22. Sean
SEAN
Bailey barely touches her dinner. The plate sits in front of her, vegetables going cold, grilled chicken untouched, the fork lying beside it like she’s forgotten what it’s for.
She keeps pressing the heel of her hand against her temple as though she can physically hold herself together if she presses hard enough.
Jessica offered to stick around for when the kids get back, but Bailey sent her home, giving her paid vacation time in the interim. “You deserve a break from all of this too,” she said.
I wish Bailey could have a break.
Now she’s on the phone, her voice brittle but steady, speaking to her lawyer about custody hearings, about restraining orders, about court dates that take weeks when we need minutes.
The kids’ passports are tucked into a manila envelope on the counter—she showed them to me when I asked, like proof she wasn’t careless—but passports aren’t the problem.
David doesn’t play by the rules. If he wants forged documents, he’ll get them. And once he has them, he could be on a plane out of LAX before any of us know what happened.
I pace the kitchen like a caged animal, the frustration in me mounting. I’ve led teams into combat zones with less stress than this. Bailey doesn’t eat, doesn’t even blink as she listens to her lawyer on the other end, nodding, muttering, “I understand. Yes. File it as soon as possible.”
She doesn’t see me staring. Doesn’t see how furious I am.
I can’t sit in this house and stew while she wastes away and David tightens his grip. I need to move. To act. To do something other than watch her crumble.
Huck and Wesley are in the den, murmuring over a security feed when I come in. They look up, both of them alert the second I enter. Wesley straightens, his hand lingering on the table like he can already sense what’s coming.
“Heading out. I’ve got personal business,” I tell them flatly. “You two stay here.”
Huck raises an eyebrow. “Personal business? Since when do you have personal business we don’t know about?”
They’ve been with me too long. They know every scar, every story, every goddamn ghost in my head. And normally, I’d let them shoulder it with me. Normally, I’d trust them with everything.
Not this time.
“Stay with her,” I order. My voice is clipped, sharp. “Guard the house. Don’t let David’s people get close.”
“Sean—” Wesley starts, but I cut him off.
“This isn’t a debate. Hold the line.”
Huck leans back slowly, arms crossed, a warning in the set of his shoulders. “You’re not thinking straight. Whatever this is, we should be in on it.”
I meet his eyes. “Hold. The. Line.”
For a second, I think Huck’s going to push back.
He’s stubborn enough to do it. But then he glances toward the kitchen, where Bailey’s voice drifts through the house like a ghost, fragile and breaking.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, and gives me the smallest of nods.
Wesley doesn’t like it, but he falls in line too.
I grab my keys. I don’t look back.
The drive feels longer than it should. I cut through Los Angeles traffic, my grip tight on the wheel, my head filled with noise. Bailey’s grimace. David’s smug grin. The memory of a desert halfway across the world where we were too late.
I promised myself once I left the SEALs that I’d never let personal feelings cloud my judgment. Distance keeps you alive. Distance keeps the mission clean. Keeps the client safe.
And yet here I am, every line blurred, every instinct screaming at me to protect her, to protect those kids, no matter the cost.
I force the memories back, but they claw their way up anyway.
Afghanistan, a compound swallowed in dust, a woman’s shrieks cut short by a gunshot.
Her body lying in the dirt because a private security team thought bedding the client was more important than keeping her safe.
My team and I had disobeyed orders, rushed in to stop it, but we were minutes too late. Minutes that cost lives.
That failure tattooed itself on my bones. I will not repeat it. If I keep letting myself want Bailey, I’ll miss something. I’ll slip. And then it won’t just be her heart at risk—it’ll be her life. The kids’ lives.
I can’t let that happen.
The city lights fall away as I drive north. Houses thin out. The road narrows, twisting into the dark like a vein. Pines line either side, black shadows against the dusky sky. Finally, I pull onto a dirt path, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
Chief’s place.
She owns twenty acres out here, land worth more than I’ve ever seen in a bank account. I’ve never asked how she got it. I don’t need to know. Some questions aren’t worth the bruises you’ll take for asking.
Her cottage sits at the end of the path, small and square, porch light glowing like an eye in the dark. I kill the engine and step out, boots sinking into the soft earth. The air smells of pine sap and smoke, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve stepped out of the world entirely.
I knock once.
The door creaks open. Chief fills the frame, her dark eyes taking me in, her posture as unyielding as ever. She’s barefoot, wearing sweats and a tank, but she still manages to look like she could dismantle me with a look.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
The question is simple. But it lands like a hammer.
