Page 9 of The Placeholder
“No.” The word comes out like a command to a subordinate. “Absolutely not.”
Alek’s eyebrows shoot up, his shoulders squaring. “You haven’t even heard what the job?—”
“Don’t fucking need to.” My voice drops to the dangerous register my men recognized in Fallujah. “Thorne is a spineless bastard who can’t keep his dick in his pants. Ten years of marriage vows he’s pissed on. I don’t work with men who have no honor.”
My brother’s jaw flexes before he drags a calloused hand through his military-short hair—that same restlessgesture our drill sergeant father used before dressing down a subordinate. “Come on, Ax. You’re being judgmental. His personal life has nothing to do with?—”
“It has everything to do with it.” I slam my tumbler down, the whiskey burning like gunpowder on my tongue. “It’s about character, Alek. A man’s word is his bond. If he betrays the woman he swore to protect with his life, he’ll sell us out without blinking.”
The overhead light catches the scar bisecting Alek’s left eyebrow, highlighting eyes identical to mine in color but lacking the thousand-yard stare I brought back from the army. “Since when did you become such a romantic? The guy’s offering seven figures for six weeks of work.”
I plant both fists on the table, knuckles white, voice dropping to a growl. “Some things matter more than money.”
Alek plants his elbows on the table, his forearm veins standing out like rope as he swirls his whiskey. “Your standards are too damn high, you know that?” The amber liquid catches the light as he rotates the glass. “Not just for clients. For everything.” His jaw tightens before releasing into that cocky grin I’ve seen disarm boardrooms and bartenders alike. “You’ll never find a woman who meets your impossible checklist.”
The bistro’s ambiance—clinking glasses, couple’s laughter, and noise from the busy kitchen—seems to dull as his challenge hangs in the air. My thumb traces the scar on my left hand, a souvenir from dragging a fellow soldier through broken glass in Kandahar. I’ve weathered this argument before, stood my ground while others retreated.
“I’ll know her when I see her,” I say, my voice a lowrumble that doesn’t invite debate. “Like identifying a target through a scope. One shot. No doubt."
Alek’s eyes—the same steel gray as mine but lacking the hardened edge—assess me before he raises his glass in a soldier’s salute. “To your unicorn then, brother. May she exist somewhere beyond that fortress you call standards.”
I slam my glass against his with enough force to rattle the table, my lips curling into a predatory half-smile. “She’s out there,” I growl, the words carved from granite certainty. “And when I find her, you’ll be choking on the biggest ‘I told you so’ in history.”
The eighteen-year-old Macallan blazes a trail of fire down my throat and ignites in my chest, but it’s the steel-forged conviction hammered into my bones that burns hotter than any distillery could produce.
Alek throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and full-bodied, like the whiskey we’re drinking. "You’ve been saying that for years, Ax. Meanwhile, you’re turning down perfectly good women faster than our clients burn through their security budgets.”
I trace the rim of my glass, feeling the cool crystal against my fingertip. “Quality over quantity. I don’t see you settling down either."
“That’s because I’m honest about what I want.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Speaking of which, don’t look now, but the redhead at the bar has been watching you for the last ten minutes.”
Of course, I want to look immediately. Military training keeps my head still, but I use the reflection in the polished brass sconce on the wall to my left to catch a glimpse. Long copper hair cascading over bare shoulders, a reddress that hugs curves like a sports car takes corners. Her lips are painted the color of sin.
“Not interested,” I mutter, pouring myself another finger of whiskey.
Alek groans. “What’s wrong with this one? Too pretty? Too interested? I swear to God, you’d find fault with Helen of Troy."
“Helen of Troy caused a war. Not exactly relationship material.”
The redhead turns entirely toward us now, making no secret of her interest. Her smile is practiced, confident, the kind that’s launched a thousand bad decisions in bars just like this one.
“She’s looking for a good time, not a husband,” Alek says, his voice carrying a challenge. "When’s the last time you had some fun?”
I meet his gaze dead-on. “I don’t do casual."
“Right. Because you’re saving yourself for this mythical perfect woman.” He drains his glass. “Meanwhile, you’re what—thirty-seven and sleeping alone? That’s not high standards, brother. That’s fear.”
The accusation lands like a knife between my ribs. I feel my jaw clench, that familiar tension radiating through my shoulders. “Careful.”
Alek raises his hands in surrender, but his eyes don’t back down. “Just calling it like I see it. You’ve faced down warlords without blinking, but you run from anything that might actually touch your heart."
“I don’t run,” I growl, the words scraping against my throat.
“Prove it.” He nods toward the entrance. “What about her?”
I follow his gaze and feel the world shift beneath me. She stands in the doorway, shaking raindrops from an umbrella, her movements graceful despite the awkwardness of the task. Dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, framing a face that stops my breath in my lungs. She’s not flashy—simple black dress, minimal jewelry—but she carries herself with a quiet confidence that draws the eye more powerfully than any revealing outfit could.
When she looks up, scanning the room, her eyes meet mine across the crowded bar. For one suspended moment, everything else falls away—the noise, the smoke, even Alek’s knowing smirk. Something electric and inevitable passes between us —a recognition that feels ancient and new all at once.
