6. Cara #3
By early afternoon I need air. I take the security phone, because I apparently feel naked without it now, and step onto the porch.
The compound's busy but not tense. Two prospects are moving the patrol markers farther from the house.
Sterling's near the garage showing one of the women something on his phone.
A truck pulls out through the gates. There are no raised voices anywhere.
Still, there's tension under all of it, because the SUV hasn't disappeared just because this morning's meeting went well. I walk around to the side of the house where the workers frightened Emily two days ago. The ladder's gone, and the guttering looks the same as always.
A branch snaps behind me.
I spin around and find Falcon standing about fifteen feet away.
He stops immediately and lifts his hands slightly. “Sorry.”
I release the breath caught in my chest. “You’re very quiet for a man your size.”
“Occupational hazard,” Falcon replies.
I raise an eyebrow. “What occupation?”
“Several,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Falcon doesn’t come any closer, and I notice. I’ve been noticing things like that all week.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
“I’m checking the new patrol line,” he explains.
I glance toward the fence. “Is it far enough back?”
“Probably,” Falcon answers.
“Probably isn’t reassuring,” I point out.
“Neither is pretending I know everything,” he replies.
That almost pulls a smile from me.
“You handled that meeting well,” I tell him.
Falcon’s eyebrows rise. “Me?”
“Yes,” I confirm.
“I mostly sat there and didn’t say much,” he says.
“You listened,” I remind him.
He gives me a dry look. “Apparently, I’ve set a low bar.”
“Historically?” I tilt my head. “Probably.”
“At least I know,” Falcon mutters.
We fall quiet for a moment. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, it’s simply different from what we had before, in a way that feels as though it might be leading somewhere instead of nowhere.
“Lena asked you something difficult,” I say.
Falcon nods. “About the windowless room?”
“About choosing a space that’s less secure,” I clarify.
“I still don’t like it,” he admits.
His answer catches me by surprise. “You agreed with her, though.”
“Because it isn’t my decision to like or dislike,” he explains.
I search his face. “You think it’s unsafe.”
“I think it carries a higher risk,” Falcon corrects.
“And you’d still let her choose it?” I ask.
His expression tightens slightly. “Allow isn’t the right word.”
No, it isn’t. Something shifts inside my chest when he gets that right without needing me to explain it.
“I’ve spent most of my life believing protection meant removing every possible threat,” Falcon says.
“That’s impossible,” I tell him.
“I know.” He looks toward the fence. “I’m starting to understand it, though.”
Part of me wants to ask why now, but I already know the answer. Me. The women. Digger getting hurt on his watch. All of it landing on him at once.
Instead, I change the subject. “What happened with the SUV last night?”
Falcon’s expression becomes guarded. “We saw it beyond the south line. Rook asked if we should follow.”
“And what did you say?” I ask.
“I said no,” he replies.
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t know whether whoever was out there wanted us to give chase,” Falcon explains. “And because I had a job inside the perimeter.”
That’s the tactical answer, but there’s something else beneath it.
I hold his gaze. “You stayed.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I stayed.”
The word carries more weight than it should. I think about all the times I imagined Falcon coming for me, crossing any line, burning anything down. It sounds romantic until you understand what gets left behind when a man's always running toward the fight instead of standing where he's needed.
The security phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read the latest message.
Security Phone:
Routine update: No further sighting of suspect vehicle. External patrol unchanged.
Falcon glances at the screen. “Is the system working?”
“Very much so,” I assure him.
“Condor wants feedback,” he tells me.
“I’ve got several suggestions,” I reply.
Falcon laughs. “God help him.”
“Someone needs to,” I say, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
He looks toward the clubhouse. “I have to go.”
“Club business?” I ask.
“Always,” Falcon answers.
There’s no bitterness in the word this time. He takes a step back, then pauses.
“Cara.”
“Yes?” I answer.
“If something about security doesn’t work, tell me,” he says. “You can come to me personally, or tell Sterling or Vulture. You can even write another six-page manifesto and leave it somewhere impossible to ignore.”
“It wasn’t a manifesto,” I protest.
“Zip called it one,” Falcon points out.
“Zip’s an idiot,” I tell him.
"No argument from me on that." He holds my eyes a second longer, then turns and heads for the clubhouse, and he's not walking toward his bike, which makes all the difference. He's not running.
Frankie's words come back to me again. Watch what he does when you tell him. I am. That's the problem, because every time I watch Falcon listen instead of command, stay instead of run, trust someone else instead of carrying everything alone, the wall I built around my heart loses another brick.
I'm still afraid of him breaking again. Maybe I always will be. But fear isn't the only thing I feel anymore, and that might be the most frightening change of all.