Chapter 12
12
NICK
T he windows of the Range Rover are tinted, and it’s dark, but they start fogging up fast. The streetlight glow filters in through the windshield, just enough to catch the glint of sweat on her collarbone, the red bloom of her flushed skin, the need in her eyes...
She’s in my lap, straddling me, bare and wild and furious. Her panties lie torn on the floorboard, shredded in a moment that wasn’t about patience or grace. This isn’t soft. It’s not tender. It’s battle lines being drawn, and I never liked losing.
Her nails dig into my shoulders—a bite, not a touch—and I know she’s still angry. Good. She should be. But she’s also soaked, her hips grinding against me like she’s trying to punish us both with pleasure. She’s still wrecked from earlier—from the scene in the private playroom, where I made her come in front of a man who was never allowed to touch her. I can feel the aftershocks in the way she trembles, the way she clings.
And still, she’s fighting me.
“You’re still mad,” I murmur, my voice low, rough with satisfaction. My hand skims up her thigh, brushing the slick skin there. Her breath catches. Her body always tells the truth, even when her mouth lies. “But you can’t deny what you want, can you?”
She snarls, her eyes sharp and wet with frustration. “You think you can just do whatever you want to me? Slap a ball gag in my mouth and make me come in front of that guy, like I’m your...”
“My what, Cherise? Submissive?” I finish, voice cold, even. “Like we were on an op, and I needed you to play your part?”
My fingers tighten around her thigh, locking her in place as I lean in. My lips brush the shell of her ear, deliberate. Dominant. Dangerous.
“You loved it, Cherise. You loved how I pushed you. How I made you feel. You loved the way he watched you fall apart for me.”
Her breath shudders, body betraying her with a small, involuntary thrust of her hips. I feel the war happening inside her, but she’ll never win—not when it comes to this. She may not yet want to admit it, but she is submissive... and I’m her fucking Dom.
I drag my palm up her torso, under the edge of her dress, until it cups her breast through the lacy material. Her nipple is already tight, aching for attention. “Admit it,” I growl. “You want more. You want me to do it again. You want me to take you, fuck you, dominate you—not just for the job. Not just for show. For real.”
Her hand flies—a slap across my cheek that cracks through the Range Rover like a whip—but I don’t flinch. I don’t stop. Because her head falls back, her lips part, and a moan escapes her.
Yeah. That’s what I thought—she's fighting herself and losing.
I grab the back of her neck and pull her down into a kiss—hard, hungry, with a clash of tongue and teeth. My hand snakes between us, fingers sliding through her slick heat. She gasps, biting my lip, and I groan as I feel how ready she is.
“Say it,” I rasp against her mouth. “Say that you want me to fuck you, right here, right now. Say that you want me to take you. Own you. Make you mine.”
Her eyes blaze, half anger, half need. Her hips rock harder against my cock, rubbing, seeking, desperate.
“I…” Her voice catches. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to take me. To dominate me. To make me yours…” A beat. “At least until this is over.”
My smile is slow, feral. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
I unzip, freeing my cock, thick and ready, and grip her hips. In one thrust, I’m inside her, and we both break—a shared cry swallowed by the confined space, raw and electric and too fucking real.
I slam up into her again and again, each thrust savage and deep. The Range Rover rocks with our rhythm, the scent of sex thick in the air, the leather creaking beneath us. Her nails rake my back. Her moans rise louder.
I fist her hair and yank her head back, my mouth brushing her ear again.
“You are not allowed to scream, Cherise,” I grit out. “Do it, and I’ll tie you down the second we’re home and edge you all night. Then I’ll let you suck me off and you’ll get nothing.”
Her body trembles at the threat. No—the promise.
She bites her lip, swallowing her cries, but I feel the pressure building in her, the urgency, the surrender.
“Nick,” she whimpers, hips moving frantically now, chasing it. “Oh, God. Nick, please…”
I speed up, relentless, pounding into her until I feel her tighten around me, body locking, her climax crashing over her with a muffled scream into my shoulder. I capture her cry with my mouth, swallowing the sound as I thrust one final time and come hard, my release spilling deep inside her.
She collapses against me, breathless and trembling, her head tucked under my chin. I hold her there for a moment, letting the world come back into focus. Letting the storm inside me settle—for now.
I ease her back into the passenger seat, buckle her in like she’s fragile—even though we both know she’s anything but. I zip myself up, adjust my seat, and glance at her—flushed, dazed, thoroughly fucked.
Then I reach between her legs, palm resting against her slick heat, thumb brushing gently over her clit. She jerks, breath hitching again.
“You’re mine for the duration of this op,” I murmur. “Don’t forget that.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, clear and defiant despite the wrecked state of her body. “I’m not yours, Nick,” she whispers. “I’m my own. And I always will be.”
I grin—dark, dangerous, knowing. “We’ll see about that.”
Then I lean in and kiss her again, slow and possessive, staking my claim.
