Chapter 13 #2
Processing takes hours. Martinez doesn't bring up Cole again, but I can feel his disapproval every time he looks my way.
Statements from every ATF agent, from Shaw and the other Brothers.
We document weapons seized, establish chain of custody for evidence, arrange medical transport for Kline to federal holding with armed guard.
I coordinate with the Assistant US Attorney by phone, outlining charges, confirming we have everything needed for prosecution.
By the time I'm cleared to leave, dawn is breaking over Anchor Bay. My hands smell like gunpowder. My ears still ring from sustained gunfire. Adrenaline has burned through my system, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
The drive to Cole's house happens on muscle memory.
Highway to side streets, turns I've made enough times now that my hands know where to go.
The town is quiet at this hour, fog rolling in from the ocean, muting everything in gray.
I should go back to my motel. Shower, sleep, write up preliminary notes while everything's fresh.
Instead, I park behind Cole's truck in his driveway. Lights glow in the kitchen windows.
Cole opens the door before I knock. He's showered, changed into clean clothes, blood washed away. But I can still see it in his eyes—the violence, the choice, the lines crossed.
"Come in," he says quietly.
I step inside. House smells like coffee and soap, normal domestic scents that contrast sharply with the chaos we just survived.
"You want coffee?" Cole asks.
"No." I'm moving toward him, hands fisting in his shirt. "I want you."
He goes still. "Shelby—"
"I saw what you did tonight. The violence, the choice you made at the end." I pull him closer, meet his eyes. "And I'm still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing you."
His hands come up to grip my wrists. Hard. Not restraining, just claiming. "You should think first. What you saw, what I can do—"
"I spent hours processing evidence and giving statements. I had time to think." I kiss him, hard and claiming. "I want you. I need this. Need you."
His eyes change. The careful control dropping away, replaced by something darker. His grip on my wrists tightens. Hard enough to feel.
"Bedroom." Not a suggestion. Not a request.
He doesn't wait for agreement. Just releases my wrists and heads down the hallway, the assumption clear that I'll follow. And I do, because this is what I came here for—Cole without the VP polish, without the careful distance he maintains.
In his room, he turns to face me. "Strip."
The command sends heat straight through me. No asking, no negotiation. Just expectation that I'll comply.
I pull off my vest, set my weapon on the nightstand. My boots come off next, then my shirt. His gaze tracks every movement, intent and patient in a way that makes my skin flush.
"Slower." His voice drops lower. "I want to watch you."
My jeans come off slower now, aware of his eyes on me. My sports bra follows. My underwear comes off last, until I'm completely bare in front of him while he's still fully clothed.
"On your knees."
I sink down without hesitation. This is what I need—someone who won't treat me like I'm fragile, who'll take what he wants with the same cold precision he used on Kline.
He moves closer, hand fisting in my hair. Hard grip, claiming. The pressure makes my scalp tingle, sends heat pooling low in my belly.
His free hand goes to his belt, unfastens it with practiced efficiency. The metallic clink loud in the quiet room. Jeans open next, and he frees himself. Hard and thick and ready.
"Open."
I lean forward, wrap my hand around him. Hot silk over steel, heavy in my palm. My tongue traces the head, tasting salt and musk and him.
His grip tightens in my hair. "All of it. Take all of me."
I open wider, take him into my mouth. I feel the stretch, the weight of him on my tongue, the way he groans low in his throat when I hollow my cheeks and suck.
"That's it." His hips flex slightly. "Just like that."
I work him with lips and tongue, taking him deeper with each stroke. Saliva makes the glide easier, lets me take more. His breathing goes ragged above me, hand fisted tight enough in my hair that it borders on pain.
"Fuck, Shelby." Rough and wrecked. "You look perfect like this. On your knees for me, taking my cock in that pretty mouth."
The words send a bolt of heat straight between my legs. I'm wet, aching, and he hasn't even touched me yet.
He starts moving, guiding my head with his grip on my hair. Shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. Testing my limits, pushing just past them.
"Breathe through your nose." Command. "You can take more."
I can, and I do. Relaxing my throat, letting him slide deeper until he hits the back and I gag slightly. He pulls back, gives me a second, then does it again.
"Good girl." The praise makes me moan around him. "Taking me so well."
He fucks my mouth in earnest now, controlled thrusts. My eyes water, jaw aches, pussy clenches on nothing. His thigh muscles are tense beneath my hand, his breathing harsh.
"Look at me."
I force my eyes up to meet his. The hunger there, the raw need barely leashed—it makes me clench again.
"That's right. I want you watching while I come down your throat."
A few more thrusts and he does, grip painful in my hair, a rough sound tearing from his chest. Heat and salt and bitterness flood my mouth. I swallow everything he gives me, working him through it with lips and tongue until he's shuddering.
But he doesn't give me time to catch my breath. The moment he's finished, he hauls me up by my hair and tosses me onto the bed.
"My turn." He strips off his shirt, kicks off his jeans. Muscles and ink and scars on full display. "Done being careful with you."
He climbs over me, pins my wrists above my head with one hand. The other slides between my legs, fingers parting me rough.
"Fuck, you're soaked." He pushes two fingers inside without warning. I gasp. "Got this wet sucking my cock?"
"Yes." I arch into his touch, desperate for more.
"You want me to fuck you?" His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Please."
"Please what?" He adds a third finger, stretching me. "Say it. Tell me what you want."
"I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me like you own me."
Something feral crosses his expression. He withdraws his fingers, positions himself, and drives into me in one brutal thrust.
The stretch, the fullness, the shock of it rips a cry from my throat. He doesn't give me time to adjust. Just pulls out and slams back in, setting a punishing rhythm that steals my breath.
"This what you need?" Rough against my throat. "Me fucking you hard and mean?"
