Chapter 18
Captain Jonathan
I’m halfway through packing when my phone rings.
Not the careful, methodical packing of someone going on leave, but the kind where everything gets folded too tightly and shoved too forcefully into the bag, like if I keep my hands busy enough I won’t think about the party, or Delilah, or the way the last few days have felt like standing on unstable ground pretending it’s solid.
Shirts stacked wrong. Holster tossed in harder than necessary.
Cufflinks I haven’t worn in years dropped into the side pocket like ammunition.
The screen lights up with Larkin’s name.
I answer it with my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, still folding, still moving.
“Talk.”
“Please tell me you’re actually planning on showing up,” she says, and I can hear the edge of humor she’s trying to pass off as casual. “Because if you don’t, I’m the one dealing with the fallout. Your name is the only reason half those retirees are coming.”
“I said I would,” I reply, a little sharper than I mean to. “That hasn’t changed.”
She pauses. Not long. Just long enough.
“And the mission?” she asks. “You’re really okay pressing pause for a night?”
My hands still. Not fully—but enough that I notice it. The shirt in my grip stays half folded, my fingers creasing the fabric too hard.
“Mikhail isn’t taking the night off,” I say. “But he’s not making a move tonight either. Patterns don’t shift just because someone has a birthday.”
“That confidence sounds rehearsed,” Larkin says. “You sure everything’s fine?”
Fine. The word hits wrong. It lands sideways in my chest, scraping on something raw.
“Everything’s contained,” I tell her instead.
I end the call a minute later, promise to be there, promise nothing else, and the second the line goes dead I’m hit with the sensation that something is wrong.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just… off. Like a hum under the floorboards you only notice when the house goes quiet.
The kind of feeling that has saved my life often enough that I’ve learned not to ignore it, no matter how inconvenient it is.
I don’t sit with it. I never do.
I move.
The desk in my barracks room is bare except for my laptop and phone, both exactly where I left them.
Too exactly. The room is quiet except for the faint rattle of the air vent and the buzz of my own blood in my ears.
I set the bag down slowly and plug my phone in, fingers already moving through code and backdoors I haven’t had to use in years.
The screen throws blue light across my hands, across the rumpled sheets, across the life I never spend enough time in to make it feel like mine.
The first anomaly pops up almost immediately.
Then another.
Then too many.
My jaw tightens as the realization sinks in, cold and sharp and ugly.
These aren’t sloppy. They’re layered, buried deep enough that most sweeps would miss them entirely.
Location pings masked as system processes.
Audio triggers riding on innocuous permissions.
The kind of thing that doesn’t scream bug—it whispers background noise.
Designed by someone patient. Methodical. Mean enough to enjoy being invisible.
“How long,” I mutter to myself, dragging a hand through my hair. “How long have you been listening?”
Days. Weeks. Long enough to map movements. Long enough to see patterns. Long enough to know who matters. Long enough to decide when to strike and who to use to make it hurt.
My blood goes cold.
I grab my jacket and don’t bother locking the door.
Delilah’s quarters are closer than she knows.
Closer than anyone knows. I told myself it was coincidence when the room opened up, told myself it was logistics, told myself I wasn’t factoring in the nightmares I knew she’d be having even if she never said a word about them.
Told myself a lot of things, really. All of them bullshit.
I knock once. Sharp. Urgent.
The door opens and she’s there, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and loose around her shoulders.
For half a second, my brain registers it—and then discards it entirely.
There’s no space for that right now. No room for anything but the spike of fear that hits when I see her standing there unguarded and exposed in ways she shouldn’t be.
Damp skin. Bare shoulders. Collarbone slick with water.
The faint marks I know too well ghosting pale beneath the steam still clinging to the room behind her.
“Jon?” she snaps. “What the hell—”
“I need your phone,” I say, already stepping inside.
“What?” She slams the door shut behind me. “Are you serious right now? You can’t just—”
“Delilah,” I cut in, sharper than I want, but I don’t slow down. “I don’t have time to explain. I need your phone. Now.”
