Chapter 14
REED
H arper never looked more beautiful or dangerous than she did standing barefoot in his kitchen, wearing one of his button-down shirts and nothing else, holding a spoon like it was a dagger.
Sunlight poured through the window, catching the wild tumble of her hair and the fierce glint in her eyes.
She was chaos in a silk collar, soft curves and sharp edges, the kind of woman who made you want to kneel and bite in the same breath.
Reed took one look at her and felt his blood heat, his pulse pound.
She wasn’t just his equal. She was his fire. And he wanted to be burned.
"I'm not wearing a leash in public."
Reed didn’t even glance up from the velvet box he held. "It's not a leash. It's a collar. And you’ll wear it because I had it crafted especially for you."
She narrowed her eyes, trying to hold on to her sass even as her voice faltered.
"So, what—just because it's custom, I'm supposed to melt?
" She fought the tug in her chest, the sting behind her eyes.
Damn him for knowing exactly how to get under her skin.
And damn herself for loving it. But instead of showing that, she arched a brow and added, "Did it come with a matching leash, or do I need to accessorize it myself? "
He smiled—slow, infuriating, dominant. "I already did.
Personally commissioned it. Platinum links braided with black titanium—strong enough to outlast anything, but smooth as sin.
There are diamonds at the throat, and one single sapphire—the same shade as your eyes—set at the clasp.
Inside, there's an engraving. My initials.
Yours. And the date everything changed. The day you stopped running—and I started holding on. "
Harper swallowed, visibly flustered. Her defiance flickered, then softened. "That's... actually kind of hot."
Reed stepped closer, the box open now. The collar shimmered in the morning light—feminine, elegant, dangerous.
Just like her. The platinum and titanium links caught every beam of sunlight, the diamonds flashing icy fire, the sapphire a perfect match to the tempest brewing in her eyes.
He couldn’t look away. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was hers.
It belonged around her throat. And more than that, it belonged in this moment.
She wasn’t just being claimed. She was claiming him right back.
"It’s not for show," he said. "You don’t wear it for them. You wear it for me. And for you. Because you chose to stay."
She didn’t argue. A beat passed, her eyes locked on his, emotions flickering like firelight—pride, fear, need.
Then she drew a slow breath and turned, lifting her hair with both hands.
Her fingers trembled slightly, but her spine stayed straight.
It wasn’t submission. It was something fiercer. It was trust.
He fastened it around her neck, the click of the clasp loud in the stillness, like a lock sliding into place.
His fingers lingered at the base of her throat, brushing over the sapphire, now warm from her skin.
It looked bold against her bare skin—brazen and perfect.
And God, it hit him harder than he expected.
This wasn’t just a collar. It was a declaration, a future, a terrifying, beautiful truth made visible.
She was his. And somehow, impossibly, he was hers.
Every inch of his body knew it. It pulsed in his fingertips, in the sudden tightness of his chest, in the urge to drop to his knees and thank whatever twist of fate had brought her to him.
It was more than an accessory. It was a vow, forged in metal and meaning. A symbol of choice, of surrender, of power balanced in trust. And it left him breathless.
She turned back to face him, eyes stormy, but lips curved. "If I wear this, you know what that means, right?"
He stepped into her space. "That you’re mine. Fully. Officially. Permanently."
"And you’re mine."
He growled—low and pleased. It rumbled from his chest like a promise, a sound meant only for her. It wasn’t just desire—it was certainty, satisfaction, possession steeped in devotion. She wasn’t just his. She was home.
The next time he took her—right there, bent over the cold granite of the kitchen island—it wasn’t just about hunger.
It was about dominance, about devotion. About anchoring every inch of her to him with his hands, his mouth, his body.
Her palms flattened against the surface, fingers splayed, nails dragging across stone as he yanked her hips back to meet his.
She gasped as the first thrust claimed her deep and hard, the sting of cool air clashing with the heat of their bodies.
He pulled her hair, just enough to lift her head, to force her to meet her own reflection in the darkened glass of the oven door across the kitchen.
Her mouth parted, eyes wide and already glazing, as he drove into her with relentless force.
The sight of her—flushed, trembling, owned—undid him.
And she watched, shaking, as she shattered for him again and again.
He didn’t just take her. He consumed her. Worshiped her. Every breath, every growled command, every bruising thrust sang the same truth: she was his. And the way she gasped his name, breathless and desperate, swore she felt it too.
They didn’t make it to the recovery op briefing on time.
"Do you think they’ll notice?" Harper asked as they strode through the front entrance of the Silver Spur offices.
"You’re wearing a diamond-studded collar and my shirt from last night. What do you think, little thief?"
She grinned, smoothing her jacket just enough to let the sapphire glint beneath. "So… subtle isn’t our thing. Got it."
"Was it ever?"
She snorted. "You’re lucky you’re good with a rope."
"You’re lucky I didn’t tie you to the bed this morning."
"Don’t threaten me with a good time, boss man."
Reed chuckled, low and lethal, as they stepped into the conference room.
No one said a word when they walked in together. Not when Harper’s collar sparkled beneath her leather jacket. Not when Reed kept a possessive hand on her lower back. Not even when Dawson muttered something and got promptly elbowed by Gavin.
The new client was a high-level antiquities broker—one of the few who operated above board.
But even legit players found themselves in murky waters when relics like this surfaced.
The artifact in question was a carved obsidian idol, its surface studded with contraband emeralds and a hidden cipher etched so fine it took a UV light to catch.
