Chapter 2
2
NICK
T he steady beep of a heart monitor is the first thing I hear when I claw my way out of unconsciousness.
The second is the distinct scent of antiseptic and something richer—aged whiskey and fresh-cut tobacco. A mix I’d recognize anywhere.
I pry my eyes open, blinking against the soft glow of a lamp illuminating a room far more luxurious than anywhere I have a right to be. I know before I even sit up that I’m in England, tucked away in the private estate of Lord Nigel Pedersen, a man who deals in power like other men deal in currency.
I shift, and pain lances through my ribs, a reminder that I’m not out of the woods. I ache in ways I cannot describe—my captivity has permanently scarred my skin and soul. I’m alive, but I shouldn’t be.
The heavy wooden door swings open, and I don’t have to turn to know who it is. Robert Fitzwallace—Fitz—walks in, dressed in a pressed button-down and slacks, the picture of calm authority. He’s holding two tumblers of whiskey, offering one to me before taking a seat in the leather armchair beside my bed.
“You look like hell,” he says, taking a slow sip.
I snort, pushing myself up against the headboard with a wince. “Feel like it too.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze sharp, assessing. “You shouldn’t be alive.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
The silence between us stretches, thick with unspoken words. I know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth.
“I want you in Cerberus,” Fitz finally says, setting his glass down. “We’re going after the bastards who killed your team.”
My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand. The rage is there, buried beneath layers of exhaustion and grief, but it’s still burning, still waiting. “And if I say no?”
Fitz leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then you go back to whatever’s left of your life. Except there isn’t one, is there?”
My stomach knots. I already know where he’s going with this.
“Cherise,” I say, the name scraping against my throat.
Fitz nods. “If you think she’s safer with you than without you, you’re more of a fool than I thought.” His voice is even, but there’s steel behind it. “The second the wrong people find out you’re still alive, she becomes leverage. Or collateral damage.”
My grip tightens, my knuckles going white. I’d planned to go back to her. I’d clung to that thought when I was bound and bleeding in that pirate camp. She was my anchor, my only reason to keep breathing. But Fitz is right.
“She thinks I’m gone, doesn’t she” I ask, the words tasting like acid.
Fitz nods. “She’s safer that way.”
It’s a gut punch, the kind that has nothing to do with physical pain. But I force myself to push past it, to think like the operative they trained me to be.
“Cerberus,” I say instead, steering the conversation away from the thing I can’t afford to dwell on. “You really think you can take them down?”
Fitz smiles, but it’s not an expression of amusement. It’s the type of smile a predator gives right before it strikes. “We don’t think. We know. It may take time to get them all, but we will.”
I weigh my options. I can go back to the Navy, get debriefed, and fight my way through all kinds of bureaucratic bullshit before I can even think about revenge. Or I can get Fitzwallace to use his influence, get me mustered out, join Cerberus, go off-book, and take justice into my own hands.
It’s not a choice.
I exhale slowly. “Can you work some kind of magic with the Navy?”
Fitz nods. “It’s already done. You’ll need to send them a report, but I’ve cleared it with the powers that be. They will quietly muster you out with an honorable discharge. It’ll be buried deep and classified.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “I didn’t think you had that much pull.”
Fitz’s eyes sparkle with merriment. “You’d be surprised.”
I drain the rest of my whiskey, setting the glass aside. “When do we start?”
He grins, the expression sharp and ruthless. “As soon as you’re ready.”
I glance down at my healing wounds, the bruises that haven’t yet faded—a reminder of what was taken from me.
“I’m ready.”
* * *
The debriefing is a formality, a check-the-box exercise to ensure I’m still loyal to the flag before they let me go. They ask questions they already know the answers to, and I give them the answers they’re looking for—just enough to satisfy their curiosity without painting a full picture.
Yes, I was the only survivor of my unit. Yes, I was taken prisoner. No, I didn’t break.
The rest, the things I left out—the way I’d carved my way through that camp, the bodies I’d left behind, the raw, unrelenting drive to see them burn—those were for me.
The paperwork is signed—my discharge finalized. Just like that, Lieutenant Commander Nick Ryeland is no more.
Cerberus doesn’t do ceremony. There’s no swearing-in, no pomp and circumstance. Fitz and Sawyer meet me outside the Pentagon, a black SUV idling at the curb.
Fitz hesitates, laying his hand on my arm. “Do you want to see her one more time? She’s here in town for a conference.”
