Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Lyra
“Who am I?” I force a small laugh, the kind that shatters the tension his question leaves hanging heavy in the air between us. “An overworked graphic designer with a deadline looming and a string of bad luck this morning. That’s the whole story, Stryker.”
The words slip out easy enough, practiced from years of dodging questions, but inside, my nerves are twisting tight, knotting up like old rope.
Dad’s voice echoes in the back of my mind: Keep them guessing, Lyra. Never let them get too close. More than ever, I have to remember this.
I tilt my head to the side, forcing a casual shrug as I flip the focus back to him. “Who are you, anyway?” Not that I need to know. I’ve avoided wanna-be heroes like him my whole life.
But the truth is, I don’t want to know anything else about him.
He’s already seen more than I’m comfortable with. And that makes him dangerous.
Interestingly he doesn’t answer me. So I try to lighten the mood. “Are you always charging in to save damsels in distress?”
His lips curve slowly, and that grin—oh my God, his grin—lands like a sucker punch right to my gut.
It cracks through the hard, sharp edges of his face, lighting up his dark eyes with a spark that’s equal parts mischief and something warmer, deeper.
My knees go trembly in a way they have no business doing, and I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
Heat flushes up my cheeks in a betraying rush.
His reaction has undone me, peeling back the layers I’ve spent years building to keep people at arm’s length.
“When I have the chance.” His voice is low and rumbling, like distant thunder rolling in over the mountains. “But I’ve rarely seen anyone outside of a trained agent handle themselves like you did out there. Impressive, Allie. You’ve got moves.”
I know what he’s doing. Circling back to his original question, using a different strategy.
Still, even though I hate it, his compliment lands warmer than it should, settling in my chest like a spark I don’t want to snuff out. I hate it—hate how it makes me want to lean in just a little, to let him see a glimpse of the real me beneath the aliases and armor.
But mostly I hate how it stirs an emotion I’ve buried deep, a longing for connection I’ve denied myself for so long.
Knowing I have to keep my guard up, I respond in kind. “Do you have a hero complex, Stryker?” Damn it. My tone comes out lighter than I intend.
“Much worse has been said about me.” He shrugs.
“Are you attempting to save the world from itself?”
For a moment, he’s silent, but the air between us is charged.
“I know it’s not possible, but I need to do my part.” He frowns as if debating whether to go on.
Is he being genuine? Or calculating? If he tells me something, will I feel compelled to share in return? Quid pro quo?
“I’ve seen enough bad days turn into worse ones. I’m recently back from a job—overseas, the kind that’s messy and sticks with you long after it’s over.” He pauses for a beat, his eyes going distant, like he’s seeing ghosts from whatever hell he just crawled out of.
In that moment, I realize he might be calculating, but he’s being genuine in his admission.
Quickly he seems to bring himself back to the present. But his eyes are haunted, making my heart skip its next beat. Whatever I’ve seen in my life, he’s seen worse.
“I don’t like bullies. And whoever wants you, it’s not random bad luck.” His tone is flat, leaving me no room for argument. “Let me help, Allie.”
The offer hangs between us, making the atmosphere pulse. And the edge of steel in his eyes makes me pause longer than I should.
He’s sharing a piece of himself, a rare vulnerability from a man who moves like a weapon, and it tugs at me in ways I don’t want to admit. Missions. Shadows. A life spent one step ahead of danger, just like mine.
Instinct urges me to insist that I don’t need his help, that I’ve been dodging hunters and ghosts since I was old enough to pick a lock.
But the image of my trashed apartment flashes in my mind—the slashed cushions, the scattered books, the hooded guy’s hot breath on my neck as he clawed for the locket.
At this moment, my options are razor-thin, and this condo of his feels like a fortress, walls thick enough to buy me time.
Finally, aware of Stryker studying me, waiting for an answer, I offer my most practiced, society-ready smile. My mother taught me well, and the act served me well as a young adult when I accompanied my dad to galas.
No one suspected that the supposed philanthropist was there to size up their priceless gems. He’d grin and write checks while his eyes danced with the thrill of knowing he’d soon be in a widow’s bedroom, stroking her diamonds and pearls.
“Allie?”
Stryker tips his head to one side, bringing me back to reality.
“I’m serious. I want to help you.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes narrow a little.
Noticing that I haven’t given him an actual answer? Just in case, I offer a distraction. “I appreciate you bringing me here.”
