Chapter 9
9
CHERISE
T he Mediterranean sun blazes against the glittering waters of the Nice marina, painting the scene with an almost surreal beauty. Super yachts gleam under the golden light, bobbing gently in their berths, and the scent of salt fills the air. It’s the kind of place where wealth cloaks the shadows, where secrets are traded over champagne and caviar.
Nick parks the Range Rover a safe distance from the marina, his movements as precise as ever. He hasn’t spoken to me since last night except for some one-word answers all day, and he doesn’t speak now as we step out of the vehicle, but his body radiates purpose, every inch of him coiled and ready.
“Stay close,” he says, his tone low, almost a growl, as he pulls a duffel bag from the backseat. Another short sentence. This is getting ridiculous, but now is not the time to bring it up.
I nod, trailing behind him as we move toward a small café overlooking the docks. The bag slung over his shoulder looks casual enough, but I know it holds the tools that will give us eyes and ears on the luxury yacht anchored near the far end of the marina.
Inside the café, Nick claims a table near the window, positioning himself so he has a clear view of the docks. He gestures for me to sit, his hazel eyes scanning the area, sharp and unyielding.
“What’s our plan?” I ask watching him set up his equipment.
“My plan is,” he says, pulling a tablet from the bag and powering it on. The screen flickers to life, displaying a live feed from a drone hovering discreetly above the marina. “Hector and René are meeting on a yacht named Elysia . It’s anchored at berth twenty-four.”
I lean in, the faint scent of his cologne teasing my senses as I focus on the screen. The Elysia is a stunning vessel, all sleek lines and opulence, but it might as well be a fortress. Armed guards patrol the deck, their movements precise and calculated.
“And what exactly are we looking for?” I ask, keeping my voice low but emphasizing my intent to be involved.
“Anything that confirms their plans,” he replies, ignoring my comment, his gaze never leaving the screen. “Hector doesn’t move unless he’s certain he won’t get caught. That means he’s using something—or someone—to cover his tracks.”
“Diplomatic immunity,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Nick’s eyes flick to mine, sharp and questioning.
“It’s what Hector always bragged about,” I explain. “He used to laugh about how easy it was to exploit the system. If René’s involved, they’re probably leveraging someone with a diplomatic connection.”
Nick doesn’t respond immediately, his attention shifting back to the tablet. “That’s exactly what we need to confirm.”
He hands me a set of earpieces and a small microphone. “Put this on. You’ll hear everything I hear, but keep your voice down unless absolutely necessary.”
The earpiece fits snugly, and the microphone clips discreetly to the collar of my shirt. Nick adjusts his own equipment with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure.
“Let’s move,” he says, his voice clipped as he rises from the table, grabbing the duffle bag.
We make our way to the edge of the marina, blending into the crowd of tourists and locals. The drone feed on the tablet gives us a bird’s-eye view of the yacht, but Nick’s focus remains razor sharp as he scans the area for threats.
We stop near a small kiosk selling overpriced sunglasses and souvenirs, using it as cover while Nick sets up a long-range listening device. The equipment is sleek and sophisticated, its directional microphone aimed precisely at the Elysia .
Voices crackle through the earpiece, muffled at first, but gradually becoming clearer.
“…shipment is scheduled to move through Monaco in three days,” René’s voice says, his French accent thick but unmistakable. “The diplomatic crates will pass through customs without inspection. It’s all been arranged.”
“And the payment?” Hector’s voice, smooth and cold, cuts through the static.
René chuckles, the sound grating. “Already transferred. Half now, half upon delivery as usual.”
My stomach tightens as I listen, the implications of their words sinking in. Smuggling weapons through diplomatic channels isn’t just bold—it’s catastrophic. If they’ve pulled it off as often as we now believe, there’s no telling how much damage they’ve caused.
“This isn’t just arms-dealing,” I whisper, barely audible over the comms. “They’re planning something bigger.”
Nick doesn’t respond, his jaw tight as he adjusts the microphone. His silence speaks volumes, though. He’s processing, calculating, already planning our next move.
Then I see him. A man in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back, steps onto the dock near the Elysia . My breath catches in my throat as recognition slams into me like a freight train.
“Dammit,” I hiss, ducking behind Nick.
“What?” he demands, his eyes snapping to me.
“That’s Sergei Kozlov,” I say, my voice trembling. “He worked with Hector. He knows me.”
