Page 222 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Same building?”

“No. It’s adjacent. Close, but there aren’t enough beds for all of us, unless one of us sleeps on the couch. Mia’s not a fan of that.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just watches the traffic with hawkish intensity, his breathing so measured it’s almost imperceptible. Outside, the coastal highway unfurls before us, a ribbon of asphalt bordered by wild grasses and scattered cypress trees bent permanently sideways from the relentless ocean winds.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the silence of two people who’ve weathered storms together, who understand that some things don’t need saying.

Then—

“Do we have an expected return date for your team?”

The phrasing catches me—yourteam, nottheteam. As if he acknowledges what those men mean to me and what I’ve become to them.

“No. They don’t tell us anything.” I shake my head, watching the scenery blur past. The ocean glimmers in the distance, sunlight fracturing across its surface like shattered glass.

It’s a bitter truth I’ve had to swallow since falling in love with men who deal in classified information and high-risk operations. The not knowing. The waiting. The fear that gnaws at your insides until you want to scream.

“Understood,” he says, tapping his turn signal. The soft, rhythmic clicking fills the cabin. “Just wanted to make sure we know how long to keep you under full protocol.”

The way he says it—full protocol—makes me think of all the procedures I used to hate. The convoy cars. The exit routes. The constant background hum of surveillance. The way my father’ssecurity teams shadowed my every move, reporting back my choices, my conversations, my life.

I used to find ways to slip away from Harrison, to shake his watchful eye. Cornell was the worst of those escapes—the culmination of my rebellion, the night I gave his team the slip and ended up in the hands of my father’s enemies, a bargaining chip, a commodity to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Now? I barely blink at the thought of being watched. It’s armor. And I’ve learned to live inside armor.

“I’m not planning on leaving HQ while they’re gone. Just this one trip to pick up a few things.” My finger traces the silver scars on my wrist—thin, faded lines that will never fully disappear. Reminders of what happens when security protocols fail.

“Understood. If you need to make another trip…” His voice trails off, the offer implicit.

“I’ll call, and thank you. I appreciate it.” The words aren’t empty—not anymore. This is the new me, the one who understands what’s at stake.

The SUV winds through residential streets as we approach the condo. The ocean comes into full view now, wild and untamed beyond the cliffs, white-capped waves chasing each other to shore. The rhythmic crash of water against rock reaches us even through the closed windows, a constant backdrop to coastal life.

When we pull up to the condo, Harrison doesn’t rush. He waits while three other members of the private team he brought—men whose names I’ve never learned but whose faces have become familiar—fan out like shadows, checking for threats and clearing the condo.

The engine idles beneath us, a steady vibration that matches the heartbeat thrumming in my ears. I watch one operative circle the perimeter. Another checks entry points—doors, windows, the garage. The third disappears inside, room by room.

Harrison’s stance never changes—relaxed but alert. Always watching. His breathing remains steady, his fingers loose but ready on the wheel. Only the minute tightening around his eyesbetrays his focus.

Five minutes pass before he nods at me. “You’re clear.”

The condo’s just as we left it—clean. Still, a strange emptiness hangs in the air—not just silence but absence. Hank’s mug sits on the drying rack beside the sink, a ring of coffee residue still visible at the bottom. Gabe’s jacket is slung over the back of the bar stool like he’ll be back any second to grab it. A book lies open on the coffee table, a bookmark holding Hank’s place.

I stand in the entryway, letting their scent wash over me—sandalwood soap, the faint trace of gun oil, something deeper and more primal that’s uniquely theirs. I feel home, but not quite, not without them filling the spaces with their solid presence.

I pack fast—a duffel with clothes, my backup charger, another notebook, and one of Hank’s shirts because I can’t help myself. I raise the soft cotton to my face and breathe deeply, catching the lingering scent of him. The fabric is worn and soft against my cheek, a poor substitute for his arms around me, but it’s something.

My fingers brush against cold metal at the bottom of the drawer—Gabe’s dog tags. I hesitate, then take those too. The chain is cool against my palm, and the metal discs make a soft, musical sound as they click together. It’s not mine to take, but I need this piece of him.

When I step out again, Harrison’s already by the door, holding it open. One of his men is checking the perimeter again, his gaze methodically sweeping the street, the neighboring houses, and the landscape.

Nothing escapes his notice.

“Would you prefer I drop you at HQ gates? Or have me take you directly to Miss Jenna’s?” Harrison asks, his voice carrying easily in the stillness of the foyer. “I can drop you there if you prefer not taking one of the golf carts. It might be easier than having to carry that with you.” His gaze flicks down to the oversized duffel crammed with all my things.

“Jenna’s, please.” My voice sounds hollow in my ears, and exhaustion suddenly weighs my limbs down. “Thanks.”

The drive back to Guardian HQ feels longer, the winding coastal road stretching endlessly ahead of us. Shadows lengthen as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in violent shades of orange andcrimson. The ocean darkens to indigo, whitecaps still visible as they crash against the jagged shoreline.

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