Chapter 19
WYATT
The only reason I got even a little sleep that night was because Sophie had agreed to dinner.
Not much sleep. Maybe three hours total, broken into fragments that left me feeling worse than if I'd just stayed awake staring at the ceiling, counting my failures. But it was something. Proof that some part of me still believed I could fix this, even if I had no idea how.
I kept replaying it on loop, stuck in the worst moments like my brain was punishing me.
The way she'd looked at me when she leaned in—trusting, open, brave.
The kiss—soft, deliberate, everything I wanted and nothing I deserved.
The moment I'd pulled away and watched hope drain from her eyes like I'd physically reached into her chest and crushed something fragile.
I had hurt her.
And the worst part? I'd done it on purpose. Told myself it was for her own good, that she deserved better than someone like me, that I was protecting her from the inevitable crash when she realized what I actually was.
Bullshit.
I was protecting myself. From the inevitable moment when she'd figure out what I was—broken, damaged, a coward who ran from everything that mattered—and leave, anyway. Better to control the ending than wait for it to happen on its own.
Better to end it now, before it got worse. Before I got used to the way she looked at me like I was worth something, like I mattered, like I could be the man she thought I was.
Except I couldn't end it.
Because she'd agreed to dinner.
And some pathetic part of me was already clinging to that like a lifeline I didn't deserve, like maybe I'd get one more chance to not fuck everything up.
I woke before dawn, the room still dark, my body coiled tight with tension that sleep hadn't even touched. I stared at the ceiling for maybe ten minutes, watching shadows shift as the city slowly woke up outside my window, listening to Charleston breathe, before giving up entirely.
I needed to run.
Needed to move. To push my body hard enough that my brain would shut the hell up for a few minutes and give me some peace from the constant loop of self-recrimination.
I changed into running gear—shorts, a faded Army PT shirt that had seen better days and too many deployments—laced up my running shoes, the only civilian pair I owned, and hit the pavement as the first hint of gray touched the eastern sky.
Charleston was quiet at this hour. Empty streets.
The city still sleeping off whatever the night before had brought—tourists stumbling home drunk, locals finishing late shifts, the normal chaos of life temporarily suspended.
Just me and the rhythm of my feet hitting concrete, the sound echoing off historic buildings that had witnessed centuries of people running from things they couldn't fix.
I tried to outrun my thoughts.
Didn't work. Never did.
They sat on me with every stride. Heavy. Relentless. Unforgiving.
Sophie's face when I'd stopped her hands, when I'd gently lowered them away from me like I was rejecting her instead of trying to save her from myself.
The way she'd wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces together, like I'd just confirmed every fear she'd ever had about being too much or not enough.
The quiet devastation in her voice when she said, "So, you don't see me like that. "
God.
Like I didn't see her. Like I hadn't been seeing her so clearly it terrified me, seeing every beautiful thing about her and knowing I'd only ruin it.
Like I hadn't been thinking about her constantly since the moment I saw her on that dock, like the last years had just been marking time until I could find my way back to her and fuck it all up again.
I pushed harder. Faster. Turned down streets without thinking, just running, letting my legs burn, letting my lungs scream for air, punishing my body because I couldn't punish the part of me that kept fucking everything up, that kept choosing fear over everything else.
Twelve miles later—maybe more, I'd stopped counting after eight—I dragged myself back to Mama P's, soaked through with sweat, gasping like I'd been drowning, legs shaking so bad I could barely climb the porch steps without gripping the railing.
At least, the demons in my head were quieter.
For now.
The light was on inside, warm and inviting through the lace curtains, promising coffee and food and normal things. Mama P's breakfast. The one bright spot in an otherwise shit morning. I could already smell it—coffee, something baking, biscuits maybe, the scent of butter and salt.
I pushed through the door, already thinking about sitting down before my legs gave out entirely—
And froze.
There was a man in the kitchen.
Suit. Perfectly pressed despite the early hour, like he'd walked out of a catalog for mediocre government employees. Standing across from Mama P, who was at the stove with a spatula in hand, giving him a look that could've stripped paint off walls, that could've withered plants.
The man turned when he heard me, like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment.
My body went cold, every instinct I'd honed over years of combat screaming at once, adrenaline spiking all over again.
Special Agent Trevor Klein.
That sleazy fucking grin spread across his face like oil on water, smug and satisfied and exactly as punchable as I remembered. "Hello, Wyatt."
Every muscle in my body locked. Fight or flight. And right now, fight was winning by a landslide, my hands already curling into fists before I could stop them, before training could override instinct.
I glanced at Mama P. She was still giving Klein that look—the one that said she'd seen worse men than him and buried a few, the one that said she knew exactly what kind of snake was standing in her kitchen pretending to be human.
Good.
"Let's step outside," I said, my voice flat and dangerous in a way that made Klein's grin falter for half a second.
It returned immediately. "Sure."
I led him out onto the porch, closing the door behind us with more control than I felt, every ounce of self-control I had going into not putting my fist through his smug face and consequences be damned.
If there was ever a piece of shit in government garb, it was Special Agent Trevor Klein.
The man had made it his personal mission to derail my career years ago when I was still at Bragg.
All because the Danes from Valentine had some money—not even that much, just enough to notice.