Nick’s expression darkens, and he glances toward the man. Sergei’s gaze sweeps the area, sharp and searching, and I feel a chill run down my spine.
“We need to go,” Nick says, already packing up the equipment.
“But the meeting...”
“In case you missed it, we’ve got no backup here,” he snaps, his tone brooking no argument. “Besides, we have enough for now.”
I follow him as he moves quickly but calmly through the crowd, his presence a shield against the rising panic threatening to overtake me. The earpiece crackles with fragments of conversation—Hector and René discussing logistics, payment, contingencies—but I can barely focus on the words.
By the time we reach the Range Rover, my heart is pounding, my hands shaking. Nick throws the duffel bag into the backseat and starts the engine, his movements precise and controlled.
“What happens if Sergei saw me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“He didn’t,” Nick says, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror as he pulls onto the road. “But we’re not taking any chances.”
The drive back is silent, the tension in the Range Rover palpable. My mind races with what we overheard, knowing that Sergei is here, that he’s involved.
“We need to act on this,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “If Hector and René are using diplomatic immunity, we have to find out who their contact is.”
“I will,” Nick says, his voice clipped. “But not tonight.”
His words feel like a dismissal, and frustration bubbles up inside me. “You can’t just brush me off, Nick. This is serious.”
“And you think I don’t know that?” he snaps, his gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to the road. “This isn’t a game, Cherise. One wrong move, and you’re dead.”
“I know that,” I say, my voice rising. “But sitting back and waiting isn’t the answer.”
His grip on the wheel tightens. “We’ll act when the time is right. Until then, you need to trust me.”
Trust. The word hangs heavy in the air, and I hate how much I want to give it to him. But trust has never come easy for me, and Nick isn’t exactly making it any easier.
I cross my arms, staring out the window as the city blurs past. “Fine. But if Sergei saw me…”
“I said he didn’t,” Nick says firmly. “And if he did, he won’t live long enough to do anything about it.”
The cold certainty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t argue. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right.
By the time we reach the safe house, exhaustion has settled over me like a heavy blanket. Nick doesn’t speak as he parks the Range Rover and retrieves the duffel bag, his movements efficient and methodical.
Inside, the air is cool and despite that, the safe house is a stark contrast to the chaos of the marina. Nick sets the bag down on the couch and begins unpacking the equipment, his focus unwavering.
“I need to go through the audio,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “There might be something I missed.”
I nod, sinking into the chair across from him. The adrenaline from earlier has worn off, leaving me drained and raw. But I can’t stop thinking about what we heard, about Sergei, about the danger that feels closer than ever.
“Nick,” I say quietly, my voice cutting through the silence.
He looks up, his hazel eyes locking onto mine.
“I’m not backing out of this,” I say, my words steady despite the fear gnawing at me. “You might not want me here, but I’m not leaving until this is over.”
He doesn’t respond, his gaze unreadable. Then he leans back in his chair, shakes his head, then goes back to his laptop.
* * *
The safe house feels smaller tonight, like the walls are pressing in. The buzz of the earlier op in Nice hasn’t left my veins, but the energy has shifted. It’s not adrenaline anymore—it’s something darker, sharper. I can still hear Hector’s voice crackling through the earpiece, René’s slimy chuckle, and the unmistakable mention of Monaco and diplomatic crates.
And Sergei. His face flashes in my mind like a warning light, and I grip the edge of the counter in the small kitchen to steady myself. He didn’t see me. Nick said so. But the fear is still there, coiling in my gut like a venomous snake.
I glance toward the living room, where Nick is still sitting at the table, his laptop glowing in the dim light. His posture is rigid, his focus locked on the screen as he analyzes the surveillance footage. He hasn’t said much since we got back. Hell, he hasn’t said much to me since Nice.
Something inside me snaps. “You’re treating me like a liability,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t even look up. “What are you talking about, Cherise?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I fire back, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “You’ve been trying to sideline me since this whole thing started.”
His hazel eyes finally lift, sharp and assessing. “I’m trying to keep you alive. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I fold my arms, meeting his gaze head-on. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you don’t trust me to handle myself.”
“Maybe that’s because you’ve managed to put yourself in this situation and you’re not prepared for it,” he counters, his voice calm but laced with steel.
I laugh, the sound bitter. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I ruin your perfect plan by showing up when you wanted me to believe you were dead? By being the one who brought you the intel you’re using to stop Hector and René?”
