Page 10 of The Placeholder
“That’s her,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can catch them.
Alek follows my gaze, then turns back to me with widening eyes. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re serious.”
I can’t tear my eyes away as she makes her way to the bar. She moves like water, fluid and purposeful, utterly unaware of the effect she has on the room—on me. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, and I realize with startling clarity that I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life.
“Ax?” Alek waves his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Ax. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
“Not a ghost,” I murmur, watching as she orders a drink, her profile illuminated by the soft bar light. “A future.”
Alek snorts into his whiskey. “A future? Jesus, Ax. You don’t even know her name.”
I can’t explain it —not even to my brother, who knowsme better than anyone alive. The certainty sits in my chest like a bullet—heavy, undeniable, changing everything in its path. I’ve felt this before, but only in life-or-death situations. That crystalline moment of absolute knowing.
“I’m going to talk to her,” I say, already half-standing.
Alek grabs my wrist. “Whoa there, Romeo. Maybe finish your drink first? Take a breath? You look like you’re about to storm a compound.”
He’s right. I can feel the intensity radiating off me, the single-minded focus that’s kept me alive in combat zones but scares the hell out of civilians. I force myself to sit back down, to take a measured sip of whiskey, to breathe.
“Better,” Alek says, studying me with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Now, what exactly are you planning to say to this woman who’s apparently your destiny after a five-second visual assessment?”
"I haven’t figured that part out yet,” I admit, stealing another glance at her.
She’s settled at the bar now, one heel hooked on the rung of her stool, her back straight but not rigid. The bartender slides a martini toward her—gin, not vodka, with what looks like a twist instead of olives. A woman who knows exactly what she wants.
“This is unprecedented,” Alek marvels, leaning back against the booth. “Axel Warner, legendary for his ice-cold tactical approach to everything, is actually flustered by a woman.”
“I’m not flustered,” I growl, but the heat crawling up my neck betrays me.
“Your left eye is doing that twitching thing it does before you punch someone.”
I force myself to relax, to unclench the fist I didn’t realize I’d made. “This isn’t a battlefield.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Alek’s voice softens, becomes serious. “For you, everything’s a tactical operation. Analyze, assess, execute. You’ve never just... felt something and acted on it.”
The truth of his words stings more than I want to admit. Everything in my life has been calculated, controlled, and contained. Even my rare relationships have been carefully selected, managed, and eventually terminated with surgical precision when they no longer served their purpose.
This—this gut punch of recognition—is entirely outside my operational parameters.
“She’s talking to someone,” Alek observes, nodding toward the bar.
A man has taken the stool next to her. Expensive suit, Italian shoes, the practiced lean of someone used to getting what he wants. He’s saying something that makes her smile politely, but I can see the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the infinitesimal shift away from him. She’s being courteous, but she’s not interested.
Something primitive stirs in my chest.
“Easy, tiger,” Alek murmurs, clearly reading my reaction. “She’s handling it.”
Indeed, she is. With a grace that speaks of practice, she’s creating distance without causing offense, her body language clear to anyone paying attention. Unfortunately, her admirer doesn’t seem to be getting the message. He leans closer, his hand moving to rest on the bar just inches from hers.
I drain my whiskey in one burning swallow and stand.
“Ax,” Alek warns, but I’m already moving.
The bar seems to stretch and contract as I approach, the ambient noise fading to a dull roar in my ears. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do when I reach her, but my feet carry me forward with the inevitability of gravity.
I’m three steps away when she laughs at something her unwanted companion has said. The sound stops me in my tracks—not the practiced, polite chuckle she’d offered before, but something genuine that transforms her face. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, her head tilts back slightly, and for a moment she’s radiant with simple joy.
The sight of it hits me like a physical blow. I’ve seen beauty before—in sunset-streaked skies over desert mountains, in the perfect execution of a mission, in the relief on a rescued hostage’s face. But this...this is different. This feels like finding something I didn’t know was lost.
