CHAPTER 19 #2
He slams the magazine into the well with a violent, final clack.
My heart physically skips a beat. He racks the slide with practiced ease, the mechanical snap loud and definitive in the sterile room.
The brass casing of a live round glints briefly in the chamber before it seals.
The weapon is hot. The presence of a loaded gun between two people who spent the last three years lying to each other is a volatile chemical reaction waiting for a spark.
My hands twitch involuntarily at my sides, my fingers desperately seeking a grip that isn't there.
"One in the pipe," he says, holding the gun pointed safely at the floor.
"I know how a Glock works, Leon."
"Knowing isn't the same as feeling it."
He extends his arm slowly. He isn't pointing it at me.
He is offering it. He presents the Glock grip-first, his hand steady as a rock, leaving his broad chest completely exposed.
He is literally offering me the means to put a hollow-point in his heart, take his keys, and walk out of this penthouse.
It is the ultimate, unhinged trust test.
The air in the room vanishes. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple, tickling my skin, but I absolutely refuse to wipe it away.
"Take it, Alessia."
"You’re handing a fed a loaded gun in a locked room. That’s a mistake."
"It’s only a mistake if I misread you," he says softly. "And I never misread you."
"What are you waiting for?" he taunts when I don't move.
"I'm waiting for the catch."
"There is no catch. Only the choice."
My hand hovers between us, trembling slightly against my will. My federal training is screaming in my ear—lethal force protocols, chain of custody, the voice of Trenton calling me a traitor. But Leon’s physical presence is louder. If I take this gun, I am an accomplice. I am a murderer in waiting.
My fingers close around the grip. My bruised knuckles brush his hot skin for a fleeting second.
The Glock is heavy, perfectly balanced, feeling like it was forged specifically for the dimensions of my hand.
The exact second I take the weapon, the 'Agent' in my head goes entirely silent. The Rubicon is crossed.
"It feels right," I whisper, my index finger automatically resting flat along the slide, entirely clear of the trigger out of pure muscle memory.
"It feels like a heavy piece of metal," he counters.
"Liar," I say, looking up at him. "It feels like power."
Leon steps aggressively into my space, closing the gap until his massive frame is dwarfing me.
He forces me backward until my spine hits the cold metal of the weapons lockers.
He cages me there, his chest a solid wall of absolute heat pressing flush against my shoulders and breasts.
My chest brushes the hard plastic of his tactical vest. He doesn't touch me with his hands yet.
He just lets his overwhelming, suffocating physical presence dominate me while I hold a loaded gun.
I tilt my head back, resting against his shoulder, my eyes fluttering shut for a second as I breathe in the intoxicating, toxic scent of his skin mixed with raw gun oil.
"You could do it now," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr.
"I know."
"But you won't. Don't move."
"I'm not moving."
"I can feel your heart racing against my back," he whispers. "It likes the steel, doesn't it?"
He reaches his heavy arms around me from behind.
His massive, scarred hands slide slowly down my sleeves, coming to rest directly over my hands on the Glock.
His fingers are rough and calloused, sliding intimately between my own fingers, forcing me to adjust my grip on the weapon.
He is totally encasing my hands in his warmth.
He guides my arms up, raising the gun to point directly at the reinforced steel of the armory door, our bodies moving in a synchronized, lethal dance.
His thumb begins to stroke the back of my hand, a slow, deliberate circle that has absolutely nothing to do with marksmanship and everything to do with possession.
"Squeeze, don't pull," he instructs, a low rumble against my back.
"I know how to shoot, Leon."
"With me, you shoot differently."
He lowers his head, his face hovering mere millimeters from the ultra-sensitive skin just beneath my ear.
His breath is hot, stirring the fine hairs on my neck, the scratch of his dark stubble grazing my jawline.
My knees weaken for a fraction of a second, my weight shifting back entirely into his hard thighs.
"You hold my life in your hand, Alessia," he whispers directly into my skin, sending a violent shiver straight down my core. "Does it make you want to squeeze?"
"It makes me want to see you bleed," I breathe back, my chest heaving against his arms.
"Liar," he growls. "It makes you want to belong to me."
He turns me roughly in his arms, the gun still gripped in my hand but pointed safely toward the floor.
He grabs my chin, his long fingers digging slightly into my jaw, forcing me to look at our twisted reflection in the mirror-polished steel of the safe.
We look like a matching set of nightmares.
He leans down and aggressively presses a hard, biting kiss into the junction of my neck and shoulder.
His teeth graze my skin, scraping just hard enough to leave a mark, a primal, undeniable brand of ownership right before we head into a warzone.
I let out a sharp, jagged gasp, my free hand instinctively clutching the heavy material of his tactical vest.
"Mine," he breathes against the fresh mark.
"Always yours," I reply, my voice wrecked.
"Remember that when the bullets start flying."
He releases me abruptly. The sudden, total loss of his body heat leaves me shivering in the climate-controlled air. He steps back, his face instantly snapping back into an emotionless mask of cold, tactical efficiency.
"Holster it. We’re moving."
I shake myself out of the feral trance, tugging sharply at the hem of my jacket to straighten my gear. I move with practiced, violent speed, sliding the Glock smoothly into the Kydex thigh holster and snapping the retention strap securely home. The loud click bounces off the steel walls.
"I'm ready," I say, checking the spare magazine pouches on my belt.
"We'll see."
A sharp burst of static crackles in my right ear.
I reach up, tapping the small earpiece I inserted five minutes ago.
Ivy’s voice comes through, heavily distorted but laced with urgency.
The armored SUVs are lined up in the subterranean basement.
The peripheral vanguard teams have already initiated the silent approach on the perimeter of Pier 19. The clock has officially hit zero.
"Leon, Ivy is on the line," I say, my tone stripping away every ounce of emotion. "They're ready."
"Tell her we’re coming down," he says, grabbing a rifle from the wall.
"It's starting. For real this time."
We walk out of the armory and step into his private, steel-lined elevator.
Leon hits the button for the subterranean garage.
The heavy doors slide shut, locking us into a small, descending metal box that smells faintly of exhaust fumes and cordite.
Leon shrugs his shoulders, settling the weight of his tactical vest, looking every inch the violent warlord he is.
He reaches over casually and adjusts the collar of my jacket, smoothing the stiff fabric away from my neck—a tiny, final act of ownership before the violence starts.
"Last chance to stay behind, Alessia."
I look at his reflection in the steel doors. "Fuck you, Leon."
A dark smirk curves the corner of his mouth. "That’s my girl."
The stomach-drop sensation of the elevator descending washes over me, but instead of fear, a bizarre, absolute peace settles into my bones. The terrifying anxiety of being burned by the Bureau is entirely gone. I have embraced the flame. I'm not riding down into the dark anymore; I am the dark.
"When we hit the floor, we don't stop," he says, watching the digital numbers tick down.
"I’m right behind you."
"No," he says, his voice flat and absolute. "You’re right beside me."
The elevator dings. I don't say anything else. I just reach down, my thumb sliding over the safety on my thigh rig, verifying it’s hot, ready to walk out of these doors and kill whoever gets in my way.