Surrender to Me (Hawkeye #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lyra

Denver, Colorado

The door to the quirky coffee shop creaks open with a familiar jangle, the sound swallowed by the warmth and chatter.

Denver’s early September air has been nipping at my nose and ears, teasing with a promise of autumn, but the leaves are still stubbornly green.

Once I’m inside, comforting scents hit me—espresso and steamed milk, a curl of cinnamon, a whisper of vanilla from someone’s scone.

It’s normal. A reassuring lie I wear as easily as lip balm and borrowed names.

I pull my hoodie closer, like the motion can somehow shield against the weight of the locket that’s pressed against my chest. The metal is a teardrop shape, nothing remarkable.

The barista waves as I approach, grinning wide beneath a glinting nose ring and a mop of curls streaked purple. “Hey, Allie!”

The name makes me blink.

Allie.

For a second, I forget it’s the name I go by, and I almost correct her—before I remember.

Lyra is dead. Dead and buried beneath a pile of aliases and ashes and a secret no one can ever know about.

I force a smile for the ever-chipper barista. “Morning, Tanja.”

She’s already scribbling on a to-go cup. “Chai with oat?”

I nod. “You know me.”

Another lie. And God, I hate how natural it’s become.

She doesn’t blink.

To her, I’m just Allie. A graphic designer. Chai drinker. A regular person out for a morning run.

She doesn’t know I’m watching everyone around me, looking for anything out of the ordinary, always on guard. And she sure doesn’t know I’m the daughter of the man who pulled off the infamous Hollingsworth Collection heist.

I pay cash and make my way to the far end of the counter, brushing past a chalkboard that reads “Pumpkin Spice Returns! Let’s Get Basic.”

How is coffee made with real pumpkin supposed to be basic? The irony makes me grin.

After one of the baristas calls out my name, letting me know my drink is ready, I snag my cup, then claim a small table in the corner. It’s my usual perch. Half in shadow. Near the windows, but not visible to someone passing by. The seat that lets me see everything without being seen.

Outside, Wash Park stretches across the street—lawns damp from the overnight sprinklers, a golden retriever bounding toward a Canada goose with more enthusiasm than skill. A couple jogs past, laughing, hands brushing. Not watching their backs. Not keeping secrets.

For a moment, I envy them—the unthinking intimacy, the kind that doesn’t come with consequences.

Then I drag myself back.

That’s not for me.

Not in this lifetime.

I sip my chai, the burn of clove and ginger dragging me back into my body. Back into now.

A man from a nearby table stands, drops his to-go cup in the compostable bin, then opens the door.

A small gust of chilly air blows in.

Then something changes in the air—like the second before a thunderstorm when the pressure drops. Every nerve in my body goes on alert.

And in that moment, my morning fractures.

As he leaves, another man enters, casual in a lethal kind of way.

Instantly I size him up. He’s an inch or two over six feet. Long-sleeve black T-shirt. Worn jeans. Combat boots. Like he didn’t plan a single thing he’s wearing, but it’s all exactly right. Broad shoulders. Clean lines. Calm, coiled danger.

He closes the door behind him and scans the shop once—once—and that’s all it takes for the hair on my neck to lift. Not fear. Something worse.

Recognition.

Not because I’ve seen him before. I haven’t. I’d remember a man like him. But because I know what he is. And I’ve been taught to recognize the signs in the way he moves. The precision in his stillness.

He’s not a cop.

He’s something far more frightening.

A highly trained covert operative of some kind, probably. Maybe even black ops. And there’s no question he’s dangerous.

He’s the kind of man I fear most—one who doesn’t just uncover secrets. He weaponizes them.

He heads toward the counter, not looking at me. Which is worse than if he was. Because now I can’t stop watching him. The way he rakes a hand through his dark, mussed hair. The way he thanks Tanja with a nod that somehow feels intimate. The way she blushes.

Of course she blushes.

I look down, suddenly annoyed at myself. I don’t get to be a girl noticing a hot guy in a coffee shop. I don’t get casual flings or forehead kisses or tangled sheets and too much laughter.

I get shadows.

I get lies.

Still… When he turns with his drip coffee—black—and heads in my direction, my pulse goes staccato—skipping, stammering, sprinting.

I tell myself he’s not coming to see me. He’s just passing by.

Until he doesn’t.

