Chapter 10
REED
T he bed was cold.
Not just empty—cold. Like it had been that way for hours. Reed’s hand drifted over the sheet she’d curled into the night before, seeking the heat of her body and finding nothing but linen and absence. The soft indent where she’d lain was already fading.
His chest tightened. Not with alarm; not yet.
But something primal clawed its way up through his ribs—something old and jagged, a relic forged in the crucible of past betrayals.
The same edge that had carved caution into every decision since his first op had gone wrong.
It wasn't panic. It was readiness. It was instinct sharpening his breath, setting his nerves on alert. A tight knot formed in his gut, and he didn’t need thunder to sense the trouble ahead.
Harper was gone.
The soft creak of silence woke Reed fully; the sound was too hollow in a room that should have been filled with the soft rhythm of her breathing.
The scent of her lingered in the sheets—faintly floral and deeply female, like heat and memory pressed into cotton.
But her body was nowhere to be found. Just that last breath of her, fading by the second.
She was gone.
Not out for coffee. Not pacing the hallway.
Gone in the way that left ghosts in her place—like a whisper that vanished before he could catch it, like the echo of her last breath curling into the sheets.
The kind of absence that didn’t leave footprints but still hollowed out the room with its weight.
Her silence rang louder than any scream.
The ache in his muscles from the night before hadn’t faded.
The ache pulsed in his thighs and shoulders, and in the place where she had curled against him.
The memory of her voice—husky with need and whispering his name—still rang in his ears.
The way her fingers had gripped his hair, the way her body had opened for him, enveloped him, clung to him as if she wasn’t afraid to fall.
She hadn’t just surrendered last night. She’d shattered in his arms and trusted him to hold the pieces.
She’d given him something raw, something unguarded, something she didn’t give lightly.
And now she was gone, leaving behind the echo of everything they'd shared like a wound still bleeding beneath the skin.
He rose fast; the sheets falling from his body as he scanned the room.
His bare feet hit the cold floor with a muted thud as he crossed to the closet, yanking on a pair of pants with sharp, practiced movements.
His eyes cut across every corner like a blade—every piece of furniture, every shadow checked with military precision.
The hallway was still. Too still.
No overturned furniture. No signs of a struggle. No smudged footprints, no scrawled note on the bathroom mirror. Just silence. The kind that felt like it had teeth.
His phone was on the nightstand, casting a faint blue glow in the dim room. No messages. No calls. The soft hum of silence pressed in around him, too loud, too empty, the kind that made the back of his neck itch with the weight of something missing.
He moved through the house with sharp, deliberate steps, checking every door, every room. It wasn’t just that she was gone—it was that she had disappeared like a ghost, the same way she’d probably entered a hundred places she wasn’t supposed to be. Silent. Smooth. Clean.
"Dammit, little thief," he muttered, jaw clenched.
By the time he hit his office, he’d cycled through anger, confusion, and the beginnings of a darker suspicion. Had she used him? Manipulated him with her tears, her heat, that smart mouth and submissive gaze?
Had the whole thing been a setup?
He grabbed his phone and hit Gavin’s number. It rang once.
"She gone?" Gavin asked without preamble.
"Yeah," Reed said, his voice like gravel. "Vanished. Left me in my own damn bed, high and dry."
Gavin exhaled. "She leave a trace?"
"Not yet. And that’s what worries me."
"You think she ran?"
Reed's jaw worked. "I don’t know what the hell to think. Part of me—the one that's been burned before—says yeah. Says she played me."
"And the rest of you?"
Reed glanced around the room, his gaze sharp and unsettled. "The rest of me is pissed she didn’t say goodbye."
He ended the call before he could hear Gavin's response, the burn of frustration still crawling under his skin. He paced once behind the desk, every step tighter than the last, before slamming his fist down hard. The desk shuddered. The pen tray rattled and flipped over, scattering its contents.
He didn't care. Let it all fall.
