CHAPTER 10
DAMON
"Status report. Now," I bark at the first person in my line of sight.
Vance, a loyal but permanently nervous security tech, hustles toward me holding a tablet.
He’s sweating through his uniform despite the climate-controlled air of the fortress, the smell of cheap coffee and nervous perspiration radiating off him.
"We're clear, Boss. It was a... a glitch in the external sensor array. Sector four."
"If I find out someone tripped that alarm for a cigarette break, I'll have their hands," I say, my voice dropping an octave.
I don't even look at his screen. I look at the pulse jumping in his neck.
This is absolute clown behavior. A glitch on a system I paid seven figures to make bulletproof?
I know Cole was the one supervising that sector tonight, and the fact that he isn't standing here giving me this report is a glaring, massive red flag waving right in my fucking face. The official story is too convenient. I grab Vance’s shoulder, my fingers digging into his trapezius muscle until his knees buckle slightly and he winces, his eyes bugging out.
"A glitch. On a redundant system? Don't lie to me, Vance," I growl, squeezing harder. "Where is Cole? Why isn't he giving me this report personally?"
"I don't know, sir, he wasn't in the control room when the grid tripped," Vance stammers, his cold sweat slicking my leather gloves.
I shove him away in disgust. Cole is playing games.
I need to check the server logs, but the blood in my veins is still burning way too hot to sit at a fucking computer right now.
I pivot on my heel and march down the corridor, my combat boots hitting the floor like hammer strikes.
I round the corner toward the residential block and stop dead.
Margarita.
She’s leaning against the doorframe of her room.
She’s still wearing the oversized tactical vest I threw on her over her bloody scrubs, the heavy black ceramic plates making her look small, swallowed up, and entirely displaced.
Her dark hair is a messy rat's nest, and she looks like she barely survived a car wreck. The sight of her—my property, my surgeon, the one thing in this concrete hellhole I actually give a damn about protecting—focuses all my scattered, violent aggression into a single, sharp point. The lockdown reminded me she’s a target.
My target. She’s picking at a loose thread on the tactical vest's webbing, her pale fingers shaking slightly.
"You're still wearing the vest. Good girl," I say, closing the distance between us in three long strides.
Her head snaps up, her dark eyes wide and haunted. "Damon, what happened? Was it a breach?"
"Don't move. You look like you're about to fall over.
" I don't wait for her to process the command.
I reach out and close my massive hand around her upper arm, my thumb nearly meeting my fingers around her thin bicep.
I turn her toward my private quarters, my pace unrelenting.
She has to practically jog to keep up, her boot heels scuffing against the polished concrete with a rhythmic skitter-thud as she struggles for balance.
"Where are we going? Damon, you're hurting me—"
"Keep up, Margarita," I snap, not loosening my grip a single fraction. I am moving her with the exact same rough efficiency I’d use on a prisoner. Her autonomy ended the second she dug a bullet out of my liver and I dragged her into this place. "I'm not in the mood for an argument. Just walk."
We reach the heavy steel door of my private wing.
I punch the code in with my free hand, kick the door open, and shove her inside.
The room is a testament to brutalist luxury—cold concrete walls, a massive dark mahogany desk dominating the center, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a dark, rainy city.
I step inside and slam the door behind us.
The magnetic lock engages with a heavy thud, echoing like a gunshot.
The isolation is immediate. Total. Out there, it’s a syndicate on the verge of eating itself, but in here, there is no Cole, no alarms, no cartel.
There is only her, and me, and the fact that I am completely unhinged by the thought of anyone else touching her.
She backs away until her calves hit the edge of the heavy desk, her hands searching blindly for purchase on the wood.
"This is my space. Nobody comes in here without my say," I tell her, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble as I stalk toward her. She looks at me like a trapped animal, and it just throws gasoline on the fire in my gut. "Take the vest off. Now."
She hesitates, her hands trembling over the Velcro straps. It's too slow.
"You think you're safe because the alarm stopped?
" I reach out and grab the straps of the tactical vest myself, ripping them open with a series of harsh, grating sounds.
I yank the heavy gear off her shoulders and toss it to the floor.
