Page 10 of Stealthy Seduction
He circled the table to stand before his commanding officer. “Izzy was one of the hostages during the time Cipher’s mom was killed.”
He nodded. “Already noted. Chase is keeping tabs on her.”
“Is that enough?”
Con folded his arms. “Let’s just say that I knew you walked her to her door before you told us.”
So they had eyes on her. Good.
But was it enough?
He had to keep his distance. The team couldn’t know what went down last night. Not because he was ashamed, but because the fewer people who knew about his connection to her, the safer she’d be.
But that didn’t mean he was going to stop thinking up ways to keep her protected without her even knowing she needed protecting.
* * * * *
Izzy stood outside the newsroom, shoulders squared. Anxiety flickered along her nerves, the exact sensation she dreaded when she made the decision to come here.
Breathe.
She drew a slow breath in and held it for three beats before exhaling through her nose.
I’m steady. I’m safe.
The exercise was supposed to quiet racing thoughts and lower her heart rate. Some days it worked better than others.
She had to do this. If she didn’t keep moving forward, she knew what would happen—she’d slip back into the shadows, live behind a peephole, waiting for the food delivery guy to leave before she dared to step outside.
That wasn’t living. That was prison.
She drew another breath and squared her shoulders before pushing through the glass door of the newsroom.
She wasn’t going to let fear cage her, not again. Fake it till you make it, she told herself.
At the SEAL base, she’d felt safe—nothing to be afraid of there with hardened special operatives watching every corner.
Nothing to be afraid of in the throes of ecstasy in the arms of Hudson Steele.
Her insides clutched, and then she remembered she was stepping into the big, scary world of reporting again.
The SEAL team wasn’t here. In the bright chaos of the newsroom, it was all on her.
The morning meeting was already underway, her producer handing out assignments. Everyone liked to joke about him being more of a traffic controller than storyteller, because he controlled who got airtime.
Izzy slid into the room, smoothing her skirt and lifting her chin.
His gaze landed on her, and she saw a flicker of interest behind his eyes.
Sitting in this room again felt surreal. The last assignment he gave her, she ended up as a hostage.
It took her years to reach this point in her healing journey. And months after she made the decision to return to journalism to decide that she was going by her old journalist name.
Callie Northwood.
The syllables had weight, recognition. People knew that name. She’d covered countless pieces, but what people remembered was that she’d once been held hostage overseas, her face splashed across headlines.
Maybe she really should use her real name now. Start fresh.