He nods, and his grin fades into a softer curve that makes my stomach flip. “As if you had any other choice.” His gaze lingers on me, warm and assessing, and my pulse becomes a traitorous rhythm I can’t control. Damn him and that look.
“Who are those men?”
“I don’t know.” That, at least, is the complete truth. I have guesses, but am I right?
He sighs. “When you’re ready to talk…”
I won’t be. Not ever. There’s too much at stake.
“You hungry?”
His question surprises me, but suddenly I realize I am. Since I worked on a project until late into the night, I don’t remember if I ate dinner.
Because he asked, I’m aware of a hollow, insistent gnaw deep inside, probably from the adrenaline dump. Now I’m a little shaky and empty.
Even though it’s still morning, it’s already been a hell of a day.
“Breakfast?” Without waiting for a reply, he shifts into motion, grabbing his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world to take care of me. “I have a favorite place that delivers.” He shrugs. “Safer than risking a trip out right now.”
“You don’t have anything that we can make?”
He shakes his head. “As I said, I’ve been gone. Fridge and freezer need a restock.” He shrugs. “And so does the pantry. Noodles in there. Cans of soup. Things like that.”
“So no eggs? Bacon?”
“No.”
I sigh. “In that case, your restaurant sounds good. As long as you let me pay.”
“Not a chance.”
“Stryker…”
“Not open to argument. We can go hungry, or you can let me treat you to crème br?lée French toast with bourbon-vanilla drizzle and the fluffiest scrambled eggs you’ve ever tasted.”
Crème br?lée French toast with bourbon-vanilla drizzle?
Oh my God. It sounds like heaven, and suddenly I begin to salivate.
How does he know my weaknesses? Carbs and more carbs. Just enough protein to balance it out.
As if he knows he’s got me, he flashes a slow grin. “Bacon on the side?”
My betraying tummy rumbles.
“One bite of their special and you’ll believe in second chances.”
That’s something I’ll never believe in.
“Say yes, Allie.”
The man knows how to lead me into temptation. “How about I buy dinner later? Or we order in some groceries, and I can cook for—”
“Cook?” He interrupts before I’ve even finished speaking. “That’s a deal.”
We both grin.
He taps the screen of his device with quick efficiency as he scrolls through an app.
Moments later, he glances up. “Do you want a coffee? Or whatever that weird thing was that you were drinking earlier.”
Since he drinks his caffeine straight up, my order probably does sound ridiculous. “If they have it. Chai. With oat milk.”
“How is that even a thing?” Though he winces a little, he returns to his phone, swipes, then presses. “Iced or hot?”
Generally at this time of day, I’d switch to an iced drink. But I’m strangely chilled. “Hot. Please.”
A few moments later, he looks at me again. “Anything else?”
“It’s probably enough food for a few days.”
“Yeah. They’re known for their portions.”
That handled, he slides his phone onto the quartz island. “What’s your specialty? Cooking wise?”
Unable to help myself, I grin. “We just ordered breakfast, and you’re worrying about dinner?”
“A man needs sustenance if he’s going to be his best.” Purposefully he sweeps his gaze over me, and I go molten from the inside out.
To cover my reaction, I quickly look away.
Then, pushing back my hair to cover my reaction, I move toward the kitchen. “Is it okay if I have a look around? See what we have to work with?”
He steps aside. “Help yourself.”
I brush by him, hyperaware of his clean scent and the overwhelming size of his lean body. Just how many hours a day does he work out?
My insides are a mess by the time I’m in the relative safety of his kitchen.
I’ve never poked around in a man’s cupboards before—unless I was checking for hiding places.
I’m always surprised by how clever people think they are, tucking valuables inside old tins or sliding cash inside cereal boxes with the bags barely split open.
Once, I found diamonds inside a canister of powdered creamer.
Vacuum-sealed in plastic and everything.
There’s nothing like that here.
But it turns out I learn a lot by opening doors and looking at his mostly empty box of tea, the oversize plastic jug of strong, dark-roast coffee that’s more than half-gone. There are a few boxes of pasta along with two jars of marinara. And half a dozen selections of soup.
There are no spices. No flour. No oils. Nothing that says he ever really cooks here.
It’s utilitarian. Precise. Everything chosen for function, not comfort. This isn’t a home. It’s a base of operations. Not that I hadn’t guessed that just from walking in.
The fridge is equally sparse. Butter. Ketchup. Mayonnaise that could have been there a decade ago.
