5. Vale #2
I want her climax too much. That’s the problem.
Her eyes snap open, glassy with need, confusion warping into something close to anger. “Why—why did you stop?”
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs, forcing restraint back into my bloodstream like poison. “Because,” I manage, my voice rough and uneven, “if I make you come right now…I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Her breath catches.
And for one long, devastating moment, I want nothing more than to ignore every reason I shouldn’t and let her fall apart in my hands.
But I don’t.
I step back another inch, trembling with the effort of holding myself together.
“Say the word,” I whisper, “and I’ll finish what I started.”
But she doesn’t say it. And that’s the only thing keeping me from losing myself completely.
I leave the room before I make another mistake. Before I touch her again. Before I lose myself completely.
I don’t even remember crossing the space between us. One moment I’m staring at her—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide as she begs me not to stop—and the next I’m tearing myself away from her like the room is on fire.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I am.
The door shuts behind me with a dull, final sound, and I don’t look back. I can’t. My hands are still shaking, slick with the ghost of her heat, her pulse, the way her body clenched around my fingers like I was something she wanted instead of something she should fear.
I walk faster. The hallway blurs. The concrete walls, the bare light bulbs, the smell of rust and cold air—all of it dissolves under the weight of what I did.
How could I touch her like that? How could I lose control?
My chest tightens painfully. The burn in my scar flares, a phantom ache that follows me like a memory I can’t outrun. I press my palm against the wall just to keep myself upright, breathing hard as the reality crashes down on me.
I touched her. I put my hands on her. Lifted her. Pinned her against the wall. Kissed her until I couldn’t breathe. Pressed my cock between her thighs like a man who had forgotten what restraint even means.
I almost made her come. God, I almost?—
I squeeze my eyes shut, shame flooding so hot through my veins I feel sick.
I shouldn’t have touched her. She’s a civilian. A variable. A complication I should treat with distance, caution, discipline. Instead, the moment she didn’t recoil from my scar—when she looked at me like I was still… whole—I snapped like a trap that’s been primed too long.
It was her. Only her. Only the way she looked at me.
And that… that’s what broke me.
I push off the wall and keep moving, jaw clenched so tightly it aches. I head down the stairs, through the dim corridor, out toward the coldest part of the warehouse. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere she isn’t.
Somewhere I can punish myself the way I deserve.
I should’ve known better. I always know better. The Brotherhood taught me control. Taught me discipline. Taught me the cost of weakness, of desire, of wanting anything I shouldn’t have.
But the second her body arched into mine, the second she moaned my name, the second she didn’t flinch at my face?—
I forgot everything.
I rub a hand over my scar until the skin protests, a harsh reminder of what happens when I trust myself too much. Pain grounds me. Pain is familiar. Pain makes sense.
Wanting her does not.
Attraction is a liability. Losing control is unforgivable. And what I did…
I don’t have a word strong enough for it.
I stop walking and brace both hands on the nearest metal beam, hanging my head as my breath comes in harsh, broken pulls.
I should stay away entirely. I should ask Knox to handle her instead. But the thought of Knox near her—near her body, near her scent, near the warmth I just had my hands on—makes something ugly twist inside my chest.
I slam my palm against the beam, welcoming the sharp sting. “How could you touch her like that?” I whisper to myself. My voice cracks, low and furious. “How could you lose control?”
The truth settles like a weight in my lungs.
Because she looked at me like a man, not a monster. Because she touched me like she wanted me. Because she said I was attractive. Because no one has in years. And because for one impossible moment, I believed her.
I let myself want her. And that alone is enough reason to punish myself until the urge dies.
My breathing still hasn’t evened out by the time I reach the far corridor—one of the colder ones, where the concrete never seems to warm and the overhead lights flicker just enough to keep the shadows moving at the edges of my vision.
Good. I deserve the discomfort.
I lean back against the wall, its surface cold enough to cut through the heat still burning in my blood.
My hand drifts instinctively to the small cross inked over my heart—a simple design, little more than two clean lines intersecting.
It sits directly over the scarred skin beneath, a reminder of everything I should be and everything I fail to be.
