CHAPTER 9
LEON P.O.V.
I watch her from the shadows of the doorway, letting the silence stretch until it becomes a physical weight in the room.
The monitor behind her is dead. It’s just a black mirror now, reflecting her shattered composure and the stark reality of the trap she just walked into.
She doesn't need to say a fucking word. I can see it in the way her shoulders are slumped, the way her spine has completely forgotten its rigid federal posture. Her knuckles are stark white where she’s gripping the edge of the metal workstation.
She’s finally accepted that her entire FBI life is a lie.
Trenton sold her out. Her handler cashed her in for whatever petty bureaucratic leverage he needed and didn't even bother to look back. She’s standing in my private armory, surrounded by millions of dollars of hardware she can't use against me, her mind reeling from the fact that the syndicate boss who was supposed to put a bullet in her head is the only honest person she has left.
It makes me want to crush her. It makes me want to break every remaining federal bone in her body and keep the pieces in my pocket.
I step fully into the room and stop at the wall panel. I hit the digital dial, dropping the room's climate control down to a clinical, biting cold. The vents overhead hiss as the temperature plummets. I want her awake. I want her feeling every single nerve ending.
"The silence is loud, isn't it, Alessia?" I ask, my voice flat over the hum of the penthouse server racks. "They didn't just burn you. They erased you."
She flinches but stays glued to the metal table.
"Look at the screen," I tell her. "Tell me what you see."
Nothing. She sees fucking nothing. I walk over to the velvet-lined cleaning table where her disassembled Glock sits.
My movements are fluid, practiced muscle memory as I pick up the pieces.
I snap the slide back onto her service weapon.
The metallic clack echoes like a gunshot in the chilled space.
I don't look at the gun. I look at her. Her pupils are blown wide, tracking the slide as it clicks into place. She’s vibrating.
She’s an absolute adrenaline junkie, and right now, I’m the only dealer in town.
By holding this gun, I am holding her past and her goddamn future.
I rub a smudge of grease off the barrel with my thumb before setting it down gently on the velvet.
"Nice weight. Balanced," I say. "Just like you."
She swallows hard. I can see her heart hammering against her ribs under that thin silk slip.
"You’re vibrating, Agent Heller."
She doesn't speak.
"Does the steel feel like home, or does it feel like a coffin?"
Before she can scrape together a response, the heavy soundproof door thuds open, hissing on its pneumatic hinges.
Sven doesn't wait for an invite. He stalks three steps into the armory, a stack of encrypted folders in his hand, his face a mask of deep irritation.
He stops dead when he sees her. His gaze rakes over Alessia in her sleepwear, and I feel the air in the room turn instantly foul. His contempt is a physical stain.
Sven tosses the folders onto the table with a careless flick of his wrist. He purposely lets the top one slide off the edge. It slaps against the floor right near Alessia's bare feet.
"The men are asking why the fed is still breathing, Leon," Sven growls. He doesn't look at me. He’s staring a hole through her. "She’s a dead weight. Let me take her down to the basement."
Alessia’s toes dig into the cold floor. Her hands uncurl from the table and drop to her sides, balling into fists. She shifts into a low, defensive crouch, the shock of the burner phone instantly replaced by a lethal, cornered-animal instinct.
"She doesn't belong in here," Sven spits, taking a half-step closer to her. His lip curls. "You smell like the Bureau, girl. Like ink and betrayal."
Sven’s hand twitches toward his shoulder holster.
"Give me five minutes with her," Sven says to me, still glaring at Alessia. "I'll get the real codes." He looks back at her, his voice dropping into a sneer. "You think you’re safe because you’re in his bed?"
I move. I don't raise my voice and I don't give a warning. I cross the space with a speed that startles both of them, stepping cleanly between Sven and Alessia. My hand shoots out and wraps around the back of Sven’s thick neck. I squeeze. My knuckles turn stark white against his collar as I cut off his air, leaning in until I’m an inch from his ear.
"She isn't 'the fed' anymore, Sven," I say, my voice a dead, gravelly rasp. "She’s mine."
Sven freezes. The creak of his leather jacket is the only sound in the room as he tenses, realizing he overstepped the absolute limit.
