Chapter 15
15
NICK
T he scan completes with a soft chime. She exhales, hands still hovering over the keyboard like she’s bracing for another layer to crack open. Her focus hasn’t wavered once, even with Logan practically breathing down her neck and that data storm rolling across the screen.
She’s steady; she’s mine. And that’s exactly the problem.
“Print it,” I tell her, voice low. “Then get some rest.”
She hesitates, just a beat, then nods. “You’ll wake me if anything comes through?”
“I won’t let you miss it.”
Her eyes flick to mine—no hesitation, just trust. Then she’s gone, long legs, bare feet, my shirt brushing the backs of her thighs, and the scent of sex and adrenaline trailing behind her.
The moment she’s out of earshot, I feel Logan’s stare cut in like a scalpel.
“You’re either getting clever in your old age,” he mutters, “or entirely fucking reckless.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” He taps the monitor with a knuckle, eyes narrowed. “Because that woman just danced through a labyrinth of encrypted traffic like she was born to it, and we both know there’s sod all about that in her CV. Your instincts are sharp, mate—but instincts paired with a hard-on tend to cloud the obvious.”
I ignore him. The screen flares red—three intersecting pulses along the consulate corridor, staggered inside a ten-minute window.
“Pull the cameras. All of them.”
He’s already ahead of me. Logan slides a flash drive across the desk. “Three blocks off Rue Grimaldi. Two nights before Fortier made his entrance. I scrubbed the footage twice before I trusted it.”
I plug it in. Let the video spool.
A black SUV. Passenger door. A woman steps out—tall, gloved, cigarette pinched between manicured fingers. Her face is turned from the camera, but I don’t need it. I know that walk. That chilled elegance. The calculated arrogance in every step.
Juliette Morin.
Logan nods once. “Confirmed. Identity matched on second pass. Officially she’s clean—diplomatic attaché turned freelance logistics consultant. But we ran her vector through the Cerberus archives. She’s been skirting Vallois’ circles for years.”
“And Fortier met her here?”
“Six minutes later,” he replies. “Brief meeting, no physical exchange. But the timestamps line up exactly with the relay pings we caught last night. She’s not a handler. She’s the bloody gatekeeper.”
I lean back, jaw grinding. It lines up. Too clean. She’s not just running cover. She’s the access point—the one with hands on the valves flooding illicit shipments through diplomatic channels.
She’s due for a visit.
“Set up a meeting,” I say.
Logan raises an eyebrow. “With what name? You show up as Nick Ryeland, she’ll vanish before you finish saying bonjour.”
I stare at the freeze-frame of her on the screen. Impeccable posture. Designer coat. Eyes like polished knives.
“Not Ryeland,” I murmur. “Beaumont.”
Logan stills, arms folding slowly. “Back to that persona, then. Cracking open the monster vault, are we?”
“Juliette plays status like poker,” I say. “She’ll sniff out a Cerberus asset in a heartbeat. But a corrupt fixer with a penchant for control and no leash? She’ll take the bait.”
His eyes narrow further. “And Cherise?”
“She’s coming.”
A sharp breath. A scoff. “Of course she is. Because bringing your not-so-innocent tagalong into an op involving a woman who’s likely seen her before while you channel your inner psychopath? Positively inspired.”
“She’s not a tagalong.”
“No,” Logan says flatly. “She’s a bloody complication. That’s the difference between us, mate—you see an asset. I see the reason this whole thing goes tits-up.”
I look back at the screen. To the still image of Juliette. Let him doubt. I don’t have that luxury. Not anymore.
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I pull up the encrypted drive with Cerberus’ dormant aliases and input the retrieval string. Beaumont loads on the second pass—complete with offshore accounts, tailored intel, and a forged criminal record deep enough to make Monaco’s security services flinch.
Beaumont’s wardrobe is already here. The file was prepped for a fallback op six months ago, but I never deployed it. Now it’s our in.
I close the terminal and head upstairs.
Cherise is stretched out across the bed, but not asleep. One of her knees bent under her, head tilted, eyes focused. The lamp casts gold over her skin, making her look dangerous and delicate all at once.
“Don’t you know how to take a break?” I ask.
She glances up. “If you saw what I saw on that overlay, you wouldn’t be sleeping either.”
“I saw it.” I cross the room, drop the file and printout in front of her. “I need you dressed in something sexy. Something tight. Expensive. Red. There should be something in the closet that works.”
Her brow lifts. “Where are we going?”
“To meet the woman greasing Vallois’ diplomatic wheels.”
“Juliette?”