He stops. One table away.

Shit.

My heart seizes.

And for a second, we just look at each other.

His eyes are dark. Not black but close. Eyes that have seen things and didn’t blink. Eyes that search me like I’m a mystery he wants to solve.

“Morning.”

Just that. But the word is deep, resonant, hitting me like gravel dragged over velvet.

My voice is steady. “Morning.”

He gestures to the chair across from me. “This seat taken?”

It should be. Self-preservation instinct is screaming at me to say yes. I need to shut him down immediately, turn away, run for the safety of cold sidewalks and late deadlines, and the rules I set for myself when I buried Lyra.

But I don’t.

I nod.

He sits, one long leg stretched out, hand curled around his coffee cup like it might tell him something. Silence blooms between us. Not awkward. Intentional. Weighted. He’s not trying to fill it. He’s reading it.

“Your cup says Allie,” he says.

He notices everything.

After blinking, the skills I learned from the cradle kick in. I know how to outsmart men like him.

I give him a smile. Slow. Easy. Not too easy. “That’s me.”

He nods once. “Nice to meet you, Allie.”

He doesn’t offer his name. I don’t ask since I don’t need that kind of intimacy in my life.

After today, I’ll never see him again.

Because now I need to find another coffee shop, another park for my daily run.

Across the street, a kid lets go of a balloon, and it lifts into the ash-and-cotton sky like something sacred. I want to follow it.

But I stay right here.

With the man whose presence feels threatening. And, for some godforsaken reason, like home.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I look down.

The chai is still warm between my hands, and I take a drink to break his momentary hold on me.

I can’t taste the spice anymore. Not with him so near, all quiet confidence and unreadable intentions. Every molecule in my body is alert, watching him, and I force my eyes away.

I shouldn’t still be sitting here.

“I need to…” I start, but I don’t finish it. What the hell am I telling him for? I don’t owe him an excuse. And giving one would mean admitting this was something. That it mattered.

I set the cup down. My fingers are too steady. That’s always the first sign I’m lying. Not to him. To myself.

The man inclines his head, but he doesn’t utter a word.

Just drinks his coffee and watches.

Not able to deal with this uncertainty a moment longer, I stand, the scrape of the chair legs impossibly loud in the cocoon of indie music and hissing milk steam. My thighs brush the edge of the table as I step back.

He’s too close. Everything in this damn place feels too close right now. Or maybe it’s just because the dark-haired stranger has unnerved me.

As I pass, he nods once.

A silent dismissal? Or is it an acknowledgment? I can’t tell which.

I cross the shop, careful not to look back. Not until I reach the door. Then I glance over my shoulder.

He’s still watching me.

I press a hand against the glass as I push through, the bell overhead giving a single jangle.

Chilly air rushes over me, sharper than before, catching the edges of my sleeves and biting at my collarbone. The chai did nothing to warm me. And neither did sitting across from that man in silence.

Across the street, the park glistens in the weak sunlight.

Runners are making their rounds, a group of three women walk quickly, laughing and talking like the world hasn’t cracked open beneath my feet.

At the light, I cross the street, my pace steady—but not relaxed. Each step is deliberate. Each movement measured, my head high so I notice everything, even the shadows.

The locket presses harder against my skin, as if it knows. Not what just happened, but what it could mean. That the stranger saw more than he should have.

As if it registered the weight of his gaze. The way he watched me like he recognized something I thought I’d buried.

I pull out the box for my earbuds and then insert each one.

On my music app, I select my usual binaural beats, then turn the volume almost as low as it will go. There’s a slight noise coming from them, just enough to make people think I’m listening to something. What I’m really doing is discouraging people from interacting with me.

Still, warning prickles between my shoulder blades.

At the edge of the park, I pause to glance back.

There’s no one but early joggers and a dog walker with a mess of tangled leashes.

But up ahead there’s a man wearing a gray hoodie, leaning against a flower shop. He’s focused on his phone screen and nothing else.

My imagination must be playing tricks on me.

But with the interaction at the coffee shop and the way the barista greeted me so warmly, I feel like I’m not invisible anymore.

I look around again. Gray Hoodie Guy is gone.

No one is watching or following.

Everything’s calm…

Too calm.

There’s one thing I know for sure. That’s exactly when things go to hell.

And within thirty seconds, it does.