7. Walt
SEVEN
Walt
The tension in the car is as thick as the low hum of the engine. Malikai maneuvers the rental out of the parking lot. Malia sits stiffly in the passenger seat, her arms crossed and her gaze fixed out the window, her lips pressed into a thin line.
She’s been quiet since we left, but the shallow rise and fall of her chest betrays the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.
From the backseat, I can’t help but smirk. Her fingers clamp around the edge of her seat, knuckles blanching against the dark fabric. The sharp set of her jaw and the barely contained tension in her shoulders scream frustration.
She’s furious—every rigid line of her posture makes it clear—but I don’t regret tagging along, even if it’s earned me her wrath.
Not for a second.
The soft ping of a text interrupts the silence. Her phone lights up in her lap, and she darts a glance down.
I know exactly what the text says.
Love the dress. Did you follow my other instructions?
I lean against the seat, watching her squirm. My text is playing havoc with her thoughts. She doesn’t say anything, but from the way her shoulders tense, and how her fingers twitch, she tells me I’ve already taken up residence in her head, just like I want.
“Everything okay?” Malikai breaks the silence as he glances between the two of us.
Malia clears her throat, her voice tighter than usual. “Fine.”
It’s a lie, of course, but I don’t call her out on it.
Not yet.
As the car pulls into the restaurant parking lot, her shoulders tense, and her foot taps against the floor. She lets out a sharp breath; her frustration evident.
I step out, smoothing down my shirt, and catch her eye as she climbs out of the car. Her glare is sharp, but I grin.
This is too much fun.
The hostess greets us at the door, her welcoming smile bright. She leads us through Salvatore’s dimly lit interior, past white-clothed tables and the gentle clink of fine china. Malikai’s charm takes over instantly. His warm baritone fills the space as he chats with the waitress about the restaurant’s wine list.
I let them walk ahead, slipping a hand to the small of Malia’s back, guiding her with a subtle touch. She flinches at first, but I keep my hand steady, letting it linger just enough to remind her who’s in control.
“You’re stunning.” I lean in close, just enough so Malia can hear me. I keep my voice low and deliberate. “Though I can’t help but wonder…” I pause, letting the words hang between us like a challenge. “Did you follow my instructions—or will I have to check for myself?”
Her step falters, her hand gripping her purse strap a little tighter. The prettiest pink flush colors her cheeks as she shoots me a glare that’s all fire and fury, but the way she avoids my gaze says more than her words ever could.
I bite back a grin.
The game is on.
“Corner booth,” I murmur to the hostess before she can seat us at a standard table. A quick smile and slight nod toward Malikai. “More private for conversation.”
I gesture for Malia to slide in first, then smoothly take my place beside her before Malikai can suggest any other arrangement.
The strategic position leaves her bracketed between the wall and my solid presence. Her brother sits opposite, oblivious to how she shifts slightly away from me.
“This is perfect,” Malikai says, accepting the wine list. “Excellent choice on the booth. The acoustics in the main dining room can be challenging for conversation.”
I lean back, letting my arm rest along the booth behind Malia’s shoulders. My fingertips lightly bounce on her bare shoulder, a playful touch meant to tease.
Her head tilts slightly to let me know she feels it, but she doesn’t pull away. Her pulse flutters visibly in her throat as she picks up her water glass. The slight tremor in her hand doesn’t escape my notice.
The leather menu crackles as I open it, deliberately leaning against her shoulder. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.
Small victories.
The wine list is extensive, but I know exactly what I want.
“The 2015 Brunello di Montalcino ,” I tell the hovering sommelier, not bothering to consult the menu further. “And let’s start with the burrata.”
Malikai’s eyebrows rise with interest. “You know your Italian wines.”
“I spent some time in Tuscany.” I let my thumb graze the bare skin of Malia’s shoulder, feeling her subtle shiver. “The Sangiovese grape is particularly fascinating. The way it changes character is based on elevation and soil composition.”
My free hand traces the rim of my water glass as I describe the region’s specific characteristics. Each gesture is calculated, drawing Malikai’s attention. Subsequently, beneath the table, my thigh presses firmly against Malia’s leg. She tries to shift away, but the booth’s design works in my favor.
“Most people don’t realize,” I continue smoothly, “that the same grape grown just a few hundred meters apart can produce entirely different flavors.” I pause as the sommelier returns, presenting the bottle with practiced grace.
