Page 30 of Silence and Surrender

“This Isabella,” he said suddenly. “The art expert. She’s smart?”

“Brilliant.” The word came automatically. “Best in her field.”

“Then she’s probably smart enough to be careful.” But something in his tone suggested he’d seen smart people fail before.

We finished with conditioning work, but my mind was elsewhere. On Isabella’s careful investigation of shipping records. On the way her hands had trembled slightly last week, though her voice stayed steady.

“Hit the showers,” Stryker said finally. “And Colton?”

I turned back.

“This might come in handy,” Stryker said, showing me a device slightly larger than a cell phone. “Military-grade EMP. Short range, but powerful enough to knock out surveillance and electronic locks in about a fifty-foot radius.”

I turned it over in my hands, feeling the weight. “Isn’t this highly regulated?”

His smile was grim. “Let’s just say I still have friends who owe me favors. The trigger’s simple, this switch here. But use it sparingly. It’ll fry your own electronics too, unless they’re hardened like this phone.” He handed me a modified smartphone. “One shot, so make it count.”

I slipped both into my bag, not questioning how or why he had such equipment. Some things were better left unasked.

“Sometimes training isn’t just about being able to fight. Sometimes it’s about being strong enough to protect people who matter.”

I nodded, heading for the locker room. In an hour I’d be back in my suit, back in my own world of corruption and greed.

The training had started because I’d felt powerless in an alley. Because I’d been tired of needing rescue, of living in Cooper’s shadow.

Now it was preparation for something else. Something darker than a drunken confrontation outside a restaurant.

I showered and dressed, the familiar routine of becoming Devereux Bank’s chief counsel. But underneath the perfect suit, my muscles carried new purpose. New strength.

I just hoped it would be enough when everything shattered.

Because lately, watching Isabella dive deeper into the bank’s secrets, I had a feeling that “if” was becoming “when.”

And this time, no waiters would be coming to the rescue.

Chapter Fourteen

Isabella

My office felt smaller after hours, the hum of servers and other office equipment creating a grotesque mechanical lullaby.

Colton’s knock was soft, almost hesitant. When I looked up, my breath caught slightly. He stood in my doorway, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to expose forearms that showed the results of his training. But it was the vulnerability in his expression that held me, something raw and unguarded that I rarely saw during daylight hours.

“You need to eat,” he said, his voice gentler than usual.

“I’m fine,” I started to say, but my stomach betrayed me with an audible growl.

“Have you eaten today?” He moved into my office with that contained strength I was still getting used to. “Not coffee. Not whatever snacks you keep in your desk.”

I hadn’t. The realization must have shown on my face because something softened in his eyes.

“Come on.” He reached for my coat before I could protest. “I know a place.”

I should have said no. Everything between us felt increasingly complicated. But watching him hold my coat, seeing that rare gentleness in his expression—I found myself standing, letting him help me into my wool peacoat. His hands lingered slightly at my shoulders, and heat bloomed where he touched me.

The restaurant occupied an old townhouse, nothing but dark wood and warm, romantic lighting. The maître d’ greeted Colton with familiar warmth, leading us to a corner booth where shadows dissolved the day’s hard angles. “The ‘82 Bordeaux is drinking beautifully,” the waiter suggested. “I know you will enjoy it.”

Colton nodded, not bothering with the wine list.

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