18. Silent Comfort
18
SILENT COMFORT
~ROOK~
T hree in the morning, and the lake house stands silent against the backdrop of wilderness.
I ease the door shut behind me, careful not to announce my arrival despite the exhaustion weighing my limbs. Sixteen eliminations in less than twenty-four hours pushes the limits of even my capabilities, but the knowledge that each neutralized threat is one less danger to her makes the bone-deep fatigue worth it.
My sweet Venom…
Her scent hits me the moment I step inside—vanilla and honey threaded with something darker, now permeating the space as if she's claimed territory merely by existing within these walls.
The familiarity of it eases something tight in my chest, a tension I hadn't realized I was carrying until it finally releases.
She's here. She's safe.
The cottage feels different with her presence.
Warmer somehow, despite the autumn chill that seeps through even the best insulation. More alive, despite the hush of pre-dawn darkness.
More like a home than the strategic outpost it's always been.
I move through the entryway with practiced silence, boots barely whispering against hardwood floors. Years of navigating this space in darkness have created muscle memory that requires no conscious thought, allowing my attention to focus on the unusual quiet surrounding me.
Normally, at this hour, the lake house would still show signs of life.
Marcus would be in his office, phone pressed to his ear as he conducts business with contacts in time zones where the day is already in full swing. The soft blue glow of computer screens would spill from Knox's room, his fingers creating a constant soundtrack of clicking keys as he loses himself in lines of code and digital puzzles.
And Bastian— Bastian would be on the balcony overlooking the lake, cigarette smoke curling around his massive frame as he stands sentinel.
Always watching and vigilant, a man whose capacity for stillness rivals statues.
But tonight, nothing breaks the silence except the gentle lapping of waves against the shoreline and the occasional creaking of timber as the structure settles into the night's chill.
Unusual. Almost unsettling.
The last time this place was completely quiet at this hour was... I can't remember. Perhaps never, in the five years I've been part of this fractured, functional family.
My thoughts drift to Bastian as I set my bag down in its usual place, the muffled clink of metal tools providing the only soundtrack to my movements. The big man's connection to Jessica is more complex than I initially realized—a history that predates even Marcus's intervention.
Her bodyguard. When she was just a child.
Bastian had revealed this piece of his past during a rare moment of openness, his gruff voice softening as he spoke of a platinum-blonde girl with determined blue eyes who insisted on calling him "Mr. Bear" despite all protocols of formality.
He'd been one of many shadows assigned to protect the Calavera heir, watching from peripheries as she grew from precocious child to promising adolescent.
He'd taken a leave of absence two years before her "death"—pursuing additional training, expanding his skill set under Marcus's direction. The timing has always seemed significant to me, though I've never pressed for details. Some wounds are best left undisturbed, especially in a man capable of such controlled violence.
Does he feel guilt? Responsibility?
The questions have always lingered, unspoken between us. Would Jessica have ended up in that alley if Bastian had remained at his post? Would those six Alphas have dared approach the Calavera heir with the mountain watching over her?
Pointless speculation. The past is immutable.
I push the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the immediate present. Sixteen hunting teams neutralized, four remaining. Prescott's resources are substantial but not infinite. Eventually, he'll recognize the futility of sending more lambs to slaughter and adjust his approach.
When that happens, we'll need to be ready.
The whiskey cabinet calls to me, crystal decanters catching what little moonlight filters through shuttered windows.
I pour three fingers of aged single malt, the amber liquid catching light like trapped fire. It burns a clean path down my throat, chasing away the metallic taste that always lingers after a night of necessary violence.
Glass in hand, I begin my rounds—a habit formed from years of returning to places that might have been compromised in my absence. Not that I distrust my pack's abilities to secure our territory, but old habits die harder than most men.
Marcus's office first, the door slightly ajar but the room dark and empty.
His typical organized chaos remains undisturbed—files arranged in patterns only he understands, multiple phones placed at precise angles, notebooks filled with his distinctive script. But the chair behind the massive desk sits vacant, computer screens dark.
Strange.
I follow the hallway to his bedroom, easing the door open just enough to confirm what seems impossible.
Marcus Harrington— insomniac, workaholic, man who treats sleep as an inconvenience to be minimized —is actually asleep.
Not the light doze he sometimes allows himself between urgent matters, but deep, genuine sleep. His silver hair splays across the pillow, features softened in unconsciousness, looking younger than his forty-five years.
First time for everything.
Knox's room next, just down the hall.
The door stands fully open, as it usually does unless he's engaged in particularly sensitive work. The space beyond is a technological jungle—multiple monitors, servers humming with quiet efficiency, devices in various states of construction or deconstruction scattered across every surface.