* * *
Cerberus safe house
Just Outside the City
of Monte Carlo, Monaco
The hidden ops room below the main safe house hums with a low, electric quiet—the kind that settles after an op goes sideways but before the storm slams back in. Only it wasn’t the op that had gone sideways, but my feelings about Cherise, who is upstairs asleep.
I lean over the glowing array of monitors, fingers flying across the backlit keyboard as I sift through the raw data stream. Satellite pings. Traffic cams. Encrypted call intercepts. The sting earlier tonight yielded more than expected.
Too much, in fact.
“Logan,” I call without looking up.
Footsteps echo behind me as Radcliffe enters, his presence always sharp, always too controlled. “Please tell me we didn’t burn this safe house,” he says, looking at the screen for intruders. “Fitz will kill us if we did.”
I shake my head. “We didn’t. But look at this.”
A grainy still from a security camera on Rue Lafayette fills the main monitor. A man in a dark coat, profile barely visible—except for the ID we’ve already confirmed. Agent Francois Duval.
“Duval?” Logan leans in, frowns. “He’s Interpol. Upper clearance. Paris division.”
“Was Interpol,” I correct. “Until he walked straight into Vallois’ orbit and handed over the target dossier. He had the clearance level to access internal flags on the sting.”
Logan lets out a low whistle.
“More than that,” I say, bringing up the corresponding audio file. I boost the gain and isolate Duval’s voice.
“She’ll run to Ryeland. He’ll protect her. It’s what he does. I think it’s hard-wired into his DNA.”
Logan stiffens. I don’t move. Can’t afford to. Not when everything I’d locked away starts cracking beneath the surface.
“They’re using Cherise to get to you.” His voice is quiet, but I catch the undercurrent—accusation. Warning.
“She’s not working with them,” I say.
“I didn’t say she was. But Vallois knows you. He knows how to bait the hook. She’s the perfect lever—familiar, vulnerable, emotional. You’re already in too deep.”
I finally look up. “That wasn’t your call, Logan.”
“Bullshit. We’re Cerberus. Everything’s our call when it risks the op.”
My jaw tightens, and the words land with more truth than I like. I walk to the console and pull up a secondary log—one I haven’t shown him yet.
It’s from earlier tonight. Cherise’s name pops up twice—once tagged to surveillance footage outside Opus Noir, once connected to a digital trail I thought was clean.
“She was tracked here before we brought her in,” I admit. “They were watching for her. Her comms were clean, but her old nursing license profile pinged when she used a street kiosk in Milan. It set off a silent alert tied to an account under Vallois’ holdings.”
Logan curses. “And you brought her right into headquarters?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“No?” he challenges, stepping closer. “Or did you just not want to leave her behind?”
I don’t respond. Because I can’t lie—well, I can, but I won’t... not to Logan.
“She’s not the same woman. She’s stronger now. Smart. Resourceful. But she’s also a liability—because she’s mine.”
The words hang there, heavier than I intend.
Logan arches a brow. “Yours.”
I turn away. “Don’t twist it.”
“You don’t get to play both sides of the leash, mate. Either she’s a civilian and we bench her, or she’s on this op and we treat her like any other asset. No more personal stakes.”
He doesn’t understand. He didn’t see the look in her eyes after the scene in the playroom. The way her body responded—not just to the pleasure, but to the trust. She gave me that. Without question. Without a fight.
I close my eyes briefly, running a hand through my hair. “They want me to break protocol. They want me reactive, off balance. And yeah, she’s the fastest way to get there.”
“So pull back,” Logan says, voice clipped. “Step off. Let me run point from here. You can’t think clearly when she’s in your bed and in your sights.”
“She’s not in my bed.”
A beat of silence as Logan quirks his eyebrow at me.
“Okay, she is, but that’s beside the point.”
Before I can say more, the elevator whirs and I see Cherise step into it, heading down to us. The door opens, and she walks to where we’re sitting. She walks in barefoot, wearing one of my black dress shirts and nothing else. Her hair’s still damp from her shower. She stops when she sees Logan, eyes flicking between us.
“I couldn’t sleep. Did I interrupt something?”
I exhale through my nose. “We’re done here,” I tell Logan.
He studies her, then me, and leaves without a word.
She closes the door behind him, brows drawn. “Bad timing?”
“No worse than any other. What do you want, Cherise?”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t smile. “Hector and Vallois know, don’t they? That I’m here.”
I nod. “They’ve known probably since Milan.”
She steps forward; arms crossed. “So, I’m what? Bait?”
“Not necessarily,” I say, crossing the room to her. “But you are the reason I’m playing a different game.”
Her breath catches as I stop just inches from her. “That doesn’t sound very professional.”
“It’s not.” I tilt her chin up. “But I’ve stopped pretending that this is about business.”
Her lips part, the air between us shifting. “What now?”
I look at her—really look. “Now we use it. We leak intel. Give them just enough to believe you’re vulnerable and I’m reckless. Let them come to us.”