The ritual of wine service gives me the perfect excuse to lean closer to Malia, ostensibly to examine the cork. Her scent surrounds me—vanilla, coffee, and something uniquely her. I approve the wine and watch as ruby liquid splashes into crystal.
“To new connections,” I propose once our glasses are full, holding Malikai’s gaze as we touch glasses. Malia’s hand trembles as she lifts her glass, the wine rippling with her movement.
“So, Walt,” Malikai sets down his glass, his expression curious, “were you a SEAL before joining the Guardians?”
“No. I was Air Force Special Operations.” I keep my tone neutral, though my hand tightens fractionally on the stem of my wine glass. “Special Tactics Pararescue Squadron.”
“That must have been intense.” He leans forward, genuinely interested. “What made you transition to the private sector?”
The question is loaded—testing me, though Malikai probably doesn’t realize how transparent his protective instincts are. I respect it. The kind of brother who flies across the country to check on his sister deserves my honesty.
“Guardian HRS offered something the military couldn’t.” I’m hyperaware of Malia’s tension beside me. “The chance to make a real difference without political constraints. To protect people directly.”
As if on cue, Malia shifts, her silky thigh brushing against my leg. The movement draws my focus like a laser, but I maintain eye contact with her brother.
“The team here… They’re family. We look out for our own.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on Malia. Her breath catches slightly, but her brother just nods.
“Family is everything,” he agrees, raising his glass again.
I join the toast, letting my fingers brush Malia’s wrist as she reaches for her glass. Her pulse races under my touch—a silent confirmation that despite her outward composure, she feels every point of contact between us just as intensely as I do.
Malikai, on the other hand, is anything but subtle. His gaze sharpens as he watches the exchange, his protective instincts kicking into high gear. He sets his glass down carefully, leaning back against the bench with a calculated ease that doesn’t fool me.
“How long were you in?”
“Ten years.” I keep my tone neutral, though my grip on the stem of my wine glass tightens just enough to betray the weight of those years.
Malikai’s gaze sharpens, his brow drawing tight as his fingers tap a slow rhythm against the table. The gears in his head are turning—ten years in the Air Force, a few years with the Guardians. His eyes dart to Malia, then back to me, the unspoken calculation heavy in the air.
I hold back a grin, keeping my expression neutral. He’s sizing me up, weighing the age gap between me and his little sister while trying to decide whether he should trust me.
His lips twitch, but the calculating look doesn’t leave his face.
Malia shifts beside me, clearly uncomfortable with the exchange, but I stay where I am, my expression calm. Let him do the math. Let him analyze.
I’m not going anywhere.
“That’s a long time, and thank you for your service.” Malikai hums thoughtfully, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the tablecloth.
“Didn’t feel that way some days,” I reply with a faint smile, deflecting just enough to keep the details vague. “Felt like it was the blink of an eye.”
Malia shifts slightly beside me, her discomfort obvious as she glances between us.
“Malikai, seriously,” she interjects, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Stop.”
I don’t mind the scrutiny. Let him dig.
“Stop, what?” He turns his attention to his sister.
“Stop grilling him.”
“Just asking questions, which I wouldn’t have to do if my sister told me she was dating someone, and a Guardian at that.” His eyes light up with interest.
Malia shifts beside me, her silky thigh brushing against me. The contact sends heat coursing through my veins, but I maintain steady eye contact with her brother.
“The success comes from specialized training and precise execution.” I trace a thin scar along my forearm, drawing both siblings’ attention. “Take a mission in Myanmar. Two hostiles had a civilian trapped in a market stall. Traditional military response would have meant a full tactical team, high risk of collateral damage. We were surgical—precise.”
“How do you train for situations like that?” Malikai adjusts his glasses, leaning in. “The variables must be astronomical.”
“Every situation is fluid.” My thumb absently strokes the scar, aware of Malia’s gaze on the movement. “You learn to read micro-expressions and predict movement patterns. The human body telegraphs intent if you know what to watch for.”
“Like quantum variables,” Malikai muses, swirling his wine. “Each action creates ripples of possibility.”
“Exactly.” I catch Malia’s subtle shift closer to me and the barely perceptible increase in her breathing. “I noted a slight muscle twitch in the primary target’s forearm. Told me exactly when he’d reach for his weapon.”