She glares at me like she might throw it at my head, but she does it—snatches it off the desk and shoves it into my hand hard enough to make a point. “You better start talking.”
I don’t answer. I plug it into my laptop and start tearing through it, my pulse pounding louder with every confirmation that lights up the screen.
Her room still smells like steam and coconut shampoo and the faint smoke that clings to me.
The towel shifts when she folds her arms across her chest, defensive and cold and very aware of the fact that I barged in while she was half dressed.
I should care more about that. I do care. Just not more than this.
There it is.
Same architecture. Same buried signatures. Same invisible teeth sunk deep into the system.
“Son of a bitch,” I breathe.
“What?” she demands. “What is it?”
I don’t look at her yet. I can’t. I’m too busy dismantling, isolating, burning the damn thing down to the roots.
Code scrolls fast across the screen, ugly and familiar, each buried file making me want to punch through concrete.
“Mikhail’s been in our pockets,” I say, words spilling faster now, anger and adrenaline tangling together.
“Not just yours. Not just mine. Phones. Tablets. Anything personal. He’s been watching movements, mapping patterns.
This is how he knows who to grab and when.
This is how he’s always been two steps ahead. ”
Her silence is loud. It fills the room in a way shouting wouldn’t.
“I’m sending out a base-wide alert,” I continue, already typing. “Total electronic wipe. Everything personal goes dark until further notice. No exceptions.”
“And the party?” she asks quietly.
That’s when I finally look up.
She’s pulled the towel tighter around herself, shoulders drawn in, chin lifted like she’s bracing for impact.
The sight of her like that—bare, guarded, marked—hits me harder than I expect.
Now that I’m not in motion, my eyes catch on the faint scars I know too well, pale lines against skin that should never have been touched the way it was.
The ones I didn’t stop. The ones someone else put there while I was still trying to catch up.
My chest tightens.
I look away before she can see it on my face.
“I was trying to figure out how to cancel without raising alarms,” I admit. “But now…”
Now it’s obvious. Now it’s unbearable. Now every smiling veteran and polished banquet table looks like a sniper perch in nicer clothes.
“You’re exposed,” I say quietly. “More than anyone.”
She shifts, defensive and angry and hurt all at once. “So what, I just disappear again?”
“No,” I say immediately. Too fast. Too firm. “Not like that.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. Too close. Too charged. Steam still lingers in the air from her shower, making the whole space feel warmer than it should. My laptop hums softly on the desk between us. Somewhere down the hall, boots pass and fade.
I catch her eyes again, really look at her this time, and for a split second the words you’re still beautiful are right there, burning the back of my throat.
They don’t come out. They don’t deserve to—not after everything she’s been through, not when beauty feels like the wrong language entirely.
Not when what I really mean is you’re still here and that should be enough and it isn’t.
She notices my stare anyway. Her arms tighten around herself.
“I’m fine,” she says, even as her voice wavers. “You don’t get to look at me like that.”
She’s right.
I swallow, step back, force the distance into place. “I’m done,” I say, finishing the wipe and unplugging her phone. “Your devices are clean. I’ll handle the rest.”
I hand it back to her carefully, like it’s something fragile, like she is.
“Don’t go anywhere tonight,” I add. “Not alone.”
Her jaw clenches. “You don’t get to tell me—”
“I’m not,” I interrupt, softer now. “I’m asking.”
The words hang between us, heavy with everything neither of us is ready to say. She stares at me like she’s trying to decide whether that softness is real or just another version of control dressed up nicer. Fair question.
“I’m asking,” I repeat, quieter this time.
She studies me like she’s weighing whether I mean it—or whether I’m about to turn into every officer who’s ever decided they knew better than her. The silence stretches. I don’t fill it right away, because this part matters. She needs a choice. She needs to know the difference.
“I’m not leaving,” I add finally. “Not tonight. I’ll stay here. Outside your quarters if I have to.”
