Page 15 of Oliver

His expression didn’t change. “Because I want to be.”

The air between us thickened.

And I didn’t know what to say to that.Because I want to be. What the hell does that mean?

He didn’t push it. Just stepped back, giving me space.

“We’re wheels up at dawn,” he said. “You’ll be safe where we take you. You’ll have time to think. Figure out your next move.”

I hesitated. “And you’ll be there?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The flight was quiet.

Oliver sat beside me, arms crossed, gaze trained out the window like he was watching for trouble in the clouds. Cyclone was up front, speaking with the pilot. I curled into my seat, a hoodie pulled over my head, trying to disappear.

But the thoughts kept coming.

The moment they attacked me. It seemed they were so calm for kidnappers. They didn’t realize I would fight back.

The way one of the men said,“Not her. The girl with the gold medal.”

“This is her.”

They knew who I was.

This wasn’t random.

The plane landed just before sunrise. Fog clung to the ground as we pulled through the private hangar’s gate and into a black SUV waiting on the tarmac. I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t have to.

We were in Carlsbad—home turf for the Golden Team, former Army Special Forces.

The safe house sat behind a wrought-iron gate tucked between two quiet estates. It had a Spanish tile roof and lush palms swaying in the early morning breeze. To anyone else, it looked like a vacation home.

But I saw the cameras tucked in the eaves, all along the gate.

The reinforced windows.

The ex-military man who opened the door smiling.

“This is Tag Harris, Oliver said. “Former Force Recon. He’s got eyes on everything, and hands that can kill a man in three seconds.”

“Two,” tag corrected, stepping aside. “Welcome to your new home for the next few weeks.”

I followed Oliver inside, hugging my duffel bag like a shield. Everything smelled like citrus and gun oil.

Clean.

Safe.

Temporary.

Oliver led me down a hallway to a sunlit bedroom with big windows, a view of the ocean, and a lock on the inside of the door.

He paused as I stepped inside. “It’s not a prison.”

“Feels like one.”

---