Chapter 5
The trek to her dorm is a masterclass in passive aggression.
She doesn’t run or try to escape. Instead, she walks with a rigid, furious posture.
Every step is a statement. Every snarky question or comment is a small, sharp jab with the intention of getting a rise out of either of us.
I’ve guarded heads of state, oil tycoons, and pop stars with egos the size of small planets.
And I’m already starting to think that none of them was as much work as this feisty girl is going to be.
I stay beside her, close enough to grab if needed, but far enough not to escalate her already on-edge demeanor.
My eyes track everything—doorways, blind corners, and the gatherings of students—but a stupid part of my brain keeps drifting back to her.
To the tension in her shoulders, the stubborn tilt of her chin, and the fire burning in her dark chocolate eyes when she looks at me like I’m the villain.
“Left,” I bark when she veers off the main path.
“I know where I live,” she snips, not breaking stride.
“Then act like it.”
Jesus, Damon…
Picking fights with a nineteen-year-old isn’t a great look.
We reach her dorm quickly, Hawk leaving us to bring around the Tahoe from the lot nearest her lecture hall.
The room is smaller than I expected. Half of it is cluttered and lived in, with fairy lights draped over a bookshelf and posters for bands I’ve never heard of taped to the walls.
The other side is neat and organized in a way that feels intentional.
Thick textbooks are stacked in clean lines beside paperbacks that appear to have been well-read.
The desk is clear, except for a mug with three pens, a highlighter, and a dried flower.
White linens cover the meticulously made bed.
I stay by the door. It’s instinct, but it’s also respect. This is her space. Was her space.
“All right…” I lean against the doorframe, trying to keep my tone casual. “Pack a bag.”
Mackenzi stomps to the tidy side like an insolent toddler, yanking open drawers and pulling things out faster than she can reasonably decide what she needs.
“This is insane,” she mutters, tossing a stack of folded shirts onto the bed.
“You realize that, right? Like, full-on insane. How long am I packing for?”
“Just pack your essentials.”
“Essentials? What does that even mean? Are we talking about a change of underwear and a toothbrush, or are we talking about my entire life? Because my entire life is here, in case you hadn’t noticed.
” I rub a hand over the back of my neck, pausing while trying to remember that we are uprooting her from her routine with a sparing amount of information.
“Do I need my laptop?” she continues, not waiting for an answer.
“My textbooks? Am I doing school there? Or is that just… what? On pause now, too?”
“Essentials,” I repeat, as clueless as she is about how long she’s going to be sequestered in the embassy.
She grabs a pair of jeans, shoves them into an open suitcase on the bed, then immediately pulls them back out like she’s reconsidering. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s temporary.” I hope…
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “How temporary? Do I at least get to know how long I’m going to be gone?”
“Until it’s deemed safe for you to return.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.” She yanks clothes from the closet hard enough that a couple of empty hangers clatter to the floor. “No answer? Cool… love that for me.”
She yanks open another drawer, pulling out a handful of clothes and tossing them onto the bed beside the suitcase, clearly more focused on the act of doing something than what she’s actually grabbing.
“Mackenzi, we’re on a schedule.” My patience is already fraying, threads snapping one by one.
“Right. The schedule. God forbid we interfere with the schedule,” she mutters, sifting through the pile of clothes strewn across the bed. Not packing—sorting. “This is not enough time. You realize that, right? People don’t just leave their lives in like… twenty minutes.”
She grabs a curling iron, three sweatshirts, and a tattered paperback before adding them all to the mess.
“Mackenzie,” I warn, my voice dropping a notch.
“What?” She spins toward me with a lacy bra dangling from her fingers. “I might need these things. I don’t know how long I’m being exiled for. A week? A month? The rest of my natural life? It would be nice to have some information.”
“Respectfully,” I grumble, already knowing I’ve lost the tone battle, “put your shit in the fucking suitcase or leave it behind.”
“What he means is, take what you need,” Hawk interjects when he returns, stepping in from the hallway with a snicker. “We’ll have someone come grab everything else within a few days.”
