Chapter 10 #2
I wondered what had made him that way.
The moment I realized I was wondering, I wanted to slap myself, because I was most likely the reason he was so guarded now.
Besides, I wasn’t supposed to care about what had closed Kane off.
We had history, yes, but it was the wrong kind—messy, painful, and unresolved—that should make me want to keep my distance, not probe his emotional wounds.
And yet that inescapable doubt kept pricking at me. The feeling I couldn’t shake, no matter how hard I tried, that I might have possibly been wrong about him two years ago.
Stop it , I silently ordered myself. Sentiment was a trap.
Everyone thought they were immune to being fooled, and that confidence was exactly what made them vulnerable.
I’d seen my father exploit that weakness a hundred times.
The mark who was sure they could spot a con.
The investor who knew they were too smart to fall for a scheme.
If you thought you couldn’t be deceived, that was the precise moment someone would deceive you.
Something beeped on one of Tate’s monitors, and he glanced at the screen. “Ah. That’s Kane—he’s back in the building.”
My chest loosened with a relief I refused to acknowledge.
A few moments later, the elevator doors opened and Kane strode into view. He looked... fine. Unruffled. No signs of confrontation or struggle. Just Kane, competent and controlled, carrying my overnight bag he must have found in my closet that he handed to me without ceremony.
I unzipped it and went through the contents.
All my important documents were there—social security card, passport, birth certificate, the folder of financial records I kept in my desk drawer. Practical. Essential. The things you’d need if you had to prove your identity in a hurry or cross a border without warning.
But beneath the paperwork were clothes. And not just random items grabbed in haste—they were my favorites .
The soft gray sweater I wore constantly because it felt like being wrapped in a warm hug, along with my comfortable leggings.
The worn jeans that fit perfectly after years of washing.
The comfortable cotton shirts I reached for every time I wanted to feel like myself instead of professional journalist performing a role.
I looked up at him, surprised. “How did you know these were my most-worn clothes?”
Kane’s expression remained neutral. “They were out. Draped over your chair and tossed on your bed. People don’t put away the clothes they reach for most often. They keep them accessible. And comfort clothes are usually soft, broken-in. It wasn’t hard to identify them.”
Such a small thing. Such a thoughtful, observant thing.
He’d walked into a building where an assassin was waiting, grabbed my essentials, and still taken the time to notice which clothes I loved most. To make sure I’d have something familiar and comforting in whatever strange safehouse we were headed to.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
Kane just nodded and turned to Tate. “She good to go?”
“As good as she can be.” Tate’s voice had shifted from friendly to businesslike.
“But it’s going to be a race against time.
There’s only so long you can keep her hidden before Calloway’s people track her down.
You can’t cover every angle indefinitely, and they have functionally unlimited resources to throw at the problem. ”
“She’s determined to publish regardless,” Kane said. The words were flat, but I caught something underneath them. Not quite admiration, but close.
“Well.” Tate spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. “Whatever the client wants.”
I shot Kane a triumphant look. “You see? Whatever the client wants.”
His expression darkened in a way that was probably supposed to be intimidating but mostly just made me want to smile. “All right. Let’s go.” He nodded to Tate. “I’ll be in touch.”
Tate’s demeanor sobered. “Stay safe. Both of you.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine. For a moment, caught up in the relative safety of this high-tech sanctuary, the easy conversation with Tate, the lingering warmth of what Kane and I had shared at the club, I’d almost forgotten how real and immediate the danger was.
There was no forgetting now.
I gathered my things. The bag of essentials Kane had brought for me, the clean laptop and phone from Tate. Everything I owned that mattered, reduced to what I could carry in my arms.
Kane led me to the elevator, and as the doors closed behind us, reality settled over me like a weight.
If this went badly, I might never see my apartment again.
It wasn’t my dream home—too small and a dozen minor irritations I’d learned to live with.
But it was mine . I’d chosen the paint colors and hung the photographs.
I’d arranged the furniture exactly how I liked it and decorated my bedroom in a way that made it my personal sanctuary.
The idea of losing it all without warning hurt more than I’d expected.
Kane didn’t say anything as we walked to his car. Didn’t offer comfort or reassurance or advice. But what could he possibly have said? He’d been honest about the danger, and I’d made my choice. Empty platitudes would have felt like an insult from a man like him.
At least he respected me enough to give me the harsh truth. I’d take that over false comfort any day.
We drove in silence through the Vegas night, heading away from the glittering Strip toward the outskirts of the city.
The car was a black sedan—nondescript, forgettable, probably one of many owned by Noble and Associates for exactly this purpose.
The windows were tinted dark enough that no one could see inside, and for a moment I felt almost like a politician or a celebrity being whisked away from some scandal.
The absurdity nearly made me laugh.
By the time we reached the safehouse, somewhere in the distant suburbs I’d never explored, it was late enough that the streets were empty and my eyelids kept drifting closed.
I’d grown up in Vegas, knew the Strip like the back of my hand, but this was unfamiliar territory.
Out here, the city’s glamorous mask had fallen away entirely.
No neon lights, no themed hotels, no tourists clutching yard-long margaritas.
Just modest one-story homes in shades of beige and tan, blending into the desert landscape so nothing stood out or drew attention.
Kane pulled into a garage attached to one of the identical houses, and the door closed behind us before he killed the engine. Inside, he moved through the house with practiced efficiency—checking that every curtain was drawn, every entrance and window secured.
I followed him to one of the bedrooms in a haze of exhaustion. My third shower of the evening was brief and barely conscious, hot water sluicing over muscles that ached in interesting ways. I nearly fell asleep standing up.
Then I stumbled into bed, feeling like I was already dreaming.
Everything had the fuzzy, disconnected quality of the space between waking and sleep.
I’d had an impossible day—being assigned a bodyguard, coming face to face with a past I’d tried to forget, a sex club, an assassin, a safehouse in the middle of nowhere with a man who made me feel things I couldn’t afford to feel.
This isn’t real , some drowsy part of my brain insisted. You’ll wake up in your own bed tomorrow, and none of this will have happened.
It was the last thought I had before sleep pulled me under.