His jaw tightens, and he stands, towering over me. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not. You ended up here with Cerberus because you called JJ, which means Fitz had no choice but to get involved. You were in over your head.”
“Over my head?” I hiss. “I think I’m lucky I still have my head. They want me dead.”
“Take it easy, Cherise. I’m on your side. A lot has happened to you. You’re in deeper than you ever dreamed. You’re not trained for this. You’re not equipped to deal with what’s coming.”
“You bastard,” I say, taking a step closer. “What gives you the right to decide what I can or can’t handle?”
“Because I’m trained for it. Have been my entire life. And I’m the one who’s cleaning up your mess!” he barks, his voice finally breaking through his icy control.
The words hit like a slap, and I feel the sting deep in my chest. “My mess?” I echo, my voice trembling with anger. “Is that how you see me? As some burden you’ve been forced to carry?”
His expression shifts, something flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t answer.
“Say it,” I whisper, stepping so close our breath mingles. “If that’s really how you feel... then say it.”
His jaw tightens, a flicker of something raw flashing across his face before he looks away. For a moment, the silence stretches, heavy with everything he doesn’t want to say. Then he forces the words out, low and rough.
“You think this is about you? About me?” He shakes his head, the movement small, almost like he’s trying to shake something loose inside himself. “It’s bigger than that, Cherise. Bigger than either of us.”
He meets my gaze, and the look in his eyes guts me—like every word costs him more than he can afford to give.
“If anything happens to you...” His voice catches for half a second before he steadies it. “It won’t just break me. It’ll bury everything I’m fighting to protect. My team. Innocent lives. The mission.”
He exhales, slow and heavy, like the weight of protecting me is something he can barely carry—and letting me go would kill him even faster.
The truth of it lands heavily, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say, my voice trembling but steady. “But I’m in it. With you. Whether or not you like it.”
His gaze softens just enough. Enough to tell me I haven’t lost him—yet.
“That doesn’t mean you’re ready for it,” he replies, his tone softening just enough to make me want to scream.
“Why do you care so much?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
“Because you matter to me, dammit. You always have. I’ve never stopped caring, Cherise.”
The words hang in the air, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I want to believe him, but the pain of the past—the betrayal, the years of silence—it all rushes back, threatening to drown me.
“You have a funny way of showing it,” I say, my voice shaking.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says, his tone laced with frustration. “I had to leave, Cherise. Had to. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“Do you have any idea what it did to me?” I snap, my anger flaring again.
The room falls silent, the weight of my words hanging between us. He looks at me, his hazel eyes searching mine, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his resolve.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he says finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.
My chest tightens, and I take a step closer, my anger giving way to something softer, something more dangerous. “Then stop pushing me away.”
His eyes drop to my lips, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My breath catches, the space between us electric.
But then he steps back, the mask slipping back into place. “I need to get back to work,” he says, his voice colder now. “We’ll figure out our next move when I’m done. Why don’t you make us something to eat?”
I watch him turn and walk away, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet safe house. My fists clench at my sides, frustration and longing warring inside me.
Nick might be the most infuriating man I’ve ever known, but he’s also the only one who makes me feel like this—alive, seen, and maddeningly out of control.
As I retreat to my room dismissing the thought of food right now, one thought lingers in my mind: if he thinks I’m going to back down, he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.
* * *
I’ve spent the last hour pacing my room, replaying the argument with Nick over and over. His words replay like a scratched record.
The heat of anger from our fight hasn’t cooled, but beneath it is a deeper frustration—one born not just from his dismissiveness but from the truth laced in his confession. He’s right. I’m not trained for this. But I’m also not weak, and I refuse to let him treat me like I’m some damsel in distress.
The thought of proving myself to him fills me with determination. But it’s more than that. I’m tired of the walls between us, the constant push and pull, the unspoken tension that feels like it’s ready to snap at any moment. If I want him to trust me, I have to take the first step.
The realization both terrifies and excites me. I’ve never been good at giving up control, but with Nick, it’s different. It’s not just that he demands it—it’s that, deep down, I want to give it to him.
I take a deep breath, pulling myself together. My hands tremble slightly as I open the door and step into the hall. The house is quiet—the only sound is the faint hum of the generator. Nick’s door is slightly ajar, the soft glow of a lamp spilling into the hallway.