And there, amidst the organized chaos, Knox himself—sprawled in his oversized ergonomic chair, head tilted at an angle that will definitely result in neck pain come morning, laptop precariously balanced on his thighs.
He's completely out, mouth slightly open, one hand still posed as if ready to resume typing the moment consciousness returns.
I slip inside, careful to avoid the creaking floorboard third step in, and gently extract the laptop from his loose grip. The screen displays what appears to be personnel files—multiple windows open with photos, text, data points connected by a complex web of digital strings. I don't examine the content closely, respecting the boundaries that exist even within our unusual brotherhood, but I recognize enough to know he's been excavating information on everyone associated with Jessica's poisoning.
Thorough as always. Relentless when protecting his own.
The laptop safely deposited on his desk, I retrieve a blanket from the nearby couch and drape it over his lanky frame. He doesn't stir, doesn't make the sarcastic comment I'd expect if he were even slightly conscious. His breathing remains deep and even, indicating a level of exhaustion that must rival my own.
Back in the hallway, I continue my circuit, moving toward the wing where
Bastian's quarters occupy the furthest point from the main entrance—strategically positioned to serve as last defense should our security ever be breached. His door is closed as always, but the absence of light beneath it suggests yet another anomaly in this night of surprises.
I debate whether to check on him, weighing respect for privacy against the unusual circumstance of apparent universal unconsciousness. Curiosity wins. I turn the handle with the precise pressure required to minimize noise and ease the door open just enough to confirm.
Bastian Reynolds— eternal sentinel, man who sleeps in ninety-minute increments at most —is sprawled across his king-sized bed, fully unconscious. He hasn't even changed out of his day clothes, though he's at least removed his boots.
The scars that map his face catch moonlight through partially open curtains, silver against shadow.
Definitely unusual.
For a moment, I consider the possibility of foul play—some odorless, tasteless sedative introduced to the house's water supply or food stores.
But the paranoia fades as quickly as it surfaces. Our security is too thorough, our precautions too extensive. More likely, the events of the past twenty-four hours have simply extracted their toll from even these exceptional men.
Which leaves Jessica.
My feet are already moving toward her room before the conscious decision forms. The guest suite we prepared for her occupies the east wing, positioned to catch morning light through the skylight Marcus insisted on installing during the last renovation.
It offers both privacy and security—close enough to reach quickly in emergency, far enough to provide the independence she clearly values.
The door to her room stands open, bed visible but empty, sheets disturbed in a way that suggests hasty departure rather than deliberate movement.
My heartbeat accelerates for a fraction of a second before my senses catalog additional data—the sound of running water from the adjoining bathroom, the scent of her shampoo mingling with the salt tang of what might be tears or sweat.
Nightmare.
The conclusion forms with certainty born of familiarity.
I've witnessed enough of her sudden wakings in our months together, seen how her body sometimes betrays the control her mind maintains during daylight hours. The shower is her typical response—washing away the memory of violation, of violence, of vulnerability that haunts her sleep despite all attempts to exorcize it.
I stand outside the bathroom door, deliberating.
She values her privacy fiercely, guards her moments of weakness like a dragon hoards gold. Intruding could be interpreted as violation of boundaries we've never explicitly defined but always instinctively respected.
But leaving her alone with her demons feels equally wrong, especially now, in this place where everything is unfamiliar except me.
Me, who's been lying to her from the beginning.
The thought stings more than it should. I push it aside, focusing instead on what she needs rather than what I deserve.
My approach is slow, deliberate—each step measured to allow her time to detect my presence, to reject it if that's her choice. No surprising an Omega with trauma history, especially not one with Jessica's lethal capabilities.
The door isn't locked—another indication she's not at her best, as security is typically her first priority.
The hinges whisper as I ease it open, steam billowing around me in warm clouds scented with lavender and honey. The shower runs at full pressure, glass doors fogged with condensation that obscures details but not the general outline of her form. She stands motionless beneath the spray, head tilted back, arms wrapped around herself in what appears to be self-comfort rather than washing.
Her silhouette is a study in contrasts—strong enough to fight off multiple attackers, fragile enough to break under the weight of memories. Capable of clinical violence when necessary, yet vulnerable in ways she permits almost no one to witness.
The water stops suddenly, silence rushing in to fill the void.
Her head remains tilted back, her posture rigid with awareness of no longer being alone. For a heartbeat, I think she might react defensively—lash out against the intrusion, protect herself from perceived threat.
Instead, a single word falls from her lips, soft enough that lesser hearing might miss it entirely.
"Viper."