"Yes." Nails digging into my palms where my wrists are pinned. "Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to."
Each thrust drives me higher, pleasure building with desperate intensity. He releases my wrists, hands gripping my hips instead, angling me how he wants. The new angle lets him go deeper, hitting something that whites out my vision.
"Touch yourself." Order, not request. "Make yourself come on my cock."
My hand flies between us, fingers finding my clit. Slick and swollen and so sensitive that even light pressure makes me shake.
"That's it." He watches me touch myself, watches my face as pleasure spirals tighter. "Come for me. Now."
The command, the pressure, the relentless drive of his hips—it all crashes over me. Orgasm tears through me. I cry out his name, my body clenching around him in waves.
He doesn't slow. Doesn't give me time to recover. Just keeps fucking me through it, chasing his own release.
"Again." Thumb replacing my fingers on my clit, circling with brutal efficiency. "You're going to come for me again."
"I can't—"
"You can." Leaning down to bite my throat, hard enough to sting. "And you will."
The combination of pain and pleasure, the overwhelming fullness, his thumb on my clit—it's too much. A second orgasm builds faster than the first, sharper, almost painful in its intensity.
"Cole—"
"Let go. Give it to me."
I shatter again, this time taking him with me. He buries himself deep, a rough sound tearing from his chest as he comes. Hot inside me, filling me, marking me as his.
We collapse together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked and tangled in sheets.
Minutes pass in silence. Cole's weight is heavy on me, grounding, real.
He shifts to the side, pulling me with him. "You meant it. About choosing this."
"Yeah." Tracing patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath my palm. "I know who you are now. All of it, not just the parts you show everyone else. And I'm still here."
"Good." Direct, matter-of-fact. "Because I won't pretend to be something I'm not."
"I'm not most people." Meeting his eyes. "I'm a federal agent who spent three years undercover with a criminal organization. I know violence. I've participated in it when the job required it. What you did tonight had purpose and control. You stopped when I asked. That's what matters."
"Yeah." No doubt in his voice. "It was."
"I'm sure." I settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I saw your face when you were hitting Kline. It wasn't pleasure. It was justice. Cold, calculated justice for threatening Gemma and coming after me. That's not something I need to fear. That's protection I can trust."
He's quiet for several minutes, hand moving through my hair with gentle repetition.
"I need you to understand something," he says finally. "What you saw tonight—that's who I am. Delta Force trains you to be lethal, precise, controlled. To cross lines when the mission requires it. That doesn't turn off."
"I'm not asking you to." I lift my head, meet his eyes. "I'm asking you to let me see all of it. The controlled VP, the protective brother, the lethal operative. All the parts of you."
"Even knowing what that means?"
"Especially knowing what that means." I kiss him again. "I've spent my career pretending to be someone else, hiding who I am to get the job done. I don't want to hide with you. Don't want you to hide with me. I want honest, even when honest is hard."
His expression shifts. Acceptance. "You're serious about this. About us."
"Yeah." I settle back against his chest. "I'm serious. Question is whether you can handle being with a federal agent who watched you beat a suspect and chose not to stop you."
"I can handle it." His arms tighten around me.
I close my eyes, exhaustion finally catching up. "We'll figure it out together."
We fall asleep tangled together, both still carrying the weight of what happened.
Sunlight wakes me. Cole's arm is heavy across my ribs, his breathing steady against my neck.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from Martinez:
AUSA wants full debriefing this afternoon. Evidence processing complete. Kline's looking at decades in federal prison.
I text back:
Copy. I'll be there.
Cole stirs beside me. "Work?"
"Debriefing this afternoon. Kline's going away for a long time." I turn to face him. "Which means the threat's over. Case is closed. No more reason for me to stay in Anchor Bay."
"Except for one reason." He pulls me closer. "If you want it."
I do want it. Want him, want this, want whatever we're building together. But I'm also a federal agent with a career and obligations and cases waiting in other cities.
"My assignment here is done," I say carefully. "ATF will reassign me. Probably within the week."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. Could be anywhere."
Cole's quiet for several seconds. "Stay."
"In Anchor Bay?" I search his expression. "Cole, my career—"
"I know what I'm asking." He cuts me off. "And I know it's not simple. But after last night, after everything—stay. Build something here. With me."
I want to say yes. Want to throw away protocol and career advancement and everything I've worked for, just to stay in this moment with this man who sees what I'm capable of and doesn't flinch.
But major life decisions shouldn't be made hours after surviving a firefight.
"Let me handle the debriefing first," I say. "Figure out what ATF wants from me. Then we'll talk about what comes next."
"Fair enough." He kisses me, slow and claiming. "But you'll give me an answer."
"I know." I kiss him back. "Just not today."
I shower, dress in clean clothes from my go-bag.
Coast Highway cuts through fog on the drive to the field office. Morning sun breaks pale through the gray, turning everything the color of gunmetal.
Martinez saw Cole beat Kline. Watched me stand there, weapon holstered, doing nothing to stop it. Only intervening when I needed Kline alive for prosecution, not because the violence itself crossed a line.
My report will say I assessed the situation and determined intervention would escalate the conflict. That Kline posed a continuing threat. That Cole's use of force, while concerning, remained within acceptable parameters given the tactical situation.
All of it technically true.
None of it honest.
The real truth is simpler, and Martinez already knows it: I watched the man I'm sleeping with beat a suspect half to death, and I didn't stop him because part of me didn't want to.
That's not something I can put in an official report.
My phone buzzes. Text from Cole:
You good?
I pull into the ATF parking lot and kill the engine. Text back:
About to find out.
Three years undercover taught me how to lie convincingly. How to sell a story, maintain a cover, keep my real thoughts buried deep enough that nobody could find them.
Time to find out if those skills work on my own people.