Page 88 of Power Term

Since I can clearly handle myself and have demanded I stay armed at all times even without being an agent, they’ve assigned the greener agents to my detail.

The First Husband detail.

It’s not a title I’m a huge fan of, but I am a fucking fan of being her husband, so I’m going with it.

I’ve agreed to train the agents as we go, help them know what to look for while we’re traveling, how to spot weaknesses in a plan or protection detail. We work out together as well, sparring at times too to help with reflexes and hand-to-hand fighting skills.

To be honest, it’s been fun as well as rewarding. After losing Grem, I realized there was a lot I didn’t teach him. If I had maybe, he’d still be here today and holding his sweet little baby instead of six feet under.

I shake off those dark thoughts and turn to look down the hall as the sound of running feet rumbles closer.

“I wanted to see how long it would take them to realize I’d snuck past them.” I steal a look at my watch. “Seven minutes.” The four twentysomething-year-old kids skid to a stop, looking between me, Smith, Tank, and back to me, barely winded after the short sprint across the White House.

“How’d you get by us?” the lead of the four asks, ire gleaming in his gaze as his nostrils flare with annoyance. “We were at all the doors.”

“Were you?” I arch a brow to add a drop of doubt to their self-assured conclusion. I hitch my chin to the youngest one in the back. “Never get distracted. You took a call, leaving me the chance to slip past.”

“You were the caller,” he snaps. “You’re the one who distracted me.”

“Still, you were distracted.” There’s no hiding the amusement in my tone. Yeah, I tricked him, but one, he should’ve known better, and two, it was fun. “We’ll head to the gym after I see what Randi wants to talk to me about.”

Without knocking, I twist the brass doorknob and push the door leading to the Oval Office open. “See ya, amigos.”

Smith whispers something about killing me slowly, but I shut the door, cutting off whatever creative torture he was concocting.

The moment the door closes, I freeze. Something’s off. The air is too cold; normally the heat is blasting in the office, making it feel like summer instead of the tail end of winter. There’s something else too, like there’s a live wire ready to spark and burn the place to flames.

Muscles tense, ready for anything, I take in the room but only find Randi behind the desk, no one else. Each step is tentative as I approach her.

Face in her hands, elbows on the shiny oak surface, she looks unhappy. I pause beside her, only now able to hear her faint whispering, talking to herself about who knows what.

My chest tightens with worry as I gaze down at her. Something is wrong.

Reaching out, I stroke down her long silky dark hair over and over, giving her a moment before I force her to tell me what the fuck is going on.

“Who do I need to kill, Mess?” I say it like a joke, but we both know it’s not. I’d kill anyone who hurt her. Been there, done that twice already.

Her shoulders shake.

Fuck, is she crying?

Not giving two shits about personal space or giving her time to tell me what’s wrong, I grip both her shoulders and swivel the chair around until she’s facing me. Hand beneath her jaw, I tilt her face up to mine.

Eyes rimmed in red. Damp cheeks. Rosy nose and cheeks.

Fuck.

“I’ll kill them. I just need a name, baby. Tell me.” It takes work to soften my tone and not unleash the worry and frustration that’s swirling in me. The last thing I want to do is upset her more.

“Trey.” She half laughs, half cries. “Stop with the murder talk.” I swipe a tissue from the box on her desk and pass it to her. “You do know that if you ever do, you can’t tell me or I won’t be able to defend you.”

“I’d only be in court if they find a body.”

Her snort and small smile ease some of the growing tension between us.

“Seriously, Randi. Tell me what’s wrong. We can fix it. We always do.”

Watery eyes search my face. “We do, don’t we?”

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