Because our father had disappeared under circumstances Klein decided were suspicious without a shred of actual evidence, just conjecture and conspiracy theories.
Because this ladder-climbing son of a bitch had nothing better to do than try to drag me down with bullshit accusations that went nowhere because they were based on nothing.
It had all gone to shit when I finally went to my commanding officer.
Laid it all out—the harassment, the implied threats, the way Klein kept showing up places he shouldn't be, asking questions he had no right to ask.
Some calls were made—the kind that happened in rooms I'd never see with people whose names I'd never know, people who made problems disappear.
Next time I talked to the colonel, the old man had smiled that dangerous smile and said Special Agent Klein would either spend the rest of his FBI service in bumfuck Alaska counting salmon or get the hint and become a barista at Starbucks.
And now here he was. Another complication from my past, reborn and grinning like he'd won something, like he'd been waiting years for this moment.
"You still with the FBI?" I asked, keeping my voice level, controlled.
Klein's grin didn't falter. "I am. And I'm in town on a very important investigation."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"Everything," he said smoothly, like he'd rehearsed this in the mirror. "You. Your friends. Your new ... connections. I always knew you were dirty, Dane. Knew you didn't deserve to wear the uniform—"
I took a step closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back to meet my eyes, close enough that I could see the fear flicker across his face for half a second before his training kicked in and he remembered he was supposed to be in control here.
Good. Let him remember what happens when you corner someone who's been trained to end threats efficiently.
But Klein recovered fast, the fear vanishing behind that practiced smugness. He motioned casually to the people passing by on the street—early risers, joggers, people walking dogs, people living normal lives who had no idea what was happening on this porch.
"It would very much help my case if you'd punch me in the face right now," he said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather.
"Leave a good bruise. Maybe bust my lip.
Break my nose. That makes great camera work.
Perfect evidence. Assault of a federal agent in broad daylight. I'm sure the Bureau would love that."
I stepped back, forcing my hands to unclench, forcing myself to breathe through the rage.
I wouldn't give him the pleasure. Wouldn't hand him exactly what he wanted on a silver fucking platter.
"What do you want, Klein?"
He pretended to look bored, like this whole conversation was beneath him, like he had better things to do.
Even yawned, stretching it out for effect.
"I'll be in touch. And Wyatt? Don't leave town.
Just like I found out where you're staying—nice place, by the way, very …
quaint—the FBI can track you wherever you go.
Best to stay in Charleston and … cooperate when the time comes. "
He gave me another up-and-down look, like he was deciding whether to say something else pompous and rehearsed, then settled for something glib I didn't catch as he walked away, hands in his pockets like he didn't have a care in the world, like he'd just won round one.
I watched him go, seething, every muscle in my body still coiled tight with violence I couldn't release, with the desire to follow him and finish what he'd started years ago.
Then I went back inside.
Mama P was still in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a pan with more force than necessary, her mouth set in a hard line. She glanced up when I entered, her eyes sharp and knowing. "Everything okay?"
I answered honestly, the only way I knew how with her. "I'm not sure."
She snorted, the sound full of disgust. "Didn't like the look of that man one bit. If he's an FBI agent, the Bureau must be in need of a firing squad. Or better hiring practices."
I nodded, not trusting myself to say more without letting the anger bleed through, without saying something I'd regret, and headed to my room.
Closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed, still breathing hard, still soaked with sweat and adrenaline and the aftermath of wanting to hurt someone.
The smart thing to do would be to run. Call my current CO.
See if he could pull the same strings the colonel had pulled at Bragg, make Klein disappear into some assignment so remote he'd never bother anyone again.
Get out of Charleston before this got worse, before Klein found whatever he was looking for.
But then my mind settled on Dominion Hall.
Had they been the trigger? Was Klein here because of them?
What other reason could there be? Klein didn't just show up in random cities harassing people. He had an angle. Always did. Always some conspiracy he was chasing, some case he thought would make his career if he could just prove it.
If Dominion Hall had brought Klein down on me, that meant they weren't just powerful. They had powerful enemies. The kind that sent federal agents sniffing around, looking for leverage, for dirt, for anything they could use to bring down whatever operation Micah was running.
Was that really something I wanted to get tangled with? On top of Sophie? On top of everything else that was already falling apart around me?
It was too much to think about. Too many variables, too many ways this could go wrong, too many ways I could hurt people just by existing near them.
Right now, all I had the energy to do was get my thoughts in line before dinner.
Somehow tell Sophie I was sorry without making it worse, without digging the hole deeper.
Let her off easy. Blame it all on myself—which was true, anyway.
Make up a story, maybe. Something believable that would let her walk away clean, let her remember me as the boy from Valentine instead of the disaster I'd become.
I'd deal with Dominion Hall after. Maybe ask Micah for a favor, cash in whatever goodwill I'd built. Maybe just disappear entirely, go back to my unit, volunteer for the worst assignments until something took me out of the equation permanently.
Disappear.
That sounded best. Safest. For everyone.
Because after all, wasn't that what the universe was trying to tell me with everything that was happening? Klein showing up out of nowhere. Sophie getting hurt because I couldn't just let myself be happy. Dominion Hall pulling me into something I didn't understand with enemies I couldn't see.
Stay in your quiet corner of the world, Wyatt. You don't deserve nice things. You never did.
Yeah.
That sounded about right.