and this morning explaining to Lucien why I'm compromised beyond professional recovery.
"Andre's shift ends at what time today?"
"He pulled overnight, so Derek is enroute to replace him as we speak. Derek will maintain position for the rest of the day, then I have Marcus scheduled for overnight." Brandon pulls up the rotation schedule on his tablet. "We're maintaining twenty-four-hour coverage until Trask is neutralized."
Brandon closes his tablet. "But Jax, we need to talk about the long-term plan here. The safe house is a temporary solution. She can't live there indefinitely while we chase down Trask and Reese."
"I know. That's why finding a new apartment is priority.
Somewhere secure enough that we can establish normal protection protocols without requiring safe house containment.
" I'm already running through logistics—a moving timeline, security installation, how to make Lana feel safe in a new space when her last apartment was violated.
"What's your read on Trask's current activity? "
"Quiet. Too quiet." Brandon pulls up surveillance reports. "No sightings near her building, the foundation office, or any of her regular locations since the break-in. Either he accomplished what he needed during the apartment breach, or he's regrouping for a different approach."
The assessment makes my chest tight with unease I can't quite articulate. Trask isn't the type to simply disappear after escalating to breaking and entering. He's building toward something, documenting patterns, waiting for an opportunity that hasn't presented itself yet.
My phone vibrates. Text from Lana: Derek says I can go to the foundation if I want to catch up on work. Do you think that's safe?
I show Brandon the message. He considers for a moment before responding. "The Foundation office has decent security. Derek can maintain close protection. As long as she's not going anywhere isolated, risk is manageable."
I type back: Safe enough with Derek. Let him handle logistics. Text me when you're leaving and when you arrive.
Lana: Will do. Thank you for not making me stay locked up all day.
Me: I'm not your jailer. Just the person who wants you alive.
Lana: I know. I'll be careful.
I set down my phone, returning attention to Brandon. "So we're looking at Monday for apartment showings, continued monitoring of Trask's activity, and maintained protection protocols until threats are neutralized. Anything else I'm missing?"
"Yeah. Your personal involvement." Brandon's expression is carefully neutral. "I've been doing this work for fifteen years. I can tell when a protector crosses from professional to personal. Just need to confirm it doesn't compromise the security operation."
"It doesn't. My judgment on threat assessment is sound."
"Good. That's what matters for the contract." He stands and gathers his things. "The apartment upgrades will be finished by the end of the week. I'm also putting together a list of alternative locations if she wants to relocate. Better security infrastructure, less exposure."
"Send them to me. I'll review them with her."
"Will do." He heads for the door, then pauses. "One thing—we're logging every move Trask makes. If Lana's attorney decides to pursue harassment charges, we'll have documentation to support it."
"Good. I'll make sure she knows."
After he leaves, I sit in the coffee shop longer than necessary, drinking overpriced coffee and trying to untangle my increasingly complicated feelings about Lana.
I've crossed professional lines—that much is undeniable.
And I need to figure out if what we have is real or just crisis-manufactured intimacy.
Whether protection is genuine care or just another form of control with better packaging.
But he's also operating from outside the situation, seeing patterns without understanding the specific context that makes this different from standard protector-client dynamics.
Lana isn't just someone I'm keeping safe.
She's someone who looked directly at my camera and saw me seeing her, who asked for transparency instead of accepting convenient lies, who's trying to rebuild herself after five years of being systematically dismantled.
That has to count for something beyond crisis-manufactured intimacy.
My phone vibrates. Text from Lana: Leaving for foundation now. Derek is driving. Will text when I arrive.
Me: Be safe. Call if anything feels wrong.
Lana: I will. Miss you.
The admission makes something in my chest feel warm and complicated. I type back: Miss you too. See you tonight.
I head back to my apartment in The Hollows, settle at my desk with my laptop and the monitors I use for tracking security feeds.
The afternoon stretches out in standard work—reviewing camera footage, checking perimeter alerts, updating threat assessments—tasks that feel increasingly mechanical when my mind keeps circling back to Lana.
I review security reports, check traffic camera feeds near Lana's foundation office, confirming Derek's vehicle arrived and she entered the building without incident.
At four PM, my phone rings. Lana's number—the burner Blackwood provided.
"Everything okay?" I answer immediately, already running through threat scenarios.
"Everything's fine. I just—" She pauses, and I can hear the faint hum of the office in the background, Maya answering a call at reception, the coffee maker running. "I wanted to hear your voice. Is that pathetic?"
"That's not pathetic. That's normal for people who are figuring out what they are to each other. How's work?"
"Productive. Solange and I finalized partnership agreements for the expansion cities, reviewed program outcomes from our current community partners, and started planning the donor cultivation event for next month.
" Her voice carries tension underneath the casual update.
"But being here, doing normal work, it's helping.
Makes me feel like I'm still me instead of just the woman being hunted by her dead husband's associates. "
"You're both. You're allowed to be both." I'm still at my apartment, but already reaching for my keys, making the decision to head back early. "When are you heading back to the safe house?"
"Probably around six. Derek said rush hour traffic will be terrible, so earlier departure makes sense." She's quiet for a moment. "Will you be there?"
"I'll be there. Leaving now, actually." The admission is easier than pretending I can focus on anything else today.
"Good." Her voice shifts, becomes warmer. "I don't want to spend tonight alone."
"You won't. I'll see you at six."
"Okay. Drive safe.”
“I'll be waiting."
The drive to The Gateway takes thirty minutes through the early evening traffic.
When I arrive at the safe house, I let myself in with the key Brandon provided, the space is empty, just signs of her presence—a coffee mug on the kitchen counter, her laptop closed on the dining table, and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
At six-fifteen, I hear the key in the lock. The door opens and Lana enters with Derek behind her, both looking tired but unharmed. Derek does a quick visual sweep of the apartment, nods to me, then leaves without ceremony.
The door closes, and suddenly we're alone.
I'm crossing the distance between us before I can second-guess the impulse. "Couldn't really focus on anything today, except wanting to see you."
"That's either really romantic or deeply codependent."