It hits the concrete with a dull thud. Before she can even take a breath, I shove her backward, forcing her spine flush against the cold, hard surface of the mahogany desk.
A stack of invoices and a heavy brass paperweight slide off the edge, clattering onto the floor in a chaotic mess.
"Damon, stop—"
"Look at me when I'm taking what's mine," I command, planting a hand on either side of her hips to cage her in.
I don't bother with the buttons of her scrubs.
I hook my fingers into the V-neckline and rip the cheap cotton straight down the center, tearing it to her waist. She gasps, her chest heaving, the pale, soft skin a stark contrast to the dark wood of the desk.
I bring my hand up and wrap it firmly around her throat.
I don't choke her, just hold her there, a physical reminder of exactly who is in control.
My leather-gloved thumb traces the sharp line of her jaw.
"I can feel your heart through your ribs. It’s hammering," I murmur, leaning in so she can smell the scotch and gunpowder on me. Her pupils are blown wide. "You’re vibrating for me, Margarita. Admit it."
"I'm shaking because you're out of your fucking mind," she breathes, but she leans into my hand anyway, her body betraying every logical thought in her pretty head.
With my free hand, I sweep the remaining items off the desk with a violent, sweeping motion.
A half-full glass of scotch shatters on the floor, the sharp smell of peat and smoke hitting the air immediately, mixing with the scent of her fear and arousal.
The keyboard clatters into the corner. I grab her hips and haul her forward until her legs dangle off the edge, then force her thighs wide open.
I step entirely into her space, my heavy tactical trousers rubbing rough against her bare skin.
I unzip my pants with clinical, aggressive intent, pulling out my cock, heavy and aching for it.
She shuts her eyes, turning her head away.
"I didn't give you permission to close your eyes," I snap, gripping her chin and forcing her to look at me. "Spread them wider. I want to see you."
She whimpers but obeys, her knees falling wider.
I don't prep her. I don't waste time being gentle.
I grip her hips and drive into her in one raw, punishing thrust. The friction is tight, hot, and desperate.
She gasps, a sharp, broken sound into the quiet room, her spine arching violently off the wood.
I bottom out, relishing the way her fingernails dig frantically into the dark mahogany, leaving faint crescent-shaped marks in the expensive wood.
"Mine. Every inch," I tell her, pulling back and slamming into her again. The blunt force of the impact makes the heavy desk shift slightly. "You like it when I'm a monster, don't you? Tell me."
"Fuck you," she chokes out, but her hips rock up to meet my next thrust.
I begin to move with a frantic, unyielding rhythm.
Every thrust is deep, heavy, and totally unrestrained.
I am using her body to process the absolute clusterfuck of this night, hammering into her with a feral desperation.
The desk groans under our combined weight, a rhythmic thud against the concrete wall.
I lean down and bite hard into her shoulder, tasting salt and sweat, leaving a mark I know is going to bruise purple by morning.
"Fuck, Margarita. You’re so tight," I groan, the overstimulation threatening to break my control entirely.
She tries to thrash her head, totally overwhelmed, but I grab both her wrists and pin them flat to the desk above her head with one hand.
My chest hair scrapes against her sensitive skin, making her shiver violently. "Don't you dare look away."
I speed up, my thrusts getting shorter, harder, more urgent. I talk down to her, letting the absolute filth in my head spill out. "You're a surgeon? You're nothing but a place for me to put my filth. Look at you. Spread open on my desk. You're never leaving this fortress. You belong to me."
"Damon—please—"
"Say my name. I want to hear it while you're breaking," I demand, driving my hips against her clitoris, grinding into her with punishing force.
I feel her climax start—a frantic, involuntary shaking of her pale thighs.
I don't slow down. I hammer into her harder, pushing her directly over the edge.
Her eyes roll back, her mouth falling open in a silent scream as her internal muscles clench around my cock in a vice grip.
Her toes curl hard, and her legs lock around my waist, trying to anchor herself in the storm.
"That's it. Give it all to me," I say, my voice totally wrecked. "Look at what I do to you."
Her release triggers mine, hitting me like a fucking freight train.
I groan, a raw, agonizing sound tearing out of my throat, as I empty myself deep inside her unprotected cunt.