Thinking, I drum my fingers on my thigh. The weather is cool, and he strikes me as a hearty eater. “How about I order some groceries for delivery? I’m thinking we could have stew? That way you’ll have leftovers. Maybe a crusty bread.”
“Sold.”
“That was fast.” I glance at him. He’s grinning like I’ve offered him the best gift ever.
The genuineness of his reaction catches me off guard. It’s as if I’m seeing another level of him, a deeper one, not just the badass operative, but the man who enjoys others thinking of him.
“Tell me what you need.” He slides onto a barstool, and I remain where I am, wanting to keep some distance between us.
“I can order from my phone. After all, I’m paying.”
“Never agreed to that.”
“Stryker—”
“I have a standing order of the things I need. And as you said, there will be leftovers.”
Closing my eyes, I exhale in a deeply controlled way. Why did I think I could win an argument with him?
“Allie? What kind of meat?”
As I list the ingredients I’ll need, he finds them and adds them to his cart. “Anything else? Drinks you like? Coffee?” He tips his head to one side. “Or that chai stuff? Snacks?”
I won’t be in Colorado long enough to bother. “Nothing. Thanks.”
When my heart rate has returned to normal and he’s busy completing the purchase, I glance around his place.
The condo’s details start to sink in deeper now that the immediate danger has passed.
I thought the place was as unremarkable as mine. But it’s not.
While it is utilitarian, it’s also high end but in an understated way. The counters are gleaming, obviously easy to maintain. He has a Bonds coffee maker. I’d have to lift some expensive gems to pay for a machine like that.
His furnishings are clean lines and wood, maybe Scandinavian.
He has a massive painting on the main living-room wall.
There are subtle luxuries that whisper of success.
Much sooner than I expect, a buzzer ricochets through the quiet. I tense, moving my hand toward my Glock out of habit.
Stryker checks a feed on his phone. Nodding to himself, he opens the door and accepts a bag and the tray holding our drinks.
He unpacks everything at the counter, steam rising in fragrant clouds. I swear I smell the scent of sugar and spice.
Instead of us eating from the containers, he transfers everything to plates.
“What can I do to help?”
“Silverware? Salt and pepper?”
How many years has it been since I shared a meal with a man?
Intimacy lowers emotional walls.
And with as considerate and drop-dead gorgeous as Stryker is, I can’t afford a momentary lapse.
We settle at the island. He takes the barstool next to me, leaving space but not a lot of distance.
He’s got a massive steak to go along with eggs and nothing else. No carbs. Which, judging by his hard, lean body, isn’t a surprise.
God. Why am I noticing that?
Determinedly shaking my head, I focus on my own plate. My French toast is dusted with powdered sugar and sliced strawberries. There’s also thick-cut bacon that’s perfectly cooked and curled at the edges. The scrambled eggs are as fluffy as he promised.
I take my first bite and close my eyes in ecstasy.
The inside of my French toast is soft and custard-like with just enough bourbon in the drizzle to make me think I’m going to swoon.
“Oh my heaven.” It slips out before I can stop it. I lift my fork again, needing another taste. “This shouldn’t be allowed.”
His lips twitch. “Told you.”
It’s sweet. Warm. Comforting in a way I hadn’t expected—like a warm blanket I didn’t know I missed.
Stryker doesn’t push conversation at first, just eats—efficient and quiet, like he’s used to silence and knows how to fill it without crowding me.
When I reach for my chai, he glances over. “Still weird,” he mutters, sipping his oversize coffee.
“You drink liquid asphalt,” I counter.
His grin returns, slow and easy, melting me. “That’s fair.”
We eat a little more. There’s another stretch of quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s…companionable. Like we’ve done this before. Like this isn’t the first morning after a near-death encounter with a man I barely know.
When I’ve really started to relax, my phone chimes.
I freeze. My hand hovers over the fork.
Stryker’s gaze sharpens immediately. Watchful. Ready.
But it’s just a client. Checking on a project like nothing’s wrong. Because in their world, deadlines don’t wait for my personal chaos to clear.
“Work?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a job you need to go to?”
“I’m self-employed.” Quite a technicality. “I work from home.”
“And you don’t have your computer.”
Of course I have a backup, just in case. But I can’t get to it without Stryker finding out I also have a bug-out bag very much like his. There’s no way he won’t ask questions about that.
“Was it taken during the break-in?” he asks.
I nod slowly.
That narrows his gaze.
Instead of answering, I slide off the stool to carry my plate to the sink.
“Want to tell me those guys are after?”