I think about it for a moment. “No. That part of my life needs to be dead to me. Best I just keep moving forward.”
Sawyer leans against the passenger door, arms crossed, his ever-present scowl in place. “I’m not sure that’s the best move, but it’s your call.”
“Yeah, it is.” I slide into the backseat, stretching out my sore muscles as Fitz gets behind the wheel. “What’s the next move?”
Sawyer glances back at me. “We hunt.”
The car pulls away from the curb, and we head to a private landing strip and board a private jet. As we take off, I watch the ground drop away, leaving my old life behind. I should feel something—relief, closure, maybe even purpose. But all I feel is the cold, steady pulse of resolve.
They took everything from me. Now, I’m going to take everything from them. But no matter how much I tell myself I made the right choice; there’s one thought I can’t shake.
Cherise.
I see her in my mind’s eye—her green eyes filled with fire, her body curled against mine in the dead of night, the way she whispered my name like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She thinks I’m dead.
And maybe, for her sake, I need to stay that way. Because if I ever saw her again, if I let myself touch her, claim her the way I once had, I wouldn’t be able to let go.
And right now, I have a war to fight—one I don’t plan on losing.
* * *
CHERISE
San Diego, California
Ten Years Ago
The knock at the door hits me like a bullet—hard, direct, already fatal before I even open it.
Two men in uniform stand on my porch. Their faces are blank, practiced. Their backs too straight, their hands too still. I already know.
“Ma’am, may we come in?”
I don’t want to let them. I don’t want the words. I don’t want the world they’re about to deliver—the one where he's gone.
“We regret to inform you that Lieutenant Commander Nicolas Ryeland was killed in action…”
Everything after that fractures. My breath. My heartbeat. The air. The sky. The floor beneath my feet. It all shatters, and I fall straight through.
* * *
Lyon, France
Eight Years Ago
The rain starts just as I step off the curb, a soft, insistent drizzle that coats the cobblestones in slick silver. I curse under my breath and fumble with my umbrella, which, of course, decides now is the perfect moment to snap.
"Allow me."
The voice is smooth. Polished. French, with just enough gravel to make it interesting. A large black umbrella appears over my head, and I glance up—heels pausing mid-step.
He’s taller than me. Impeccably dressed. Expensive suit. The sort of confident smile that says he's used to being listened to. And those eyes—dark, unreadable, but searching me like he already knows the answers.
"Thank you," I manage, shifting my tote higher on my shoulder. "Seems Lyon weather hates me."
"On the contrary," he says, falling into step beside me. "I’d say the weather’s just done me a favor."
I laugh, surprised by how easy it is. "Do lines like that usually work?"
He tilts his head, amused. "Only when they’re true."
We walk in silence for a moment, just long enough for the air to thicken with something… heavier. His presence is magnetic, a little too poised. A little too smooth. But I have always been drawn to dangerous things dressed in velvet.
"Do you live in Lyon?" I ask.
"I do. I work with Interpol." He pauses. "What about you? Student? Artist? Or just someone who hasn’t figured out yet that this city is more bite than beauty?"
"Maybe a bit of all three."
He chuckles. "I like that."
We stop at the corner; the light blinking red. He doesn’t move away. He just waits, umbrella still shielding me, gaze still anchored on mine.
"I’m Hector," he says, holding out his free hand.
"Cherise."
"Lovely name for a lovely mystery." He takes my fingers in his—warm, firm, deliberate. “I hope this won’t be the last time we meet.”
I smile, a little caught off guard by the pull I feel. By how easy it is to believe him.
Looking back, I wonder if that was the moment I should’ve turned away.
But I didn’t.
* * *
Paris, France
Two Years Ago
The Parisian night drapes itself in velvet, the city’s golden lights shimmering off the Seine as I step onto the red carpet leading into the grand gala. The event is being hosted in the Palais Garnier, its ornate facade towering over us, a testament to its history of luxury and power. I should be awed, but instead, I feel like I can’t breathe.
The diamonds circling my neck feel like a noose and the dress like a second skin that I can’t wait to shed. Hector’s hand is a vice around my arm, his grip firm but deceptively light—his grip promises consequences if I step out of line. That bureaucratic smile—the one that convinces people he’s charming instead of a man who collects secrets like currency—is curved on his lips.
“Cherise, behave,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to tickle my skin. "I expect you to be gracious. Tonight isn’t about you."