I keep pushing, my body shuddering uncontrollably, pinning her flat to the desk until the absolute last ounce of tension drains out of my muscles.
I collapse forward, burying my face in the crook of her neck, my sweat dripping onto her collarbone.
My heart is hammering against her chest like a jackhammer.
"Christ, Margarita..." I breathe, my lungs burning. She is completely limp beneath me, gasping for air. "Don't move. Stay right there."
The adrenaline is finally gone, replaced by a cold, protective possessiveness.
I pull out slowly, the wet sound echoing loudly in the silent room.
She looks completely ruined—flushed, bruised, her ripped scrubs hanging off her shoulders, staring blankly at the ceiling.
A drop of blood from the stitches on my side smears onto her pale thigh.
I don't offer her comfort. I just scoop her up in my arms. Her head falls limply against my shoulder, her body shutting down from the sheer physical and mental toll.
"Go to sleep, Margarita," I tell her, carrying her across the room. "You’re done for tonight."
I lay her down on my unmade bed. The sheets are cold and crisp.
I don't bother covering her up, I just stand there for a second, watching her chest rise and fall until her breathing stabilizes. She’s out cold.
My face hardens. The monster goes back to sleep, and the strategist wakes up.
I wipe my hands on a discarded towel on the floor, my movements sharp and precise.
"Sleep. I have work to do."
I turn away from the bed and stalk back to the desk, ignoring the broken glass crunching under my boots and the heavy scent of sex hanging over the wood.
I pull the keyboard back onto the desk from where I threw it and jiggle the mouse to wake the dual monitors.
The blue light casts sharp, cold shadows across my scarred face.
I pick up a stray 9mm bullet casing from the desk and roll it absently between my thumb and index finger as I punch in my administrator override codes.
My fingers fly across the keys with surgical precision.
I have to bypass the gatekeeper protocols I built myself to hunt down my own second-in-command.
"Show me the back door, you traitorous bastard," I mutter to the empty room. "Computer: Filter logs for User ID M-Holt. Last six hours."
The screen flashes green, processing. A few seconds later, it spits out the anomaly.
A remote access port was opened in the mainframe during the exact ninety-second window of the 'glitch'.
But it didn't come from a terminal. It was a physical patch directly into the server room racks.
I bring up the video feed from the server corridor.
Most of it is looped footage—the timecodes match, but the pixels are static.
I scrub backward. There. A two-second frame stutter where the loop failed to sync perfectly.
I lean forward, my nose almost touching the monitor, watching the frame stutter over and over. "There you are. Thought you were smarter than that."
I pull up the overarching grid. If he was physically in the server room, he had to leave. I trace the blind spots. "Enhance the service alley cam. Sector four."
The screen switches to the grainy black-and-white feed of the external waste removal alley, a spot that sees no foot traffic.
Rain is slicking the pavement. A silhouette is standing by the heavy steel exit door, checking his watch.
It’s Cole. I'd recognize the arrogant way he stands anywhere.
An unmarked black armored SUV pulls into the frame, completely lacking plates.
The driver's side window rolls down. Cole reaches into his jacket and hands over a small, encrypted data drive.
My grip on the arm of my leather chair tightens until the frame gives a sickening crack.
"Christ. You really did it," I say, the coldness in my gut turning into absolute fucking ice. "Who's in the car? Show me the face."
I freeze the frame right as the driver's hand reaches out to take the drive. I zoom in, pixelating the image, running a quick sharpening filter. The driver is wearing a ring, but that’s not what catches my eye.
It’s the tattoo covering the back of his hand.
A crown of thorns. The rival cartel. Garrison’s people.
I look over my shoulder at Margarita, who is still dead to the world on my bed.
The glitch wasn't a distraction to steal money.
Cole sold the route maps. He sold the safehouse locations.
He sold my entire operational blueprint, and he just put a target on the back of the woman currently bleeding on my sheets.
I reach out and touch the monitor, tracing the outline of the data drive in Cole's hand.
"You've signed your death warrant, Cole," I say, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "I'll make you beg for the bullet."
I stand up, dropping the bullet casing onto the desk. The fortress is compromised. We can't stay here. I need to pack the heavy rifles.