I hesitate for a moment before opening his door, my heart pounding in my chest, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension coursing through my veins.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the hard lines of his chest, and his gaze is fixed on the floor. He looks up the moment I step inside, his hazel eyes narrowing.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s an edge to it.
I close the door behind me, leaning against it for support. “I need to talk to you.” My voice is steady, belying the turmoil within.
“We’ve said more than enough for tonight,” he replies, his tone defeated.
“No,” I say firmly, stepping closer. “We haven’t.”
His eyes track my movements, his expression unreadable. “Cherise, I don’t have the patience for another fight.”
“Good,” I say, standing directly in front of him. “Because I’m not here to fight.”
He sets the glass down on the nightstand, rising to his full height. His presence is magnetic, pulling me toward him even as I try to keep my composure.
“Then what are you here for?” he asks, his voice a soft growl, his broad shoulders enhancing an aura of dominance that both intimidates and excites me.
I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “To prove to you that I trust you.”
His jaw tightens, his hazel eyes searching mine. “Be careful what you’re offering, Cherise.”
“I know exactly what I’m offering,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
He takes a step closer, his hand brushing against my cheek. His touch is gentle, but there’s a fire behind it, a promise of something far more intense. “Careful, Cherise. There’s no turning back once you cross this line.”
“I know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Without another word, he steps closer, his hand gently caressing my jaw, his touch feather-light, but it sends a jolt of electricity through my body. I close my eyes, savoring the sensation as his fingers explore.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
My breath catches, but I don’t hesitate. I reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head and letting it fall to the floor. My jeans follow, leaving me standing before him in nothing but my lace bra and panties.
His gaze darkens as he steps closer, his hand trailing down my arm. “Naked, Cherise.” He steps even closer, his body a mere breath away from mine.
I swallow hard, my hands trembling slightly as I reach behind me to unclasp my bra. It falls away, leaving me bare from the waist up. I pause, feeling vulnerable yet empowered, before sliding my panties down, stepping out of them and standing before him completely naked, letting the cool air brush against my skin.
Nick’s eyes roam over me, taking in every inch of my exposed body. The intensity in his gaze makes me feel both vulnerable and powerful, like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall.
“Come here,” he says, his tone soft but firm.
I step closer, my pulse racing as he reaches for me. His hands rest on my hips, his touch grounding me.
“Do you know what you’re asking for?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
I nod, my breath coming in short gasps. “Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He pulls back slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. “If you do this, there’s no going back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I say, my voice stronger now.
“Then we’re on the stoplight system. Green means everything is good; yellow means you need a break; and red means stop. I have rights to play at Opus Noir, which means I get tested every three months. I don’t want to worry about pregnancies...”
“I’ve just had my annual physical and I’m clean, too. I haven’t been with anyone except for Hector in years, and I’ve been on birth control since I was a teenager. I really don’t want you to have to use a condom.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his gaze so intense it feels like he can see straight into my soul. Then he nods, his hands sliding up my sides, his thumbs brushing against the curve of my waist, before reaching up to cup my breasts and flick my stiffened nipples with his thumbs.
“Then kneel,” he commands, his voice low.
I drop to my knees without hesitation, my body responding to him instinctively. I find myself face-to-face with the hard line of his cock pressing against his fly. The cool floor presses against my skin, but all I can focus on is him—his voice, his touch, the sheer presence of him.
He fists my hair, tilting my head back to meet his gaze, which is a mixture of desire and dominance. “Good girl.” His lips trail down my cheek and he claims my mouth in a searing kiss.
The praise washes over me, leaving me breathless. His mouth devours mine, his tongue invading, demanding and possessive. I hear myself moan. My hands instinctively reach up, gripping his thighs, my nails digging into his pants as his kiss deepens.
Breaking the kiss, Nick trails his lips down my neck, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.
He steps back slightly, his hands moving to his shirt. He shrugs it off, revealing the hard planes of his chest and his sculpted abs, the defined lines of muscle that make my mouth go dry.
“Hands behind your back,” he instructs, his voice steady.
I obey, clasping my hands together and sitting back on my heels. The position thrusts my breasts at him and makes me feel exposed, vulnerable, but also empowered.
Nick circles me slowly, his fingers trailing over my skin as he moves. His touch is light, teasing, but it sets every nerve in my body on fire.
“You’re mine now, Cherise,” he says, his voice low and possessive. “Every inch of you belongs to me.” He growls, leaning over, his finger sliding down my spine and trailing through the cleft of my ass. I shudder as it all comes back to me—the way he made me feel, the way he made me come undone, the way I reveled in his touch.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can stop it, my voice hoarse with desire.