I don’t bother easing into it. I don’t have the patience. “David’s trying to steal custody. Bailey’s falling apart. And it’s my fault.”
Her brows lift a fraction, but she doesn’t interrupt.
I keep going, words spilling like rounds from a rifle as I pace on the wood porch.
“I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve been objective, sharp.
Instead, I’ve been too close, too involved.
Wrapped up in what I feel for her. If I’d kept my distance, I would’ve seen David’s power play miles away.
But I didn’t. And now she’s paying for it. ”
Chief crosses her arms, tilting her head. She lets the silence stretch until it scrapes my nerves raw. Then she asks, calm but cutting, “So…what are you doing here?”
I blink. “I just told you.”
She shakes her head once. “No. You told me what went wrong. You told me what you feel. But what are you doing here ?”
Her meaning hits me square in the chest.
I’m standing in her doorway, confessing like a goddamn rookie, when I already know what needs to be done. “You’re right.”
Chief doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just stares until I take a step back.
And then I turn, stride to my truck, and fire it up again. There’s only one place left to go.
David Oswalt doesn’t live in the city anymore.
Not really. He owns a glass-walled penthouse downtown, but that’s just for show, somewhere to take starlets and investors and remind them he’s still important.
The real nest is tucked into the Hollywood Hills, a mansion half-hidden behind hedges and security gates.
I know the place well enough—I’ve watched his car roll out from behind those gates too many times already.
The truck growls as I climb the last stretch of road, headlights catching the metal sheen of a wrought iron fence.
Cameras blink red along the corners, their lenses tracking.
A guard in a suit—ill-fitting, cheap, not even buttoned properly—steps out from the guardhouse as I pull up.
He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.
Large, generic white guy, like a goon from central casting.
He holds up a hand. “Private property.”
I put the truck in park and lean an elbow out the window. “Then you should get better guards.”
He stiffens, squaring his shoulders like he might make something of it. But he’s young, early twenties, fresh out of some temp agency that barely trained him. His stance is wide but lazy, his jacket bunching where the holster is supposed to be. He’s not a threat.
“Tell David that Sean Roark is here.”
The name does what I expect. His eyes flicker, nervous. He knows who I am. Good. He hesitates, then pulls out a walkie and mutters something low. The gate whirs open.
The mansion rises ahead, all glass and stone, lights spilling across a manicured lawn. Two more guards wait by the door, both trying to look tougher than they are. Neither one knows how to stand still without fidgeting.
I step out, boots crunching on the gravel. The air smells of jasmine and chlorine from the pool somewhere out back. I keep my hands loose at my sides, but every nerve in me is alive, waiting for one of these idiots to test me.
David appears in the doorway before they can.
He’s dressed like he’s headed to a business dinner—dark slacks, open-collar shirt, a drink already in hand. The smirk on his face is practiced, polished for paparazzi, but up close it’s slick with grease.
“Well, well,” he drawls, sipping his whiskey. “Bailey’s watchdog.”
I take a step closer, the gravel crunching, and stop at the foot of his steps. “Don’t leave the city.”
His smirk falters for half a second before it twists into a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” My voice is steady, a low growl. “You so much as think about taking those kids across a border, I’ll find you. And when I do, there won’t be enough bodyguards in the world to save you.”
Behind him, the guards shift. I don’t even look their way. They’re background noise.
David chuckles again, but it’s tight now, brittle. “That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”
“It is a threat,” I say plainly. “You want to fight me in court, you go right ahead. But if either of those kids comes home with so much as a bruise, you won’t see another sunrise.”
The words hang in the air, heavy as lead.
One of the guards shifts forward, and I snap a look his way. Just a flicker of my eyes, enough to freeze him mid-step. He knows I see every weakness in his stance, every sloppy tell. He knows I could break him before he even drew his weapon.
David lifts his chin, trying to play offense. “You think you scare me, Roark? I’ve dealt with men tougher than you.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of, Davy. Never forget that.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Just the faint hum of crickets, the buzz of the security lights.
David swirls his drink, the amber liquid catching the glow. He tries to look unbothered, but the way his knuckles whiten on the glass gives him away.
“You lay one finger on Bailey or the kids, and it won’t be the law you’ll answer to. It’ll be me.” I hold his gaze long enough to make him twitch, and then I straighten, step back down the stairs, and turn.
The guards don’t move to stop me. They part like shadows as I walk past, my boots crunching deliberate against the gravel. When I reach the truck, I glance once in the rearview mirror. David is still standing there, drink in hand, smirk gone.
Good.