My fingertips brush the ink lightly. A penance gesture. A grounding ritual. A quiet acknowledgement of the vows I keep failing.
I close my eyes and inhale slowly, trying to force order back into the chaos I left in that room with her.
I’m still tracing the cross when footsteps echo at the end of the hallway.
I look up and see a man. He’s not one of us. He’s a Shepherd. I know him vaguely.
I straighten as he approaches—a tall man in all black, gloved hands, expression neutral in the way only cleaners can manage. He carries the faint scent of bleach and smoke, the chemical signature of the Brotherhood’s aftermath work.
He stops a few feet from me, and his gaze flicks over my face, reading too much. “Saint Vale.” His voice is low, quiet enough that it doesn’t travel down the otherwise empty corridor. “You’re a long way from the others.”
“I needed air,” I say.
He nods once, not commenting.
The hallway around us is narrow, lined with steel support beams and exposed wiring humming faintly overhead.
A cracked light near the far end buzzes unevenly, bathing the Shepherd’s face in alternating shadow and pale gold.
The floor is stained in places where old work has been done—repairs, scars, remnants of past missions.
It’s a place for secrets, not for solace.
The Shepherd reaches into his coat and pulls out a small envelope—crisp, sealed with the Brotherhood’s mark. My stomach tightens. “This was recovered from the warehouse,” he says.
I take the envelope. A faint chemical smell rises from it—burnt plastic, maybe. And something metallic beneath. “What is it?” I ask.
“Evidence,” he replies, taking it back from me. “Circumstantial, but consistent.” He meets my eyes. “It’s better if you see it for yourself.”
The Shepherd lifts the envelope closer to the nearest buzzing light.
At first, I see nothing strange. Just plain paper. A little too crisp. A little too smooth.
Then he tilts it a few degrees, and a symbol rises from the fibers like ink bleeding through skin. Faint, almost invisible. But I know it.
A circle. Broken at the edges.
A thin diagonal slash, almost like a closed eye.
The Veiled Order.
My blood chills, the cold crawling across my back like something alive. The symbol is subtle, delicate—designed to remain hidden unless held at the right angle, under harsh light. A signature meant only for those who know how to look.
“Where did you find this?” My voice sounds tight even to me.
“Inside a vent shaft,” the Shepherd replies. “Folded behind a wire panel. Someone wanted it found, but not easily.”
Of course they did.
The Veiled Order.
A name no one in the Brotherhood speaks lightly, even among our kind.
The corridor seems to narrow around us, the shadows lengthening, the air growing heavier. Heat flares again beneath my ribs—not the kind from Lena’s body pressed against mine, but the kind I’ve been trained to listen to.
Threat. Disorder. The echo of an old enemy.
The Veiled Order never leaves anything by accident.
My fingers close around the envelope, the faint raised edges of the symbol pressing into my skin. A ghost of a brand. A warning. The signature of an enemy we haven’t faced in years.
And they were there. In the same place we found her.
“What’s inside?” I ask.
“We didn’t open it,” he says.
“Knox needs to see this,” I say.
The Shepherd nods. “Already flagged it for him. Can you give it to him?”
I nod. “Of course.”
He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice even though the hallway is empty. “You know what this means, Saint Vale.”
“I do.”
It means this isn’t random. It means Lena isn’t random.
It means everything about the last twenty-four hours is far worse than we understood.
I force a breath into my lungs, pressing my thumb to the small cross tattooed over my heart. The familiar sting grounds me, reminding me of vows I’ve already fractured today.
I shouldn’t think of her now, but I do. Her body trembling around my fingers. Her lips parted, trusting me. A trust I never earned.
I swallow hard and slide the envelope into my jacket.
The Shepherd almost smirks. Almost. “Then I’ll consider the message delivered.”
He disappears back into the corridor’s shifting shadows, leaving me alone with the symbol burning against my ribs. The Veiled Order was there. And whatever game they’ve started, Lena is somehow at the center of it.
Control slips too easily when she’s near. But now? Now I have something far more dangerous in my hands than my own desire.
I have proof.
And proof demands action.