Of course not. It never is.
I swallow back the nausea that rises, plastering on a neutral expression as we step into the marble-lined foyer. The air hums with conversation, champagne glasses clinking, laughter bubbling over the soft strains of a classical quartet. It’s a room full of power—diplomats, dignitaries, old money, and newer, dirtier fortunes draped in designer couture.
The gala is a celebration of Jordan James-Fitzwallace, known simply as JJ, and her relentless efforts to combat human trafficking. The woman is a legend, a one-woman guardian angel rescuing women from the darkest corners of the world—the ones governments conveniently forget, the ones taken by men who see them as nothing more than a commodity to be traded, sold and used in any way they see fit.
I should admire her, but all I feel is resentment curling in my stomach. No one saved me—not because they didn’t care, but because no one knew I needed saving. I’d gotten too good at pretending. I wore the illusion like armor, and no one ever saw the cracks.
No one even sees me as someone who needs saving.
Hector tightens his hold as he leans toward a group of men dressed in sleek black tuxedos, their uninhibited laughter a stark contrast to the tension gripping my spine. He releases me long enough to shake hands, his voice dropping into polished French as he begins networking. I take a deep breath, silently counting down the hours until I can escape.
That’s when they catch my eye.
A cluster of men in Navy dress uniforms, their crisp white jackets standing out in the sea of dark suits. Their presence shouldn’t unnerve me. They’re just men, here like everyone else. But my vision tunnels, and suddenly I’m somewhere else—another time, another place with men in white uniforms shattering my world.
Back in the present, the memory slams into me like a fist to my gut. I wrap my arms around myself, struggling to shake it off. Nick is gone. No amount of staring at those uniforms will change that.
I turn sharply, desperate for air, and collide with a woman.
“Whoa,” she says, steadying me before I can stumble. "Breathe, sweetheart. You look like you just saw a ghost."
I blink up at her. Jordan James-Fitzwallace.
She’s stunning—poised and confident, her eyes sharp with intelligence. She’s in an emerald-green evening gown, but there’s nothing delicate about her. The way she carries herself, the way her gaze sweeps the room, tells me she’s used to being in control.
“I—sorry,” I murmur. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
JJ studies me, and I know instantly that she sees too much.
“You don’t want to be here, do you?” she asks, voice pitched low enough that no one else can hear.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
She glances toward the group of men Hector is talking to, her gaze flicking back to me with a new kind of scrutiny. “Is it safe for you?”
The question knocks the air from my lungs.
“What?”
“Are. You. Safe?” JJ enunciates each word, her eyes locking onto mine.
I open my mouth to say yes. To tell her Hector isn’t like that. That he’s important, that I have no reason to be afraid, but I don’t. Because Hector isn’t safe, and I don’t know why, but JJ already sees it.
She gives a quiet sigh of understanding. “Not all abused women are taken by terrorists.”
The words dig under my skin, hitting raw nerves I’ve spent years burying. She isn’t just talking about the women she and her husband’s organization, Cerberus, rescue. She’s talking about me.
Before I can think of a response, she pulls a sleek black card from her clutch and presses it into my hand.
“My personal number,” she says. “If you ever need help, call me.”
I stare at the card, my pulse hammering against my ribs. “Why are you doing this?”
JJ’s expression softens, but there’s steel beneath it. “Because I’ve seen your face before, sweetheart. On too many women. If you ever decide you want out, I’ll make sure you get the help you’ll need.”
I swallow, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “I don’t need saving.”
Her lips twitch slightly. “Don’t you? Besides, it never hurts to have a backup plan.”
Hector’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. “Cherise.”
I stiffen as he strides toward me, his easy charm laced with warning. His gaze flicks to JJ, sharp and assessing. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
JJ doesn’t flinch. “We were just chatting.”
Hector slides an arm around my waist, his grip too tight, his fingers digging into my ribs. “Cherise, come,” he says smoothly. “We have important people to speak with.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and allow him to steer me away. But as we move through the crowd, I can feel JJ’s eyes on me. Watching. Calculating.
Hector leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “I hope you weren’t embarrassing yourself.”
I force a smile. “Of course not.”
“Good.” He brushes his lips against my temple—a show for the crowd, nothing more. “You know how much I hate being disappointed.”
I nod, knowing all too well. I slip the card into my clutch, my fingers shaking.
Because for the first time in years, someone saw me. They saw the truth. And that terrifies me more than anything.