I nod.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her expression shutters, jaw working. She opens the file and freezes when she sees the surveillance still.
“I’ve seen that coat,” she murmurs. “She wore it in Prague. Hector took me to a conference, and she showed up halfway through the night. Never touched a drink. Never flirted with anyone except him.”
I fold my arms. “They were involved?”
“Not officially. But she had a way of orbiting men with power. Never directly. She didn’t want the spotlight. She wanted the leash.”
That tracks. Juliette’s the kind who doesn’t bend unless she’s the one doing the tying. And if she’s providing cover for Vallois and Hector, she’ll expect deference—unless she thinks she’s in the presence of someone who could take it from her.
“You’re bringing me because she’ll recognize me,” Cherise says.
“No,” I reply, stepping closer. “I’m bringing you because if she’s anywhere near as smart as she thinks she is, she’ll want to challenge you. She’ll want to test what you mean to me.”
“And what do I say when she does?”
“You don’t.” I brush her jaw with my knuckles, slow and firm. “You wear the collar, you let me lead, and you make her think you’d bleed for me.”
Her pulse kicks under my touch. “And would I?”
I meet her eyes. “We’re not answering that tonight.”
She doesn’t push—just goes to get changed
By the time I reach the secure closet and pull the suit bag marked for Nikolai Beaumont , the shift has already begun. The Nikolai Beaumont identity has been buried for almost six years. The French-tailored suit still fits like a glove, and the silver-capped cane rests against the wall like an exclamation point. Nikolai Beaumont. Former oil magnate turned mercenary fixer. A ghost like me—except darker. Louder. The kind of man who makes powerful people nervous for all the wrong reasons.
Cerberus built him with layers: Swiss bank accounts, burner numbers, custom passports, a profile full of violence and vice. Dominance was his reputation. Ruthlessness was his currency.
It’s not a mask I enjoy wearing anymore.
Everything from the cut of the blazer to the cufflinks screams tailored arrogance. Power without conscience. Control without remorse. This is the persona Juliette will recognize. Who she’ll respect. Who she’ll fear.
I fasten the shirt collar, clip the watch onto my wrist—the same timepiece I took off a trafficker in Marseille five years ago. Cerberus gave me the option to turn it in. I didn’t.
It belonged to a man named Albert Viers. One of Cerberus’ first big takedowns. Arms broker. Human trafficker. Monster with a lawyer's smile. The kind of man who smiled while auctioning off lives. We buried him six feet under a vineyard in Spain after pulling his network apart cell by cell. I kept the watch—not because I wanted a trophy. But because sometimes, when you need to become the monster to kill one, you wear his skin.
Cherise appears in the mirror behind me, dressed in blood-red silk, heels that could kill, and a diamond collar around her throat. Her eyes meet mine.
She watches me in the mirror as she fastens the last earring. “You want to give me more information on this alias, or are we improvising?”
“Nikolai Beaumont,” I say, adjusting the cuffs. “Eastern European money, forged in war and washed in oil. Cerberus uses him to get through doors that refused to open for anyone else. He’s a fixer. Arrogant. Ruthless. Unapologetically dominant.”
Her lips curve slightly. “So... not much of a stretch?”
I stalk toward her slowly and stop behind her. My hand glides down the side of her thigh, tracing the slit in the fabric until I reach bare skin. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact with me in the mirror.
“Difference is,” I say, fingers grazing the lace edge of her thigh-highs, “Beaumont doesn’t care about the people he breaks. He collects them. Mounts them like trophies.”
She reaches behind her and threads her fingers into my hair. “And what do you do, Nick?”
I lean forward, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck. “I make sure the ones I break always beg me to do it again.”
Her breath shudders. “Good. Because I don’t plan on kneeling for anyone else.”
I adjust the watch one final time… time to become the man I used to be.
* * *
Back in the ops room, Logan whistles when we walk in.
“Thank you,” says Cherise with a nod.
“Who says I was whistling at you, dollface?” he teases.
Cherise chuckles as she looks over his shoulder at the monitor showing Juliette.
“She won’t be easy to pin down,” she says. “She hides behind credentials, position. You come at her head-on, she’ll bury you in red tape and throw her diplomatic badge on the table.”
“We don’t need her out in the open,” I say. “We just need her in motion. I want to tail her. Track her contacts. We flush her out the moment she goes to meet Vallois.”
Logan folds his arms. “You think she’ll go herself?”
“She’s been close to every shipment,” I reply. “She’ll want to see the next one pass clean.”