I shoot him a look. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Good cop”—her eyes flick between us as she shoves the lacy undergarment into her suitcase—“mean, grumpy cop. Cute.”
She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair before grabbing a few more items and forcing them into the already full suitcase.
I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You done?”
“Almost,” she says, reaching for yet more clothes.
She is a ball of frustrated energy, pushing the hair falling over her face back with an impatient flick.
Mackenzi bends over the too-full suitcase, and I can’t help but notice the voluptuous curve of her body as she struggles with the zipper.
A detail I absolutely should not be registering.
She yanks it shut with a frustrated tug. “There.”
I step forward, reaching for the suitcase before she can pick it up. “I’ve got it.”
“I can carry my own bag.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re going to.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t push it.
Instead, she grabs her phone and keys off the desk, shoving them into her book bag.
As she swings the bag over her shoulder, she hesitates—just for a second—looking around the room.
It’s quick, but I see it. She’s scared. She covers it well, chin lifting, expression hardening again. But I saw it.
We walk out of the room, down the hallway, and outside to the SUV, Mackenzi sandwiched between Hawk and me.
When we reach the vehicle. I load her suitcase into the back while Hawk opens the rear passenger door for her.
She pauses for half a second before getting in, like she’s making a point of not thanking him.
“‘Thank you’ is the phrase you’re looking for,” I snark through the cargo area of the SUV.
She settles into the seat, arms crossed almost immediately, sulking. Hawk slides in behind the wheel, and I take a seat in the back beside her. The engine starts, and we pull away from the curb, heading toward the highway. She broods facing the window, doing her best to ignore the two of us.
I twist in my seat to look at her. “Are you going to be like this the entire time we’re responsible for you?”
“Like what?”
“Trouble.”
She snaps her head around and meets my gaze, her eyes full of fire. With a shrug of her shoulder, she sasses, “Probably.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“You think this is a game?” I ask.
“I think,” she says slowly, “that if you wanted me calm and cooperative, you should’ve tried treating me like a person instead of a—What was the word?—asset.”
“That’s exactly what you are right now.”
“Wow. You really just said that out loud.” She leans her head against the seat, exhaling slowly. “You two do this a lot?”
“Do what?” I clarify.
“Kidnap people.”
I sigh exasperatedly. “It’s not kidnapping.”
“It is from my perspective.”
“From my perspective, you came somewhat willingly, and you’re alive. It’s my job to keep it that way.”
She studies me for a second before declaring, “You’re kind of an asshole.”
“Kind of?” Hawk snickers from behind the wheel.
The corners of her lips twitch before she can stop them, her eyes lighting up. She looks away again to hide it, back out the window, watching the city pass by.
For a second, I let myself actually look at her. Not as a responsibility. Not as an asset. But just look at her.
She’s… aggravating. It’s the first word that comes to mind. Her bratty demeanor and the way she doesn’t back down are grating on my every nerve. The sharp comments, the stubborn tilt of her chin, and the way she acts like she’s daring me to challenge her.
A challenge that is enticing me far more than it should.
But she is also gorgeous. I repeatedly find myself noticing the way her thick thighs press against the seat when she shifts her weight and the soft curves of her body, not hidden beneath the oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing.
Her cheeks fill out when she smiles, not sweet, exactly, but smug and amused, like she knows she got under my skin and is enjoying every second of it.
And her eyes. Jesus. They spark whenever she’s about to say something bratty.
I drag my gaze toward the windshield before I get caught staring, because the thoughts I’m having are nothing but trouble.
If she were ten years older—twenty-nine instead of nineteen—she’d be exactly the kind of woman I’d never be able to stay away from.
All sharp edges and confidence, with soft curves wrapped around a mouth that has never learned how to behave.
The kind of woman who’d keep me up at night just to argue with me and then grin about it as I spent the rest of it reminding her who’s in charge.
She’s the kind of woman I’d become completely infatuated with, which is precisely why I need to stop noticing any of that now.
She’s the job. An asset. Nothing more, Damon.