Her brows knit together. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax. “But I will.”
I pace once, then stop, leaning back against the desk like if I stay still too long I’ll say the wrong thing.
The hum of the base presses in on us, low and constant, and I hate how exposed this room suddenly feels.
How thin the walls are. How many eyes I know are out there, even when it looks quiet.
How close she is. How little that towel leaves to the imagination when imagination is the last thing I should be allowing myself.
“We’re still going through with the party,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Jon—”
“Listen,” I cut in, holding her gaze. “Canceling it now would raise more flags than showing up ever could. Mikhail doesn’t miss patterns like that. A closed-door cancellation? That tells him we know something.”
Her jaw tightens, and I can see the anger starting to spark. The fear, too, buried underneath it. She hates this already. So do I.
“But it’s going to be a disaster,” I continue bluntly. “There’s no version of that room full of Greenport’s finest that doesn’t look like an open invitation to him.”
She swallows.
“All those veterans. Retired command. Families. High visibility. Controlled environment.” I shake my head once. “If I were him, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“And me?” she asks quietly.
The question hits harder than any of the rest. Not because I don’t know the answer. Because I do.
“You,” I say, carefully, “are the perfect leverage.”
Her shoulders draw in just slightly, and I hate myself for saying it out loud—even knowing she already understands. The truth still feels like a cruelty.
“You’ve been a target before,” I go on. “So has King. Your mother. He’s already proven he’ll use the people closest to us to get what he wants. A birthday party meant to honor Greenport families?” I meet her eyes again. “That’s bait he wouldn’t ignore.”
The word hangs between us, ugly and sharp.
Neither of us moves for a long moment.
Then I notice the little things, the way her fingers curl into the edge of the towel like she’s grounding herself.
The faint tremor in her breathing she’s pretending isn’t there.
The way her hair is still damp at the ends, darkening the fabric where it brushes her collarbone.
The drop of water slowly trailing down the hollow of her throat.
I shouldn’t notice any of it.
I do anyway.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, not accusatory. Just… aware.
I force my eyes back to her face, but the distance between us has somehow closed without either of us taking a step. The air feels warmer. Heavier. I can smell her shampoo under the sterile base air, something clean and familiar that twists something low in my chest.
“This is a bad idea,” I say under my breath.
She lifts her chin. “Which part?”
All of it.
I don’t answer. Instead, I step back—one deliberate pace, then another—rebuilding the space like a barrier I can lean on. Like distance is still something I can control if I move carefully enough.
“We’ll be ready,” I say, returning to the mission because it’s safer than whatever this is. “Extra security. Eyes everywhere. Plainclothes and overt. If Mikhail makes a move, it’ll be on our terms.”
She watches me, expression unreadable. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we endure a long night and go home,” I say. “Either way, we don’t give him a reason to think we’re scared.”
Her mouth tilts slightly. Not a smile. Something sharper. “You’re scared.”
I don’t deny it. “That’s why I’m careful.”
Another beat of silence. The kind that feels like standing in front of a live wire and pretending you don’t hear it buzzing.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say finally, pushing off the desk. “I’ll come by early. We’ll ride together to the club.”
Her eyes flicker at that. Surprise. Something softer. Something that looks too much like relief for me to trust my own reaction to it.
“Together?” she repeats.
“It’ll look normal,” I say. “Family-adjacent. Familiar.” I pause at the door, my hand hovering over the handle. “And I won’t let you walk into that place alone.”
For a moment, it feels like she might say something that would make it harder to leave. Something honest. Something I am absolutely not equipped to hear from her while she’s standing there in a towel looking at me like that.
She doesn’t.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
I nod once, open the door, and stop myself from looking back too long.
“I’ll be nearby,” I add. “Try to get some sleep.”
Then I’m gone—back into the hallway, back into the hum and steel and rules—telling myself that distance is the only thing keeping either of us safe right now.
Even as every instinct I have screams that the morning is coming too fast.