Cherise steps forward, scanning the logs. “You said this footage was two nights before the casino?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s already started setting up the next leg. If she’s still here, she’s waiting for confirmation that Fortier didn’t burn her.”
Logan whistles low. “So we give her exactly that.”
I nod. “Feed her controlled intel. Make her believe Fortier kept his mouth shut. She’ll relax. Move faster.”
Cherise’s fingers drum lightly on the console. Her body’s tight, coiled in a way that tells me she’s still processing.
I lean in behind her again, brushing my lips against the shell of her ear. “You okay?”
She tilts her head back slightly. “You mean, am I okay talking about Hector’s other woman?”
My hand curls around her hip. “I mean, do I need to bend you over this desk and remind you who you belong to?”
A flush creeps up her neck. “You think that’ll help?”
I smile against her skin. “I think it’ll refocus you.”
Logan clears his throat rather pointedly. “Bloody hell. Could you at least wait until I’ve left the room before launching into foreplay?”
Cherise snorts softly, but doesn’t move away from me.
“Go prep surveillance routes,” I say without looking at him.
Logan mutters something under his breath and withdraws.
When we’re alone, Cherise turns in my arms, her palms settling against my chest. “You meant it, didn’t you? Earlier. About reminding me.”
“I always mean it when I say I’ll put you where I want you.”
“Even if we’re in the middle of a war?”
“Especially then.”
I slide my fingers through her hair, tugging gently until she tilts her face up to mine.
“You’re mine, Cherise,” I say, voice low and rough. “And no ghost from your past, no diplomat with a badge, no ex-husband with a death wish is going to change that.”
She presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Then give me something real to do. Make me part of the next move.”
“You already are.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Not just as bait.”
“No.” I lean in until our foreheads touch. “As a threat.”
She grins, slow and dangerous. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
I step back, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “Then give me a moment to put the final touches on, ma petite soldate . Then we’ll go hunting.”
Because the game’s changed. We’ve got a name, a face, a weakness.
Logan returns, dragging a hand through his hair as he paces the ops room behind me. “You’re sure about this?”
“No,” I say. “But Juliette won’t talk to anyone she doesn’t think can get her out. Fortier gave her just enough fear to stall. I’m going to offer her relief.”
“She’s dangerous,” Logan warns. “Arrogant. Smart. You slip for a second, she’ll eat you alive.”
I don’t answer. I’m already too deep in the headspace.
“Tell me again why you need her?” Logan continues. “We can pull her records. Freeze her assets. Hit her with a blackout protocol.”
“She’s not a soldier,” I say. “She’s not stupid enough to fight. She’ll retreat unless I walk into her den wearing fangs.”
Logan shakes his head. “And Cherise? You’re absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Nick…”
“She knows Juliette’s tells. Knows the look in her eye when she’s trying to play innocent. She’s not just cover. She’s leverage.”
He leans on the console, glaring at me. “And if Juliette recognizes her as Hector’s ex-wife?”
“Then I put Cherise on her knees and remind the room who she belongs to.”
Logan snorts under his breath. “You’re not even pretending to be impartial anymore.”
I ignore him, because he’s right. I’ve stopped pretending. Time for Cherise and me to go.
I find her in the kitchen, looking out of the window toward the sea.
“Do you still sail?” she asks.
“I do, as a matter-of-fact. I’ve been thinking about putting a boat in the marina and living there.”
“Promise me that someday, we’ll sail off into the sunset—not necessarily forever…”
I step behind her and slide my hand along her jaw. She leans into the touch without speaking. “I promise, but not today. Today, we’ve got a job to finish.”
She doesn’t look away from the window. “Figured,” she says as she turns to me with a smile. “You only ever touch me like that when you want something complicated.”
“I always want something complicated.”
That earns me another smile. “So, remind me, my main job?”
I move around her and lean against the counter. “Beaumont’s consort. Decorative. Controlled. But I need more than a pretty submissive on my arm. I need you watching Juliette. Every breath. Every flicker in her voice.”
Cherise’s lips part, just slightly. “You’re trusting me?”
“That’s a given. I’m starting to think your instincts are better than mine,” I admit.
Her brow lifts. “That an admission of weakness?”
“No.” I grip her chin and make her look at me. “It’s an admission that I don’t want you out of my sight.”
Her breath catches. I don’t let her look away.
“I need you with me,” I say, low and certain. “Not just for the role. Not just because you know her. But because I want you there.”
She searches my face, but I give her nothing else. Just truth, naked and cold.
“Then let’s give Juliette a show she won’t forget.” She says with finality.