Something about it stirred a chill in Reed's gut—it wasn't just the craftsmanship or the illicit stones.
It was the feeling of a trap hidden in plain sight.
Like Harper, the idol was more than it appeared—scarred, altered, dangerous.
But also holding secrets worth unearthing.
The symmetry wasn’t lost on him. Neither was the warning. The moment Reed laid eyes on the image, his gut clenched.
The danger wasn’t hypothetical. Surveillance teams had already flagged two foreign operatives tailing the client.
Worse, the exchange site had been compromised.
And Reed had a damn good hunch who was behind it: someone still loyal to Stuart, or perhaps the man himself, pulling strings from deeper shadows.
Now that Harper was officially on the team—as a consultant, though she thumbed her nose at the formality of it—she brought more than just grit and lock-picking. She knew the artifact inside and out. She could quote half a dozen forged provenance trails it had moved through.
And she recognized the false Aztec signature for what it was: a deliberate mislead.
But more than that, she knew how the old network moved—how they manipulated, how they made threats disappear.
She could feel it in the air. This wasn’t just another job.
It was bait. And it had her ex-mentor’s fingerprints all over it.
She leaned over the table, her expression sharp as she tapped the grainy photo. Beneath the focus in her eyes, though, flickered something tighter—an unease that twisted low in her gut. The last time she’d seen something like this, it had ended in blood and betrayal.
She tamped the feeling down, hard, and masked it with a mischievous grin. But the sensation didn’t fade. Not with the artifact looking back at her like a warning. "You think this is real Aztec? The inlay looks too modern."
"It’s authentic," Reed said, eyes on the map overlay. "But altered. On purpose. Someone wanted to hide what it really does."
She grinned. "Just like you."
He looked up, grinned, but said nothing.
She rolled her eyes, but her fingers brushed his under the table, deliberate and slow.
Her touch lingered—just long enough to draw his gaze.
When he met her eyes, they were full of heat and challenge, a wordless warning that she was still her own weapon.
It wasn’t just affection. It was a signal.
A promise that whatever danger lay ahead, they’d face it together—and anyone in their way should tread carefully.
By dusk, the debrief had finished, and the energy of the room had settled into something watchful and charged.
Reed guided Harper out of the Silver Spur offices with a steady hand on her lower back.
The air outside was thick with Texas dusk—warm, heavy, scented with cedar and asphalt.
Neither of them spoke during the drive. They didn’t need to.
Her hand rested on his thigh the entire time, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans like she was marking time.
He pulled her into his arms without a word.
She straddled his lap on the leather sofa near the fireplace, her knees bracketing his hips, the heat of her bare thighs searing through his jeans.
Her palms cupped his face, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging gently like she needed to feel his roots, to prove he was real.
She leaned in until their breath mingled, the scent of coffee and tension and her skin thick in the space between them.
Their eyes locked—his dark and hungry, hers fierce and unguarded. The silence wasn’t empty. It throbbed with promises, with everything they’d survived and everything they still meant to claim. Then she kissed him, and the world fell away.
It was a kiss of teeth and tongue, of fire and surrender.
Her hips rolled against his, slow and deliberate, grinding down on the evidence of how badly he needed her.
His hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt—his shirt—skimming up her back, palms flattening over the warm dip of her spine.
She moaned into his mouth, a sound he drank down like salvation.
This wasn’t just a reunion. This was a reckoning.
As she pulled back, lips swollen, eyes glassy, he knew he’d never get enough. Not of her. Not of this.
This time he took her to bed with reverence, his touch a blend of command and quiet adoration.
His hands were slow but assured as they slipped beneath her shirt, the cotton sliding away like a barrier lifted.
He undressed her like she was a secret meant only for him, baring her inch by inch, revering every mark, every tremble.
When he reached her collar, he paused. His breath ghosted over the metal, then his tongue followed, tracing the curve with aching precision.
The sapphire kissed the tip of his tongue, and her pulse jumped beneath the metal, fast and frantic.
He murmured her name there, where the collar met skin, before his mouth moved lower.
He kissed her thighs with lips soft and open, grazing the sensitive skin with slow licks and reverent bites. When he found a scar, he pressed his mouth to it, held there, as if promising it was part of what made her whole. Her fingers twisted in the sheets.
Then her mouth—still swollen from their earlier kiss. He consumed her lips like he was sealing a vow. When he finally slid into her, their eyes locked, and her gasp turned to something ragged and deep. He didn’t look away. Didn’t let her drift.
His rhythm was deliberate, unyielding, every movement a claim and a promise. He spoke in a wrecked and reverent whisper, revealing things he’d let no one hear.
She was everything. And tonight, he’d show her exactly that.
When she shattered beneath him, crying out his name, it wasn’t just release. It was surrender. And when he came with her name on his lips, it was devotion.
And afterward, when she curled into his chest, sated and silent, he said the words that had clawed at him for weeks.
"You’re not my weakness. You’re the reason for my strength."
Harper lifted her head, kissed him long and slow, and whispered, "Same."
They didn’t need vows.
They had the collar—a band of promise forged in metal and heat, resting at the juncture of trust and surrender. Its cool weight against her skin a reminder, every time she moved, of what they meant to each other.
They had the scars—physical, emotional, shared history inked in flesh and memory. Places where pain had cracked them open and rebuilt them stronger.
They had each other—raw and wrecked and stronger for it, the kind of bond no ceremony could ever rival. And now, cradled in warmth, her heartbeat syncing with his beneath the sheets, they had peace.
And that was more than enough.