Chapter 6 Micah
Micah
My back screams when I sit up.
It’s nothing new—pain’s an old friend—but the floor’s got a special kind of bite that reminds me I’m not twenty anymore and haven’t been for a long damn time. Still, I’ve slept on worse. Concrete, gravel, the back of a transport while being shot at.
This? This is luxury.
I stretch, bones popping, and run a hand over my face as I glance toward the bed. She’s still out cold, tangled in the quilt, hair a halo on the pillow, face soft with sleep.
Ellie Bright sleeps like she trusts the world again. Like she’s safe.
That alone is worth the ache in my spine.
I push up off the floor and pad to the kitchen, keeping my movements quiet.
I set a pan on the stove and pull eggs, bacon, and a leftover potato from the fridge, dicing the latter while the pan heats.
Something about the repetition helps. The rhythm.
Chop, stir, flip. It lets me stay ahead of the noise in my head.
Last night she asked about the war.
She didn’t push, not really. But even answering what I did was more than I usually give. I don’t talk about the missions. The days that ran together. The sounds. The smell of blood in heat. The feeling of landing and not knowing if you’d take off again.
I’ve spent years trying to forget that version of myself. Trying not to see him in the mirror when I look. But last night, her voice was soft. Her curiosity wasn’t morbid, or careless. She just wanted to know me.
And for a few minutes, I let her.
The phone buzzes on the counter and I grab it before it can ring. Nate.
“Yeah?”
“You up?”
“I’m always up.”
“Got something you’re not gonna like.”
My jaw tightens. “Talk.”
“Ellie’s place. Local deputy did a sweep this morning like we asked. Another package was dropped on her porch overnight.”
I freeze, the spatula hovering above the pan. “What was in it?”
“Broken ornament again. This one was a goose. Card attached said, I’ll find you. You can’t hide for long.”
The tension in my chest snaps tight, like a tripwire pulled too hard. “Son of a—”
“Whoever it is, they know she’s not home.
And they’re taunting her. We’re looking at security footage, canvassing nearby cameras.
I’ve got a couple names. One guy’s known for shaking up teen centers like hers—might be tied to a trafficking ring that’s rebranding under the radar.
Another’s got a history with foster kids and intimidation. I’ll keep digging.”
“I want in.”
“Thought you might say that,” Nate mutters. “But she needs a bodyguard. A damn good one. That’s you, Hunt.”
I press the heel of my hand into the counter, grounding myself in the sting of pressure. “I can’t protect her and hunt this prick.”
“Not alone, no. But I’ve got boots. Hale’s working the local side. We’ll find him.”
“I don’t like that he knows she’s not home. That’s a risk.”
“I know.” Nate’s voice softens, but it’s still firm. “We’re not letting this go, Micah. You’re not alone in this.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Send me the footage when you get it.”
“I will. And Micah?”
“Yeah?”
“You gonna tell her?”
I look down the hallway, toward the room where she’s still sleeping. Peaceful. Unaware. I don’t want to watch that trust fade from her eyes. Not yet. Not before she’s had a minute to feel okay.
“Not sure,” I mutter. “I’ll know when she wakes up.”
We hang up, and I stare down at the pan like it’s got answers. My hands are steady, but my blood’s hot. Whoever this is, they’re playing with her. They’re trying to get in her head.
That pisses me off more than anything else.
Because Ellie’s not just another assignment. She’s herself. Bright, stubborn, mouthy. She walks into a room like it should be better behaved. She laughs with her whole body. And when she’s scared, she doesn’t shut down—she pushes forward.
I won’t let anyone take that from her.
The soft creak of the bedroom door pulls my attention. She appears a moment later, wrapped in the quilt, hair mussed, blinking at me like she’s still only half here.
“Something smells amazing,” she murmurs.
“Hash and eggs,” I say. “Breakfast of champions.”
She yawns as she pads barefoot across the room, eyes still hazy. “Is this your way of bribing me into not asking questions first thing in the morning?”
“Bribery’s a tool,” I admit.
She stops in front of me, tilts her head. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“That silent fury mixed with military brooding thing.” She narrows her eyes. “Did something happen?”
I hesitate.
She steps closer. “Micah.”
Her voice is soft but firm. Insistent.
I sigh, setting the spatula down. “There was a package left on your porch last night.”
Her whole body goes still. “What?”
“Broken ornament. A note that said I’ll find you. You can’t hide for long.”
The color drains from her face. She doesn’t sit, doesn’t flinch. She just takes it in, like she’s folding it into some mental file marked bad news.
“They know I’m not home,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“That means they’re watching. They saw me leave.”
“I think so.”
She nods once, then walks to the window, arms wrapped around herself under the quilt. “This is escalating.”
“I know.”
She’s quiet for a moment, just watching the trees outside sway in the wind. “Do you think they’ll find me here?”
“Not unless I let them.”
She turns to look at me then, eyes sharp despite the sleep. “You won’t let them, will you?”
“No.” My voice is flat steel. “They’d have to get through me first.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other, the silence between us thick and real. The kind of silence that means things. That promises.
“I want to help,” she says.
“You’re helping by staying alive.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It has to be.”
She bites her lip like she wants to argue but doesn’t. She just walks to the table and sits down. “Okay. But the second I can do more, you let me.”
I nod. That’s all I can give her.
I plate her food, setting it gently in front of her, then go back to the stove and take care of mine. But my head’s not in the meal. It’s on the bastard who thinks this is a game.
Ellie takes a bite, chews slowly, then looks up at me with a soft frown. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For taking care of me. Even when I know you’d rather be out there hunting him down.”
I meet her gaze. “I’m where I need to be.”
She studies me for a long second. Then she nods, slow and sure. “Okay.”
But I see it in her eyes—the fear curling at the edges. The worry she won’t say out loud. And I swear to God, if I get the chance to wrap my hands around the throat of the person doing this, I won’t hesitate.
Let them come.
I’m ready.