He kneels in front of me, his hand cupping the back of my neck as he pulls me closer. His lips brush against mine, soft at first, then harder, more demanding.
His kiss deepens, his tongue teasing mine as his hand moves to my waist, pulling me against him. I can feel the heat of his body, the sheer power of him, and it leaves me trembling. I understand why it’s called dominance now. But given some of the reading I’ve been doing, it no longer frightens me, nor do I find anything weak in the prospect of submitting.
He pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re not allowed to hide from me anymore, Cherise. Do you understand? Not your body, not your desires. I want it all.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I’m yours.” It should be terrifying to admit that, but it isn’t. I feel the years fall away.
He stands, pulling me to my feet with him. His hands trail down my body, exploring every curve, every inch of exposed skin, guiding me to the bed and giving me a gentle shove. There is no ask in how he handles me, only the unspoken promise that I will feel his dominance in a way that makes me come alive again. I realize now I’ve spent most of my adult life sleepwalking.
“Lie down,” he says, nodding toward the bed.
I do as he says, my heart pounding as he moves to join me. His hands are everywhere, his touch both commanding and tender. He doesn’t rush, taking his time to explore me, to learn every reaction, every sound I make.
His fingers continue their exploration, tracing the outline of my sex, but stopping just short of giving me the release I crave. My breath comes in short pants, my body trembling with anticipation.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “So ready for this.”
I whimper, my hips rising off the bed, seeking his touch. He chuckles, his fingers finally slipping between my folds, stroking me with a slow, deliberate rhythm. I cry out. I can’t help myself.
“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you want to submit to me.”
I moan, my body arching into his touch, my hand clutching at the sheets of the bed. His fingers work their magic, bringing me to the brink of ecstasy, only to pull back and start the torment over again.
“Please, Nick,” I beg, my voice still hoarse. “I need you inside me.”
With a low growl, he shifts his body, removing his pants and hovering over me before settling himself between my thighs. I close my eyes.
“Open your eyes. I want to see you. I want you to see me.”
My eyes flutter open, meeting his intense gaze as he slowly enters me, filling me with his hardness. He’s bigger than I remember, or did I just get used to Hector not being very well endowed? He takes it slowly, pushing forward so that I feel him taking possession of me. He draws back until only the crown is inside me before thrusting back in.
A strangled cry escapes my lips as he begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure through my body. His eyes never leave mine, his expression a mixture of desire and possessiveness.
“You feel so good, baby,” he groans, his voice strained. “Just like coming home.”
I feel it too. My hands grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I try to match his rhythm. He grasps my hips in a way that allows him to cup my ass. He holds me steady as I try to move with him.
“No, baby. I do the fucking. You’re the one who gets fucked. You don’t come until I give you permission.”
I writhe beneath him; he’s given me no other choice. He begins to thrust harder and faster. The pleasure builds inside me like a bowstring pulled taut and ready to snap. His face hardens as he begins to pound into me, making me cry out and clutch his biceps as I try to keep from being overwhelmed by everything he makes me feel.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice hoarse. “Let me feel you around me.”
His words are all it takes to send me over the edge. I cry out, my body convulsing around him, my orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that leaves me breathless. He follows soon after, his body tensing as he empties himself into me, his low growl filling the room.
We lay entangled, our hearts pounding and our bodies glistening with sweat. I turn my head, my eyes meeting his, and see the satisfaction and possessiveness in his gaze.
“Mine,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my temple.
My body is still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. “Yours,” I agree, my voice soft and satiated. For the first time in years, I let go of everything—my fears, my doubts, my need to be in control—and simply let myself feel. I am free.
Nick rolls from me, pulling me against his chest as he wraps an arm around me. His hand brushes through my hair, his touch soothing, but it doesn’t calm the storm inside me. Because even though my body feels sated, my mind is anything but.
I glance up at him, my heart twisting at the sight of his relaxed expression, his guard down for the first time since we reunited. I should feel safe. I should feel secure knowing that I’ve proven my trust in him. But all I can think about is whether my feelings for him are clouding my judgment, and whether he feels the same. He spoke words of ownership, of possession, but not of feeling.
As I drift off to sleep, his arms still wrapped around me, I question whether or not giving him my trust was the smartest thing I’ve ever done—or the most dangerous.