Not Rook—the name others call me, the identity I've worn publicly since joining Marcus's pack. Viper— the persona I created for Dead Knot, the mask I crafted specifically for the shadows we both inhabited.
The name she moaned against my mouth the first time we collided, violence transforming to something equally primal but infinitely more satisfying.
There's sadness in the way she says it—a catch in her voice that confirms my earlier assessment. Tears, not sweat, produced the salt scent beneath the lavender. Pain, not physical discomfort, drove her from sleep to the purifying ritual of water.
"Venom," I respond, matching her volume, acknowledging her in the identity she's chosen rather than the one fate assigned.
She doesn't speak again, but her posture shifts slightly—a minuscule relaxation of shoulders, a subtle tilt of head that reads as invitation, or at least not rejection. It's enough.
My clothing feels suddenly restrictive, heavy with the weight of the night's violence, stained with evidence of necessary brutality. I shed each piece with methodical precision, letting them fall to the floor in a trail that marks my approach to the shower.
First the tactical jacket, still carrying the metallic scent of blood despite my attempts to clean it. Then the shirt beneath, fabric tearing slightly in my haste to be free of it. Boots kicked aside, socks discarded, pants and underwear joining the pile until nothing remains between my skin and the humid air.
The glass door yields to gentle pressure, opening to reveal her fully. She stands with her back to me, water droplets tracing paths down her spine like tears, catching on the scars that mark her as survivor rather than victim. Her head turns just enough to glance over her shoulder, confirming my identity before returning to forward position.
That single look communicates volumes.
Her eyes— those fathomless blue depths that first captured me in Dead Knot's unforgiving territory —are rimmed with red, lashes clumped with moisture that could be shower water but isn't. There's vulnerability there, raw and exposed, but also trust. Trust that I'll understand without explanation, that I'll provide what she needs without requiring her to voice it.
Trust I haven't earned but desperately want to deserve.
I step into the shower space, closing the distance between us with careful deliberation. My hands find her shoulders first, thumbs pressing gently into the tension gathered at the base of her neck.
She's wound tight as a spring, muscles coiled for fight or flight despite being in arguably the safest location possible.
"Don't cry," I murmur against her temple, arms wrapping fully around her to draw her back against my chest. "You're safe with me."
The words could be empty platitudes, meaningless reassurance offered without substance. But they're not. They're promise, vow, declaration of intent, that I'll defend with my life if necessary. Sixteen dead men in less than twenty-four hours stand as testament to that fact.
She turns within the circle of my arms, her smaller frame fitting against mine with the perfection of design rather than coincidence.
Her forehead presses to my chest, hands sliding around my waist in silent acceptance of comfort offered. Her body shudders with the force of emotions contained, with the effort of maintaining control even now, even here, even with me.
I hold her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other traces gentle circles at the base of her spine. Her tears fall hot against my skin, mingling with droplets from the shower until it's impossible to distinguish between them. I don't attempt to stem their flow.
This release has been building since her collapse, perhaps longer. Necessary, healthy even, though she'd likely argue that point.
We stand like this, connected by touch and trust, for unmeasured time. The water cools gradually around us, but neither moves to adjust temperature or depart the increasingly chilled space. There is healing in this moment, in this vulnerability shared between predators who recognize themselves in each other.
Eventually, her breathing steadies, her tears subside, her body relaxes incrementally against mine.
The immediate storm has passed, though I know from experience that others will follow. Trauma doesn't heal in linear fashion, doesn't respect timetables or convenience. It emerges when defenses lower, when control wavers, when the mind can no longer contain what the body remembers.
"Better?" I ask, the question barely disturbing the silence.
She nods against my chest, not yet ready to speak but communicating nonetheless. My hands continue their gentle exploration of her back, tracing the topography of muscle and scar with equal reverence. Her skin pebbles with goosebumps as the water turns definitively cold, but still she makes no move to separate.
"Let's get you warm," I murmur, reaching past her to shut off the now-chilled spray.
She allows me to guide her from the shower stall, passive in a way she rarely permits herself to be. I wrap her in the oversized towel hanging nearby, its plush texture enveloping her like protective armor.
Another smaller towel serves to gently dry her hair, my movements careful around the bruising that still marks her temple from her collapse.
Her eyes watch me throughout this process, tracking my every movement with the awareness that never fully leaves her, even in moments of apparent surrender. There's something new in her gaze now—something beyond the usual calculation and caution.
Trust. Fragile, conditional, but present.
The realization hits with unexpected force, tightening something in my chest that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with emotional territory I've avoided for years.
I lift her with ease, one arm behind her knees, the other supporting her back.
