Mine to Keep (Mine #2)(29)

“Then why was Sharpe so afraid?”

Noah held his gaze. His lips tightened, then he said, “There’s something I should tell you.”

This wasn’t going to be good. The man’s tone told him that.

“Last night, right after you left, I called Drake.”

Trace tensed.

“If the past is coming back, he needs to know, too,” Noah snapped. “Look, the threat isn’t just to you. If someone is striking at us—”

“Is Drake in the city?”

Noah nodded.

Great. Drake Archer wasn’t exactly a safe fellow to have around.

And Drake and Trace hadn’t ended their partnership on the best of terms. Mostly because Drake had been spiraling, and Trace hadn’t been able to help him.

Drake didn’t want help. He wanted to implode.

A knock sounded at Trace’s door. He glanced over, frowning. “Come in…”

The door opened, and his assistant, Sara, poked her head inside. “The video footage should appear in your Inbox within the next five minutes.”

Good. Grim satisfaction filled him. He might not have a handle on Sharpe’s killer, not yet, but he would be taking down this *.

***

“So just how much longer are you going to be playing guard duty?” Skye asked Reese as she slanted a glance at him.

Reese gave her a smile. “Last night’s crash put the boss on edge.”

Right. Like she’d missed the frantic intensity that filled Trace.

But she was tired of being in his cage.

This morning, she’d started to feel as if she were suffocating.

“That was an accident,” she said, shrugging. “Despite what Trace wants, he can’t protect me from everything. The world is too unpredictable for that.”

Reese reached for his coffee. Two PM, and she knew that he was hitting his fourth cup of the day. “You know Trace. Control matters to him.”

It mattered to her, too. And she was done with the cage.

The nightmares had come back last night. She’d been trapped in that basement once more, and Skye had woken up gasping. Even the walls of the penthouse had seemed to close in on her.

She needed freedom.

Not a constant guard, even if that guard was her friend.

“My classes start tomorrow,” she said. Excitement slipped through the words. She had full classes—every single one. Sure, some of those students might just be coming because they were curious about the prima ballerina who’d been splashed across all the papers.

But they’d see the truth soon enough. The classes weren’t about sensationalism. Skye meant business. The studio was about the dance. About what she could teach her students.

And I’ll teach them plenty.

She narrowed her eyes on Reese. “I don’t want my students nervous, so the bodyguard bit is ending.”

His brows lifted.

“Not that I don’t love you, but I think your time can be better spent on activities that are a little more…dangerous.” She used the word deliberately because Reese did enjoy his danger. “Now I’m going outside—alone—to get a few minutes of fresh air.”

She’d taken four steps when Reese called out, “I love you, too, Skye…and that’s why I’m playing guard duty. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”

A lump rose in her throat, but she kept going. Reese had gotten underneath her skin. In the weeks that she’d known him, he’d become her friend. She didn’t have a lot of friends.

He and Trace made her feel less alone in the world.

She grabbed her bag and then headed onto the sidewalk in front of her building. The air was warm, but not hot. Summer would be there soon enough.

Skye stared up at the sky. Blue, bright blue, like Trace’s eyes.

A car horn honked in the distance. It was lunch time, so, of course, the street was busy.

Tomorrow, she’d open her dance studio. Her students would come.

Her gaze drifted around the street.

Tomorrow…

A man with a hood covering his head stood across the street. Half-hidden by the shadows as he stood under the awning of another office.

He lifted an object.

Snapped a picture.

Her breath sawed out. A reporter. Again.

She couldn’t have the reporters bothering her students.

And I can’t hide forever. Straightening her shoulders, Skye headed for the cross-walk.

***

Trace clicked the file and watched the image load onto his screen.

“The city needs to invest in some better quality equipment,” Noah muttered as he leaned over Trace’s shoulder. “Because that image is crap.”

Yes, it was. Trace leaned forward. He hit the button to advance the footage.

The limo was there, waiting at the light.

And, just down the road, the BMW waited, too.

Waited.

When the limo accelerated, the BMW raced toward it.

“Shit, he’s aiming for you,” Noah said.

Yes, yes, he damn well was.

The phone on Trace’s desk rang. He picked it up, still staring at the footage. “Weston.”

“Mr. Weston, it’s Joseph Hadden. I’m at the police station…”

There was a buzz of activity in the background. Joseph Hadden was one of Trace’s agents. A guy on the rise who always got the job done. Trace had sent him down to the PD because he wanted to know exactly what was happening with the investigation.