Annelly

Ben nods once, studying James for a beat longer like he’s not just weighing his words, but weighing James himself. Then he reaches into the inside pocket of his sports coat and pulls out a cream-colored envelope. It’s thick. Elegant enough that it reminds me of a wedding invitation. When he sets it gently on the table and slides it towards me, my brows pull together in confusion.

“There was a flower delivery about an hour ago,” he says. “Here. To the house.”

The blood drains from my face. My breath catches in my throat, and it takes everything in me not to scream. Not to react. Not to bolt from this stool and start packing. Because this time, it’s not just me. It’s not just my life at risk. I’ve brought danger to the doorstep of the only people who’ve ever made me feel safe. 

My hand trembles as I reach for the envelope. There’s no name. No handwriting. Just pristine ivory, heavy in my palm and slick with dread, like it already knows what it’s about to do to me.

Holding my breath, I slide my fingers under the flap and draw out the card. The paper matches the envelope—weighty, luxurious. Elegant enough to belong in a ballroom, not clutched in the shaking hands of a girl whose idea of fun was swimming in Ruby Creek Lake and running barefoot through the dewy grass at dawn.

Printed in stark, black serif font are the words:

I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving.

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, 

With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.

The quote slams into me like a fist to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. I read it once. Twice. A third time, just to be sure it’s real.

No. No. No. 

It can’t be.

But the shaking in my hands, the violent twist in my stomach, the way I can’t catch my breath… 

They all say the same thing.

Victor’s found me.

My voice scrapes out of me in a whisper. “H-how?”

Ben exhales slowly. His elbows settle on the table as he clasps his hands together. It’s like he’s bracing himself. Like he’s afraid the words he’s about to deliver might shatter me.

“We’re not exactly sure,” he begins, his voice calm. “Could’ve been the hospital visit. It was quick, and we took precautions, but with situations like this, you never know. Or…” He glances at James, then back at me. “…he might’ve assumed you’re staying here. With James and Tyler. He met them at Lucas and Emilia’s wedding. He knows you’re close. Knows what James does for a living. Wouldn’t take much to track down the address and go from there.”

“It’s also possible he’s guessing,” Zeb offers gently. “Working his way down the list of people he knows you care about. Your friends. Your family.” 

He’s trying to soften the truth. I know that. But my heart sinks anyway, because it doesn’t matter how Victor found me. Not really. What matters is that he knows who I’m with. And even if he’s just guessing, it’s only a matter of time. When he makes his move, the people I love will be in his crosshairs. 

Before I can spiral further, Ben speaks again. 

“That’s why I’m recommending we move you. Tonight.”

I blink. “Move me?”

“There’s an FBI safe house,” he says. “The Bureau secured the location, but it’s OTS who’ll be running point. Other than Agent Hunt, no one outside this team will know where you are.”

James is silent beside me. Still as stone. But I feel it—the tension radiating off him like heat. His hand is still wrapped around mine. Warm, rough… and trembling. His grip isn’t comforting—it’s clinging. A man holding on to his control by a mere thread.

Zeb steps in then, trying to ease the tension.  

“It’s secure. Remote. A few of us will go with you. You’ll have round-the-clock protection from people you know. Friends. We’ll keep you safe while the rest of the team works to get Victor off the board.”

Ben cuts in sharply, his glare flaring between Zeb and James. “Not off the board,” he snaps. “Dealt with. Legally.” Then he turns to me, his tone softening. “By the time we’re done, you’ll be safe. He won’t risk coming anywhere near you again.” 

My breath comes in shallow pants as the gravity of the situation sinks in. The fear settles over me like a fog—thick, blinding, inescapable.

And James?

He still hasn’t said a word.

His grip tightens around mine, almost to the point of pain, and I glance over at him. He’s not eating. His jaw is clenched, his eyes locked on the envelope still sitting in the center of the table like it’s a ticking bomb he doesn’t know how to disarm. There’s something flickering in his expression—a grief so raw, it steals my breath. 

And suddenly, I understand. 

The tears earlier. The way he collapsed in my arms, stripped bare of all that ironclad control. It wasn’t just his fear for me. 

It was loss.

Because this house—this life he built to finally give Tyler and himself a sense of security—it’s not safe anymore.

And it’s all because of me.

The tension in the room stretches so tight, it feels like one wrong breath might snap it in two. 

Then finally—finally—James speaks.

“No.” His voice is low. Quiet. But sharp enough to slice through everything else.

Ben’s brow lifts. His attention turns towards James, the glare returning in full force. “No?” he echoes. “What the fuck do you mean, no?”

“I mean no.” James’s voice hardens. “I don’t trust the FBI. Least of all with this.” He’s staring Ben down with a fury I’ve never seen in him. The kind that simmers just beneath the surface, contained, but lethal.

Ben straightens. “We’ve worked with the Bureau before. They’ve got the resources—”

“I don’t care what they’ve got,” James bites out. “If it comes down to keeping her safe or protecting their interests—their fucking investigation—they’ll choose the case.” The words land hard. Like a bomb detonating in the middle of a minefield. 

As James and Ben lock eyes in a silent standoff, I glance at Zeb. He doesn’t say a word. Just stares down at his untouched plate of food like he wishes he were anywhere but here. He doesn’t come to the defense of either of the men, and I guess he doesn’t need to. 

His silence says it all. 

He agrees with James.

“They’re not the ones making the calls here, James,” Ben says firmly. “The house might be one of theirs, but we’re in charge of security. OTS controls the perimeter. OTS controls the rotation. No one will touch her. Not on our watch.”

James still doesn’t speak, but his fury vibrates off him like a live wire. His hand stays locked around mine, fingers curled tight—but then his thumb moves. A slow, deliberate brush over my knuckles. A quiet reassurance that he’s got me. That he won’t let anything happen to me. 

“Come on, James. You seriously think I’d sign off on this if I didn’t think we could protect her?” Ben’s voice is exasperated, like he’s angry he even has to say it.

“I think you believe that,” James finally responds, his tone steady but unflinching. “But you’re putting way too much faith in an institution that’s already rotting from the inside.” 

He leans forward slightly, voice low. Cold. Deadly. “We’ve had to use back channels. They hired us to help with their own internal investigation—looking into their leadership, their agents. Then made us rely on CIA-level tactics just to communicate. Because even they know the Bureau is compromised. And yet here you are… suggesting we use one of their safe houses to protect the most important people in my life.” 

His grip around my hand tightens slightly.

“Their word might be good enough for you, Ben—but it sure as hell isn’t good enough for me.”

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