"If you look at her again, I’ll cut your eyes out and make you swallow them," I whisper, my breath hot against his ear. I tighten my grip just enough to let him feel the pulse of his own carotid artery struggling against my palm. "Get. Out."
I release him. Sven nods once, his face flushed dark red. His eyes drop to the floor as he backs out of the room. The heavy door seals shut behind him with a final, mechanical click.
Alessia exhales a ragged breath she’s been holding for a lifetime.
She rubs her bare arms to ward off the chill of the armory, looking at me like she’s seeing a monster step out of a myth and into her living room.
The external threat is gone, leaving only the charged, magnetic violence between us.
I stay perfectly still, watching her unravel.
"He’s right, you know," I tell her. "They want you dead. I’m the only reason you’re still breathing."
She drops her hands from her arms, her chest heaving.
"Do you hate me for it?" I ask. "Or do you hate yourself for needing me?"
I don't wait for an answer. I walk over to her, putting a heavy, possessive hand flat against her lower back. The heat of her bare skin seeps instantly into my palm. She stiffens, a robotic gait taking over as I guide her out of the armory and into the long, dimly lit corridor of the penthouse. Every step we take away from that room is a step deeper into my world. She’s fighting the biological urge to lean into my touch while her brain screams at her to run.
"Keep walking, Alessia," I say, my voice low in the quiet hallway.
Her slip catches on the curve of her hip. I use my thumb to hook the thin fabric, pulling it straight, letting my touch linger on the dip of her waist. She shudders.
"Don't look at the doors. They’re locked for a reason. Your heart is racing. I can feel it through your skin."
I drop my hand slightly, tracking the sway of her hips as she walks ahead of me.
The bruises I left on her inner thighs from our first night are turning a deep, royal purple.
They look like a brand against her pale skin.
My fucking brand. The sight of them sends a jolt of dark, possessive heat straight to my gut, making my step falter for a fraction of a second.
Alessia notices the hesitation. Her pace quickens, a desperate flight response kicking in.
"You’re healing fast," I say, my eyes locked on the marks. "The marks suit you. Are you still in pain, or is that something else?"
She doesn't answer. She keeps her eyes fixed on the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.
We enter the master bedroom. The vast, minimalist space is bathed in the cold light of the city bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I hit the wall panel. The steel-reinforced door slides shut, the heavy deadbolt sliding into place with a sharp, electronic beep that rings with absolute finality.
She spins around, standing in the center of the room like a ghost. She grips the edge of the heavy duvet on the bed, her knuckles turning white again.
I begin unbuttoning my cuffs, rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt to expose my scarred forearms.
"We’re alone now," I say. "No more games, Alessia. Look at me when I’m talking to you."
She forces her head up. Her dark brown eyes are wide, tracking my hands with predatory focus. I walk over to the dresser, picking up a crystal glass of scotch. I swirl the amber liquid once, the sharp scent of alcohol hitting the air, and set it right back down without taking a drink.
"Did you like the phone, Alessia?" I ask casually.
I watch her face crumble for a microscopic second before she masks it behind her operational stoicism.
She knows I laid the breadcrumbs. She walked right into the trap just to find out her own people built the cage.
"Trenton didn't even hesitate to sell your location.
You were never a partner to them. You were a line item on a budget. "
"What kind of sociopath leaves a decrypted phone out for a hostage to find?" she snaps, her voice reedy and sharp.
I close the gap between us with slow, measured steps. She takes a half-step back, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug. She stumbles. I shoot my hand out, catching her elbow to steady her, my grip iron-clad.
"A sociopath who wants you to see the world for what it really is," I say, pulling her slightly closer. "Truth is a bitter pill, isn't it? Don't hide behind your badge. It’s plastic. It’s fucking gone."
She tries to yank her arm away but I hold fast, looming over her, forcing her to back up until she hits the solid steel bedframe.
I step into her space, my chest inches from hers.
I can smell her. Fear, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of pure adrenaline.
It hits my system harder than any drug. I use a single finger to lift her chin, forcing her to look up into my eyes.
"He crossed you off the list, Alessia. You’re a ghost now. I’m the only one who can see you."
Her hands are flat against the bedframe behind her, her fingers digging desperately into the cold metal. My shadow completely covers her. She is physically trapped, but it’s the psychological cage that’s breaking her down to the studs.