Get gone.
Gage threads the SUV through traffic without raising his voice or his speed. Calm. Precise. Dangerous.
I stare out the window and try not to think about how close I came to swallowing a chemical that would have turned me into a headline. I try not to think about the waiter’s eyes, flat and cold. I try to think about the projects that will still be funded because the board knows how to spin a crisis and because I've built a machine that runs even when I step away. The tally will dip. It won't crash. I did that. Me.
Gage’s thumb rubs once over my knuckles. I don't jerk away. The touch burns a trail that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the fact that I like it when he touches me. I hate that I like it, but I like it anyway.
“Say it,” he murmurs, eyes on the road.
“Say what?”
“That I was right to pull you.”
“I'll say you weren't wrong,” I answer, and he huffs out something that might be a laugh if he allowed himself the luxury.
“Progress,” he says.
“Don't let it go to your head.”
He glances over, and the look he gives me is heat wrapped in steel. “Too late.”
I swallow. The SUV is too small for this much awareness. I crack the window and pretend I need air.
Back at the penthouse, Dalton takes the vehicle to the garage and starts a sweep. Gage walks me inside with his hand at my waist, not letting go until the deadbolt slides. The room feels different now, taller and thinner at the same time. I kick off my heels and sink into a chair, then spring up again because stillness makes the adrenaline shake worse.
“Pace if you need to,” Gage says. He loosens his tie and watches me like movement itself is a threat he can intercept.
I pace. I rant a little. I catalogue what I'll have PR do in the morning, the calls I'll make, the language I'll offer the board to keep donors warm. He lets me wind down without interrupting, which surprises me. When I finally stop, he steps close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
“You did well,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, simple and sincere because for once I don't have the energy for a quip.
His hand lifts as if he'll touch my cheek. He stops a breath away and curls his fingers into his palm. “Go change. I'll debrief with Deacon. Then we'll talk contingencies.”
For a second the restraint costs him. His fist clenches, then slowly unclenches again, the motion small but jagged. It is the kind of slip a man like him should never show.
I nod and turn away before I do something foolish like lean into the hand he didn't give me.
In the bedroom I peel out of silver and into a robe. I carry the cuff bracelet to the dresser and set it down. Something gleams where the hinge meets the band, a dot no bigger than a pinhead. At first I think it's just a flaw in the metal, but the longer I stare, the more wrong it feels.
A chill creeps down my arms as I realize it's not part of the design at all. It's a tracker, and someone planted it on me.The thought makes my pulse stutter, and in the silence of the penthouse, I swear I hear the faintest scrape against the balcony glass, as if whoever planted it is close enough to be listening right now.
CHAPTER 6
GAGE
The scrape against the balcony glass hasn’t left my head. It lingers like a warning. Sadie pretends she doesn’t hear it, but I know better. I saw the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her pupils widened. She might try to bury fear beneath defiance, but I read people for a living. She heard it. She felt it. And it rattled her.
Which is why I don’t give her a choice. Within an hour I’ve got her packed, Dalton and Deacon sweeping the penthouse, and Rush on comms. By dawn, we’re moving her to the Galveston headquarters, which is also a working ranch. She argues but this time I don’t bend. Not with a tracker fresh out of her jewelry and proof someone got closer than we thought.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters as I guide her into the SUV. “Dragged out of my sister’s home in the middle of the night like a fugitive. Do you Rangers even understand the concept of subtlety?”
“Subtlety is what got that bug on your wrist,” I say, sliding in beside her. “You want subtle, you hire a PR firm. You want to live, you listen to me.”
She shoots me a look sharp enough to cut, then folds her arms. “You’re infuriating.”
“Good. Infuriated means alive.”