What he cared about was that he’d let her in—really let her in—and now she was gone. Just like that. No warning. No goodbye. And he was left in the echo of it, pissed off and aching in ways he couldn’t name.
That’s when he saw it—small, black, and impossible to miss.
A flash drive, centered like a challenge on the middle of his keyboard.
A single red ribbon was tied around the base, the knot meticulous and intentional.
Reed froze. That ribbon wasn’t just flair.
It was a message. Harper’s brand of mischief and meaning, hidden beneath something deceptively delicate.
The air in the room shifted, the chaos inside him crystallizing into something cold and focused.
She’d left him something.
Not a goodbye. A breadcrumb.
Reed stared at it for a long moment, his pulse steadying as the suspicion shifted into something colder, sharper. He sat down at the desk, hands deliberate, sliding the flash drive into the encrypted port of his laptop. The screen flickered to life.
Files locked. Of course they were. Harper wouldn't leave anything wide open.
He flexed his fingers once, cracked his knuckles, and got to work. It took him less than a minute to bypass the encryption—a simple firewall laced with just enough complexity to keep out amateurs. But not him.
She'd wanted him to find it. And only him.
Inside: a video. A confession. And pages of encrypted data dumps she’d clearly been collecting for months—bank transfers, shell company registries, names with no faces, and locations circled in red.
It was a digital blood trail, and she’d followed it without him, leaving behind a roadmap that screamed both precision and desperation.
Each file was time-stamped, her digital fingerprints layered in the metadata like breadcrumbs left for the one person she trusted to understand it.
The camera flickered on to Harper’s face, her features dimly lit but unmistakably hers. At first, her expression was blank, guarded—the mask she wore when she didn’t know how deep the blade would cut.
Then, slowly, it shifted. Her lips curved into a rueful smile, one that didn't reach her eyes but carried weight all the same. A glint of pain flickered through her gaze, quickly buried beneath something harder—resolve. This wasn’t just an update.
It was a goodbye laced with unfinished business and unspoken truths.
"If you’re watching this, I’m already gone. And I know what you're thinking, boss man. Shame on you," she teased. "But I didn’t run. Not from you."
Reed's throat tightened. Relief hit him hard and fast, like a sucker punch to the chest. He hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear those words until they were out of her mouth.
Not from you. It dragged him back to that moment last night—her in his arms, stripped of defenses, whispering his name like it was more than a sound. Like it was safe.
And in that split second, he saw her again—not just the woman who challenged him at every turn, but the one who’d let herself fall apart in his arms. Who had trusted him to catch her. Who had kissed him like she meant it.
She hadn’t run. Not from him.
And now, there was no way in hell he was letting her go. She hadn’t run—not from him. That one simple truth cracked the pressure in his chest wide open. And for a moment, just one, he could breathe.
Then the rest followed: fury, longing, the sharp bite of arousal.
Because when he got his hands on her—when he found her—he was going to make damn sure she remembered exactly who she belonged to.
He’d put her over his knee, make it so she couldn’t sit down for at least a week, bury his fingers until she begged, then tie her so tight she couldn’t move without feeling him everywhere.
She’d left him high and hard, heart and cock both aching.
And Harper? Harper was going to pay for that. Inch by inch.
"I had to go," she said. "He’s too close. Stuart knows we’re onto him. If I don’t do this now, it ends with you in a body bag. And I can’t—won’t—let that happen."
She paused, eyes flicking downward as if searching for the words she hadn’t quite figured out how to say.
Her shoulders rose and fell with a shallow breath, fingers twitching where they rested just out of frame.
Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze back to the lens, and this time there was no mask, no veil.
Just Harper—raw, defiant, and scared as hell.
But resolute. The truth of what she was about to do was written across her face in every tight line and shadowed curve.
"I left everything I know on here. Every account I traced, every handler he used. I think there’s an auction happening in Mexico, and Stuart may deliver the artifact there. I’m going to try to intercept."