“And the civilian?” Malia’s voice comes soft, concerned. She’s barely spoken since the wine arrived.
“Walked away without a scratch.” I turn toward her, letting my thigh press more firmly against hers under the table. I let my voice drop lower, more intimate. “Protection is always the priority. Whether it’s a stranger in a foreign market or someone closer.”
“I take it Guardian HRS recruits heavily from the military?” Malikai asks.
“Guardian’s recruitment process is what sets us apart,” I explain, my voice steady, my thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against Malia’s knee beneath the table. “But yes. We mostly come out of the military.”
Malia’s breath catches just slightly—a sound so faint I doubt Malikai notices, but I hear it loud and clear.
The conversation flows naturally from there, giving me ample opportunity to tease Malia.
Under the table, I place my hand just above her knee. Her muscles jump beneath my palm, but she maintains her composure, though a slight flush creeps up her neck.
“We look beyond military background, beyond physical capabilities. It’s about instinct, adaptability, and…” I pause, increasing the pressure of my touch, feeling her pulse quicken under my thumb, “…knowing how to read people. Knowing what they need.”
My words are directed at Malikai, but the way Malia shifts in her seat, the slight tremor in her posture, tells me she knows exactly who I’m really talking to.
“The psychological component must be fascinating,” Malikai says, oblivious, as he picks up the wine bottle and refills our glasses with practiced ease. “How do you quantify something as intangible as instinct?”
I let my hand glide a fraction higher along Malia’s thigh. My movements are slow enough to appear casual but deliberate enough that her thigh tenses beneath my touch.
“You don’t quantify it.” I keep my tone even. My gaze flicks briefly to her before landing on Malikai again. “You watch, listen, pay attention to the details most people overlook. It’s about understanding someone’s needs before they can articulate them themselves.”
Malia swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. Her composure is slipping. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“It takes practice, doesn’t it?” Malikai leans back in his chair, studying me, his curiosity still rooted in professionalism. “Knowing how to read someone like that.”
I shrug, my thumb grazing the sensitive skin above Malia’s knee. “Practice. And patience. You learn to notice the little things… Like when someone’s holding back or waiting for permission to let go.”
Malia’s breath hitches, and I slowly sip my wine, letting the silence between my words hang heavy. I slide my hand up another inch, feeling Malia’s sharp intake of breath.
“It takes careful observation.” The silk of her dress is cool beneath my palm, a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. “You can train someone to shoot, to fight, but that sixth sense that warns you when something’s off? That’s innate.”
My fingers curve around the soft skin of her inner thigh, sliding higher. I keep my movements deliberate and slow.
Her fork clatters against fine china, the sound sharp in the intimate murmur of the restaurant. Malia stiffens, her breath catching. Her knuckles turn white as she clutches her napkin.
Malikai glances up, his brow furrowing slightly in concern. “You okay?” he asks, his gaze flicking between us.
Malia forces a tight smile. Her voice strained but steady enough to pass. “Just fine.”
I let my thumb graze closer to where she’s hyperaware of every point of contact. Her pulse hammers beneath her skin, a silent confession she can’t control.
Malikai, oblivious, resumes his conversation. I sit back, sipping my wine, letting a faint smile play at the corner of my lips. This game is far from over.
“Sorry,” Malia breathes, her voice slightly unsteady. “Just—clumsy.”
“No harm done.” I squeeze gently, a silent warning against further disruptions. “As I was saying, it’s about reading situations.” My thumb resumes its lazy circles. “Knowing when to advance and when to hold.”
I maintain eye contact with him while my hand slides a fraction higher, feeling the tremor that runs through Malia’s body. My fingers curve around her inner thigh. One more inch and I’ll know whether she followed my instructions about not wearing panties.
“That’s pretty cool.” Malikai’s enthusiasm is genuine, and his scientific mind is engaged.
The waiter approaches with our appetizer, and I reluctantly withdraw my hand from beneath the table, keeping my thigh firmly pressed against Malia’s. Her breathing has quickened, and her chest rises and falls in short, controlled bursts. I hide my smile behind my wine glass, knowing she’s fighting to maintain her composure.