She doesn't protest, doesn't stiffen at the manhandling that would typically earn me an elbow to the solar plexus. Instead, her head rests against my shoulder, arms looping around my neck as I carry her back to the bedroom.
The sheets are indeed tangled, confirming my assessment of nightmare-disrupted sleep. I set her on the edge of the bed, maintaining physical contact as I reach for the oversized t-shirt laid out on the nearby chair. It's mine—one she's taken to sleeping in during our infrequent nights together at my apartment in Dead Knot.
Someone's been thorough in preparing for her arrival.
My best guest is between Bastian or Knox, but who knows with how those two are able to find every bit of information on anyone if they put their minds on it.
I help her into the shirt, the familiar routine both domestic and intimate in ways that transcend the sexual aspects of our relationship. This caring for each other in quiet moments, this tending to needs beyond the physical—it's new territory for both of us, uncharted but not unwelcome.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, claiming space beside her on the bed's edge.
She shakes her head, damp hair creating darker patches on the shirt's light fabric.
"No."
"Do you want me to go?"
This question costs more to voice, requires vulnerability I typically avoid.
Because the truth is, I don't want to leave her.
Not when she's still fragile from a nightmare and revelation, not when the hunters still search, not when whatever exists between us remains undefined and precarious.
Her hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent.
"Stay."
One word, but it contains multitudes.
Permission, request, acknowledgment of something she'd typically reject as weakness—the desire for company, for comfort, for connection beyond physical release.
I nod, unable to trust my voice with the sudden well of emotion her simple request evokes.
Moving carefully, I guide us both fully onto the bed, arranging our bodies with the practiced familiarity of lovers who know each other's preferences without discussion. She curls against my side, head resting on my chest, ear positioned directly over my heartbeat.
The steady rhythm seems to soothe her, tension gradually leaching from her frame as exhaustion reclaims territory temporarily ceded to fear and memory.
My fingers trace patterns along her spine, up her neck, through hair still damp from the shower. The repetitive motion grounds us both, creates a bubble of calm in lives defined by chaos and violence.
"I killed sixteen men tonight," I find myself saying, the confession emerging unbidden. "Prescott's hunters. They won't be the last."
I'm not sure why I tell her this—whether it's an attempt at reciprocal vulnerability or simple need to acknowledge the blood still metaphorically staining my hands. Perhaps both, perhaps neither.
The words exist between us now regardless of intent.
She doesn't stiffen or withdraw as others might at such a statement. Instead, her palm spreads flat against my abdomen, a gesture that feels oddly like absolution.
"Good," she says simply, the single syllable vibrating against my skin.
No judgment, no horror, no performative moral outrage.
Just acceptance of necessary violence, of protection offered and fulfilled, of shared understanding that certain threats can only be permanently eliminated.
"Four teams remain," I continue, the tactical update doubling as promise. "They'll be neutralized by tomorrow night."
Her breathing deepens, body growing heavier against mine as sleep reclaims territory. But her response comes clearly despite encroaching unconsciousness:
"Be careful. I'd hate to have to save your ass again."
A smile tugs at my mouth, unexpected but welcome.
Even half-asleep, vulnerable and recovering, her essential nature remains intact—sharp-edged, unyielding, refusing to be diminished by circumstance.
"I make no promises," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Your rescue techniques are particularly motivating."
A soft huff of amusement escapes her, the last conscious response before sleep claims her fully. Her body relaxes completely, trust manifesting as physical surrender that leaves me humbled and fiercely protective in equal measure.
I remain awake, standing guard as she sleeps.
My fingers continue their gentle exploration, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her neck, the delicate shell of her ear. In these quiet moments, with defenses lowered and pretenses abandoned, the truth I've been avoiding becomes impossible to deny.
What exists between us transcended merely physical attraction months ago. Perhaps from the beginning, though I wasn't prepared to acknowledge that possibility until now. The nameless emotion taking root in my chest is both terrifying and exhilarating—something I thought myself incapable of after years of blood and shadow.
Something worth protecting. Worth fighting for. Worth changing for.
Outside, dawn begins its slow approach, the first hints of light softening the darkness beyond the windows. In a few hours, the house will stir to life again.
Marcus will resume his strategic planning, Knox will continue his digital excavations, and Bastian will return to vigilant protection.
And decisions will need to be made—about Jessica's recovery, about Prescott's hunters, about Victor Calavera's imminent discovery that his daughter lives.
About what we four men with blood-stained histories can offer a woman who's survived horrors most couldn't imagine.
But for now, in this quiet space between night and morning, there's only this—her breath warm against my skin, her heartbeat synced with mine, her trust expressed in the simple act of sleeping unguarded in my arms.
For now, this is enough.