Reed didn’t realize his hands had clenched into fists until his knuckles throbbed.
The pressure had crept in slow and steady, so complete he didn’t register it—until pain lanced through his joints and he felt the bite of his own nails digging into his palms. A sharp anchor against the fury roaring through his chest. The urge to move, to act, to chase after her surged beneath his skin like a scream.
He forced his hands open, shaking them out until the blood returned to his fingers, but the ache stayed—just like the truth: she’d gone into the fire alone.
"You told me not to run. So I’m not... at least not from him, but rather toward him.
Toward the thing I’ve been avoiding my whole damn life.
Maybe I’ll come back. Maybe I won’t make it out alive.
But you deserve to know that last night wasn't a game.
Not for me. I love you, Reed. You always accuse me of being a thief.
.. well, it seems you stole my heart when I wasn't looking. "
The screen went dark.
But the echo of her voice didn’t fade. It stayed with him, curling around his ribs and anchoring itself in the hollowed-out part of his chest. Reed leaned back in the chair, breath locked in his lungs, heart pounding in a rhythm made of rage, resolve, and something deeper—love, raw and unrelenting.
She loved him. Said it like it mattered.
Like it was a fact she couldn’t steal back.
And now she was out there alone, chasing a ghost with nothing but grit and desperation. It was brave. Reckless. So Harper.
He’d let her walk once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. The next time he had her in his arms, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Or maybe he’d get more creative. A delicate chain fastened to her ankle, the other end clipped to his belt loop, so she couldn’t take a step without brushing against him.
She’d tease him about it, fight it with that wicked little grin—but she’d melt under his hands like she always did.
And when she finally surrendered, when she finally understood that he wasn’t letting her out of his sight again, he’d mark her with more than just his mouth.
She’d wake up tangled in his sheets, chained to his heat, and she’d know he was hers. And she was his.
Harper hadn’t betrayed him. She’d protected him.
Trusted him enough to leave her secrets in his hands, her fate tangled in his judgment.
She’d risked everything—her life, her body, whatever fragile peace they’d started to build—to finish what Stuart had begun and maybe finally bury the ghost that haunted them both.
She had walked into the fire not to escape him, but to shield him.
And that truth twisted deep, sharp and unforgiving, carving the last of his doubts from his chest.
His. She was his.
Not just in body—but in every reckless choice and stubborn heartbeat. His to protect. His to punish. His to pleasure until she remembered exactly where she belonged.
He could already see her tied to their bed—maybe not silk this time, but leather cuffs, snug and secure, the kind that creaked when she pulled against them.
Her body spread out beneath him, every inch of her flushed and waiting, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with helplessness and everything to do with trust. A rush of heat flared in his gut at the thought.
His little thief, bound for him and no one else, giving herself over not just in submission but in defiance of everything she'd once run from.
Or maybe he’d keep her closer still—handcuffed to him, ankle to ankle, so she couldn’t take a step without brushing against his skin.
She’d protest, of course, roll her eyes and throw barbs in that smart-ass tone she used like armor. But the moment he touched her, all that fight would melt into need.
And he’d take his time proving she was his—every inch, every breath, every broken moan.
She’d never get the chance to leave him cold again.
And she’d gone after a ghost alone. Not for long.
He was already moving before the chair stilled, his body running on instinct and adrenaline.
By the time he hit the locker, he was mentally mapping out every resource, every contact south of the border.
His travel pack hit the floor with a thud, and he tore it open with practiced efficiency—ammo, weapons, burner phones, encrypted drives, cash.
Everything he’d need to follow her trail and burn the world down if he had to.
He holstered his sidearm, threw in a combat knife, then yanked on a dark tactical shirt, his movements clipped and precise. No hesitation. No room for doubt. Just the promise in his chest and the image of Harper—defiant, brave, and too damn alone.
She thought she had to do this without him.
She was wrong.
He was coming.
No way in hell was he letting her face this alone.
Not his woman.
Not his little thief.