This dance of control and restraint, of pushing boundaries while maintaining the appearance of propriety—is its own kind of mission. And, like every mission, timing is everything. I reach for the burrata, already planning my next move.
“The burrata here is exceptional.” I pierce the creamy center, watching it spill across the plate. White against red, like secrets bleeding into the open. My hand returns to Malia’s thigh as I offer the first bite to her. “You should try it.”
Beneath the table, my fingers drift upward, slow and deliberate, tracing the edge of her thigh. Malia stiffens beside me, her breath hitching so softly only I can hear it.
Her fork hovers mid-air, her knuckles tight around the handle as she tries to maintain her composure. Her shoulders shift, a subtle attempt to steady herself, but her thighs clench tighter around my hand, trapping me in place. I don’t move—don’t need to. The warmth of her skin and the shallow rise and fall of her chest tell me everything I need to know.
The waiter arrives to take our dinner orders, providing a momentary distraction. Malia’s relief is palpable as I withdraw my hand to gesture at the menu.
“The veal saltimbocca is their specialty.” I maintain my composure as Malia shifts restlessly beside me.
“The wine would pair perfectly with that,” Malikai notes, oblivious to his sister’s growing distress. “The Brunello’s tannins…”
While he orders, my hand heads back under the table, where it slides further up Malia’s thigh. There, I encounter the whisper of silk and lace.
So she didn’t follow my instructions about the panties? My fingers flex against her skin—a promise of consequences to come.
Malia reaches for her water glass, nearly knocking it over. I steady her hand, using the moment of contact to lean close. “Careful,” I whisper against her ear, my breath stirring her hair. “We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”
The flush creeping up her neck tells me she understands the double meaning. Under the table, my fingers continue their torturous exploration, mapping the boundary between silk and skin. Each touch reminds me of my earlier promises and what awaits her after dinner.
The real question is: how long can she maintain her composure under my relentless assault?
“Enough about me. Your background in quantum mechanics is fascinating,” I redirect the conversation, letting Malikai’s enthusiasm for his work distract from his sister’s heightened state. “I’d love to hear more about your work.”
My hand returns to a more respectable position on Malia’s knee as our entrees arrive. The rich aroma of herbs and wine sauce fills the air, providing a welcome shift in focus. I notice how her fingers tremble slightly as she arranges her napkin.
“I love the parallels between our work.” Malikai leans forward, glasses glinting in the candlelight.
“How so?”
“Well, you mentioned it yourself. In both fields, the mere presence of an operative—or observer—fundamentally changes the dynamics of a situation. I find that fascinating.”
I set my knife down deliberately. “I suppose so. Success requires absolute focus, unwavering commitment, and…” I meet Malia’s eyes briefly, “complete dedication to the objective.”
I maintain perfect composure as I cut into my veal, though my awareness of Malia never wavers. Her breathing has steadied somewhat, but the tension in her shoulders tells me she’s far from relaxed.
Good.
Hot and bothered is exactly where I want her.
I catch every flicker of her micro-expressions, every subtle hint of the war she’s waging within herself. Tonight’s dinner is its own tactical operation, and so far, I’m dominating the battlefield.
“Malia mentioned you get to work with some of the best tech?”
“The latest advancements in tactical gear have revolutionized our approach to hostage extraction.” I keep my tone steady as Malia’s fork freezes halfway to her lips. My hand rests lightly on her thigh, unmoving, but the tension in her body is a silent, charged undercurrent. “The technology allows us to protect our teams while minimizing civilian casualties.”
“The applications must be extensive,” Malikai says, leaning forward, his wineglass forgotten. “Especially in urban environments where traditional tactical gear might be too conspicuous.”
He’s doing it again—redirecting the focus back to me. His curiosity is too sharp, slicing through the conversation with questions too precise to be casual. He hasn’t mentioned his work once for someone with a background in quantum engineering and fusion reactions.
Instead, he keeps circling back—probing the Guardians, the scope of our operations. His words pull at loose threads, always leading back to what I do. But there’s another omission, glaring now that I notice it.
What about Malia? Not one word about her work at The Guardian Grind, no interest in how she’s carved out her place there.
A low hum of conversation fills the restaurant, the occasional clink of silverware against plates punctuating the air. A faint aroma of garlic and charred meat lingers, mingling with the sharper tang of Malikai’s wine as he swirls it, his movements almost too deliberate.