She leans into me, voice low. “And in the meantime?”
I cup the back of her neck, my grip firm. “In the meantime, you’re going to listen. Obey. Let me protect you the only way I know how.”
She tilts her head back, pulse fluttering beneath my thumb. “Even if I fight you?”
I brush my lips against hers, not kissing—just claiming. “Especially if you fight me.”
And when she presses into me, when her mouth finally meets mine, I know I’m already in too deep... and I don’t give a damn.
We head back upstairs where she paces—barefoot, long legs flashing beneath the shirt. She looks soft, almost delicate in this light. But I know better.
Cherise Pardo is anything but delicate.
“I’m not hungry,” she says, when I set a plate on the small table by the window.
“You’ve barely eaten.”
“I’ve had enough of being told what to do.”
I lean back against the frame of the door and cross my arms. “Have you?”
She freezes. Turns. Her eyes meet mine—challenging, sharp.
“This isn’t the playroom, Nick. You don’t get to bark orders and expect me to kneel.”
I let the silence stretch, let the moment hold until her defiance falters just a fraction.
“You’re right,” I say, stepping toward her. “This isn’t the playroom. And out here, I’m not interested in games. I’m interested in staying alive. In keeping you alive.”
“I didn’t ask for protection.”
“No, you asked for help. You called JJ. You stepped into Cerberus space. That makes you mine now, whether you like it or not.”
She opens her mouth, but I don’t let her speak. I close the distance, crowding her without touching, letting her feel it—the authority I carry, the control I never truly relinquish.
“You don’t get to spin in circles and ignore what this is. You’re being hunted, Cherise. And it’s time you consider Hector might not just want you dead—he might want you seen.”
She blinks. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She recoils as a nasty thought occurs to her. “You think I’m working for him?”
I shake my head. “Not knowingly. But Vallois and his people have known I was alive for a while and working for Cerberus. Earlier this year, I was in Chicago, but by the time they knew, I’d moved on. They call me the Ghost because, like most spirits, I move through the ether undetected.”
Cherise stares at me. “They used me as bait.”
I nod. “I think Hector knows you—knows what you’d do when pushed. After the party in Paris, he had to have known you’d reach out to JJ, which means you’re reaching out to Cerberus. They had to have known threatening you would flush me out into the open.” I pause, watching her jaw twitch. “They were counting on it.”
“That’s not the same as me being a willing pawn.”
“Doesn’t have to be. He used your instinct against you. You’re loyal. Emotional. You put your trust in the wrong man once—he’s banking on you doing it again.”
Her eyes flash, bright and furious. “You mean you.”
I don’t flinch. “Maybe.”
She shoves past me, grabbing the edge of the table for balance, her breath coming too fast.
“You really think I’d knowingly lead them here? That I’d walk into your life after ten years just to set you up?”
I move behind her, placing a hand on the table next to hers. “I think Hector’s a manipulative bastard with reach. I think he planted just enough fear in you to get you running. I think you walked right into his narrative without realizing it.”
“I don’t deserve this,” she whispers, staring at the plate I set down earlier. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“You don’t deserve to die either,” I reply quietly. “But that’s what will happen if we don’t stay ten steps ahead of him.”
She turns, and this time, there’s no fire—just exhaustion. Hurt. But her voice still holds.
“I loved you. I mourned you. And now you’re looking at me like I’m a liability you regret taking on.”
“I don’t regret you,” I say. And I mean it. Every word. “But I do regret not telling you who I was becoming before I left. I regret I didn’t get to teach you the difference between trust and submission. I regret not seeing this coming.”
She stares at me, lips parted, then presses her fingers against her mouth like she’s holding in something she doesn’t want to say.
“Tell me,” I demand.
“You’re the only man I’ve ever trusted enough to give myself to,” she says quietly. “That scares the hell out of me.”
“It should.” I reach out, wrapping my hand gently around her neck, not squeezing—just holding. Grounding. “Because I don’t take it lightly. When you kneel for me, when you let me in—it means something. To both of us.”
She nods once, eyes dropping.
My phone buzzes from the console near the bed. I don’t move at first. I want this moment—this sliver of raw honesty—to linger.
But the second buzz carries a unique three-beat pattern. Not a call. Not a message.
A security alert.
I step away and tap the encrypted screen. A single line appears, untraceable, scrambled through five relay points. The name at the top sends a jolt through me.
DuBois, S.
Cherise watches as my posture shifts. “What is it?”
I read the message once. Then twice.
They’re closer than you think. Don’t trust the doors that open too easily.—S.D.
I stare at it, committing every word to memory before the message deletes itself.
Sophie DuBois isn’t a woman who panics. She’s a French cop out of Lyon with deep ties to Cerberus, clean record. If she’s sending a warning, it means the play is already unfolding.
And we’re standing in the middle of the board.
“Nick?” Cherise steps forward.
I look at her, really look. Everything we’ve been trying to keep from spilling over? It’s about to flood.