Capture

An Ambush

The moment Harry wrapped one arm around me in a half-embrace, my fear began to thaw. "Nice to see you too, Em," he said with that signature smirk.

"Styles," Liam's voice snapped through the air, hard as a bullet. I turned. Liam was still standing by the window, his gun raised, locked onto Harry. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

"Liam," I said firmly, taking a cautious step toward him. "Put the gun down." He didn't.

"Emma, how can you trust him?" he asked, his eyes never leaving Harry.

Across the room, Harry lifted his own gun—slowly, steadily—mirroring Liam's stance. "I'm here to help you, Payne," he said. "But you have to put the gun down first."

"All those files you had on me," Liam bit back, "how do I know you're not one of Trey's men? Just another hunter coming to finish what he started?"

I felt a jolt of doubt. My stomach twisted as I took a slow step away from Harry. Was Liam right? Had I been fooled by Harry all along?

"I don't want to hurt you, Payne," Harry said, more forcefully now. "I'm here to protect you."

"Who says I need protecting?" Liam barked. I moved closer to him again, instinctively taking his side. But Harry's next words cut the air like a blade.

"You think after a boy gets his father murdered by one of the most dangerous gang leaders in Britain, that no one steps in to make sure he stays breathing?" Harry's voice was tight with barely-contained frustration. "Do you believe you've survived this long on luck alone?"

"What the hell are you saying?" I asked, spinning back toward Harry.

"I know everything about Liam's past, Emma," Harry said evenly. "Because I've been protecting him for the past four years."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"You had no authority to track me," Liam growled, venom in his voice. "You're not a marshal. You're a hired gun. Trey's hired gun. I drop my guard, and you shoot me in the head."

Harry scoffed. "If I were working for Trey, you'd have been dead a long time ago. You think I lived across the fucking hall from you for four years just for fun?"

"You weren't exactly subtle," Liam sneered. "Maybe you're just a shit assassin."

Harry let out a short laugh of disbelief. "Unbelievable."

Then he looked at me. "Emma, come here."

Liam bristled instantly. "Leave her the fuck out of this."

"I can prove I'm a marshal," Harry said calmly. "But she has to come here."

I hesitated, glancing at Liam. His eyes were wild with distrust, but after a tense beat, he gave me a slight nod. Permission—reluctant and bitter.

"No funny business, Styles," Liam growled.

"Never with you watching, mate," Harry smirked, but his tone was deadly serious. "Left pocket."

I approached slowly, my every muscle tense, heartbeat hammering in my ears. As I reached for his pocket, I paused.

"Relax. Not that pocket. Though, if there's time later—"

"Fuck you, Styles," Liam snapped.

I slipped my hand into the left inside jacket pocket. My fingers brushed leather. I pulled out a small, official-looking badge wallet. Harry nodded. "Open it."

Inside was a metal badge that gleamed in the firelight, polished and official. Underneath, his credentials. U.K. Marshal. Real. Government-sealed.