“Is that all you do?” His voice is casual, but his eyes stay locked on mine, the kind of focus that isn’t just polite. It’s calculated.
“What do you mean?”
“Rescue hostages? Does Guardian HRS ever provide security work?” His question hangs, laced with just enough curiosity to mask whatever’s driving this line of questioning.
I lean back slightly, letting the faint creak of the booth accompany my deliberate calm. Across from me, Malikai’s jaw tightens ever so slightly, his polished exterior showing its first real crack. I glance at Malia—she’s quiet, her fingers curled around her fork, but her chest’s quick rise and fall tells me she’s not as unaffected as she appears.
I keep my expression neutral, letting the weight of his question settle before I respond. “As a matter of fact, we do.” My voice is steady, even as my thoughts churn. “Is that something you’re interested in?”
Malikai’s lips press into a thin line before relaxing into a faint, polite smile. His shoulders shift, the movement too casual to be unintentional. He leans back, resting one arm on the booth, swirling his wine again. The soft slosh of liquid against glass feels louder in the momentary pause.
“Let’s just say my work isn’t without its challenges.” His words are carefully chosen, each one measured. He glances at Malia, a fleeting look that gives nothing away before his gaze settles back on me. “Security is always a concern.”
His tone is light, his expression calm, but his fingers tighten slightly on the stem of his glass. A subtle tell, but enough to set my instincts on edge. Whatever he’s fishing for, it goes deeper than curiosity—and Malia’s silence only deepens the unease clawing at my gut.
My grip on her thigh tightens slightly, more out of instinct than intent. She shifts, her body stiffening under my touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Security’s a universal concern,” I say, matching his measured tone. “But you seem particularly interested in the overlap between my work and your—challenges. Is there something I should know?”
Malikai offers a tight smile, but his eyes betray him. “No. No. Nothing pressing. Just professional curiosity.”
His words might say one thing, but the unease beneath them tells another story entirely. I’m starting to wonder how far this curiosity extends—and what it might cost Malia.
The cream sauce on my veal is growing cold as I process what Malikai isn’t saying. His questions about Guardian security services nag at my instincts, but his phone buzzes before I can probe further.
“Excuse me.” He glances at the screen, a flicker of tension crossing his face. “I need to take this. Work never sleeps.”
Malia rounds on me the moment he steps away, her voice low but sharp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Enjoying dinner with my girlfriend and getting to know her brother.” I take a deliberate sip of wine, savoring her indignation.
“I am not your girlfriend,” she hisses, though the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. “And you need to stop …”
“Stop, what?” I lean closer, letting my breath stir the hair by her ear. “Stop noticing how you shiver every time I touch you? Stop watching your pulse race when I get too close?”
“This isn’t funny, Walt.” Her fingers clench around her napkin. “My brother is right there.”
“Your brother is conveniently occupied.” My hand finds her knee again. “Which gives us time to discuss your—disobedience.”
Her eyes widen. “My what?”
“I believe my instructions about tonight’s attire were quite clear.” I let my thumb trace slow circles on her skin. “Yet here you are, wearing panties. We’ll have to address that later.”
“You’re impossible.” But there’s a tremor in her voice that has nothing to do with anger.
Through the restaurant’s front windows, Malikai paces on the sidewalk, one hand pressed to his ear. His gestures are agitated, shoulders tight with tension. Something about that call has him rattled.
“He’s been acting strange all evening,” Malia murmurs, following my gaze. The fight drains from her posture, replaced by concern.
“I noticed.” My tactical mind kicks in, cataloging details—his pointed questions about Guardian security, his reluctance to discuss his work, and now this call. “Has he mentioned any problems at work?”
“No, but…” She bites her lip, uncertain.
I catch movement at the door. “We’ll finish this discussion later.” My voice drops lower. “And believe me, we have a lot to discuss.”
Malikai returns, his polished demeanor slightly cracked. A bead of sweat traces his temple despite the restaurant’s cool air.
“Everything alright?” Malia asks.
“Just a minor lab issue.” He forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing to worry about.” But as he reaches for his wine, his hand trembles ever so slightly.
My instincts, honed by years of reading subtle tells, ring alarm bells. Whatever that call was about, it isn’t a minor lab issue. What kind of trouble has Malia’s brilliant brother gotten himself into?