Chapter 39
Seth
The sun has just begun pushing through the trees when we step into the clearing above the safe house. Thin bands of light cut across the damp ground and catch on the dew clinging to the grass and branches. Pine needles stick to the bottoms of our boots as we stop near the bunker entrance.
Brooke rolls her shoulder once and glances at me.
“How did you know the pool thing would help?” she asks.
I look over at her. “Pool sex?”
She lifts a brow. “You know what I mean.”
A laugh slips out of me. “I learned a lot of stuff in those psych classes.”
Her mouth twists. “You really paid to take classes at Stratford just to watch me.”
“Hell yeah.”
She shakes her head, still looking a little stunned by it. Brooke never fully understood how far my obsession goes.
When we first started dating and she told me she was in therapy, I spent nights researching every technique those therapists use and every way I could reinforce it outside those sessions.
I paid attention to details she assumed no one would notice.
I learned which nights her nightmares hit the hardest and which music helped calm her afterward.
I memorized the exact way she liked the apartment arranged so nothing will feel out of place when she came home.
I even learned what snacks Luna loves so she wouldn’t make noise when I slipped into the apartment at night and watched Brooke sleep.
And when the manor broke her, when the miscarriage hollowed something out of both of us, I went back to that same instinct.
I spent nights digging through anything I could find about trauma recovery, physical retraining, exposure therapy, anything that might pull her out of the hell they forced her into.
I needed something practical to give her besides sympathy and empty reassurances.
Brooke stands in front of me now in the clearing, watching me like she is still trying to figure out what I have planned.
“Southpaw day,” I say, tossing the mouthguard to her.
She catches it with her left hand and pushes it into her mouth without looking away from me.
My jaw tightens before I even realize it.
She has no idea how hard it is to stay focused.
Every time she shifts her weight, I see her naked.
Every breath she takes reminds me of last night, her legs wrapped around me, her nails in my back, her cunt squeezing around my cock while she bites my shoulder to keep from screaming.
Her thighs shaking when she comes. The way she says my name when I slide back inside her after the second round.
I have not gotten over it.
But this morning is not about sex. It is about control.
She throws the first punch.
Left jab. Fast. It clips my jaw. I let it land. Not because she surprises me, but because I need to see what she will do after.
She follows through.
Left leg comes up into a kick. Wide and off-balance. But she puts weight behind it. She is still figuring out how to move with her left, but she is learning fast. Too fast for most people. Exactly fast enough for me.
I catch her ankle and twist.
She hits the ground hard. Air leaves her lungs in a grunt, her back slamming into the dirt.
She gasps, but doesn't cry out.
I drop down before she can roll. Straddle her hips. Pin her thighs under my knees. Grab her wrists and slam them into the earth on either side of her head.
Her chest jerks up. Her tank top sticks to her skin. Her mouth is open. Her lips are already red and parted.
She looks good like this.
I lower my face to hers until our mouths are inches apart. “If I was Elliot, you would be dead.”
She bucks hard and almost throws me off.
I let her.
She rolls, scrambles to her feet, turning fast with her mouthguard clenched tight. She looks dangerous. That matters more than whether or not she is ready.
She needs to fight someone she trusts before she has to fight someone who wants her dead.
She comes at me again. More focused this time. Her punch lands clean in my ribs. I don't block it.
I smile.
She stands across from me, chest heaving. Her arms shake from adrenaline and effort. Her fingers twitch. Her mouth opens as she pulls air between her teeth.
She wants to get better. She wants to stop being a target. She wants to be the one people can't touch.
“That’s it.”
She spits the mouthguard into her palm and narrows her eyes. “You’re holding back.”
“I am,” I say, stepping in closer. “And one day I won’t.”
She doesn't back up.
My restraint cracks for one second.
I grab her jaw and kiss her.
Her mouth opens right away. Her body leans into mine like it can't decide if it wants to fight me or fuck me. Her hands go to my neck. Her chest presses to mine. I kiss her harder. Slide my tongue against hers. She moans into my mouth, and the sound goes straight to my dick.
She rolls her hips forward without thinking. Her body remembers what we did last night. So does mine.
I pull back.
“Do you want to keep going?” I ask.
She nods.
I press my hand to her chest and push her back three steps. “Then prove it.”
She comes at me again.
This time her punch misses, but her knee follows fast. I catch her waist, twist us together. The second I touch her again, my brain goes back to her legs around my back, to her cunt dragging me deeper.
I force myself to stay present. We aren't done.
Not until she can fight and win.
And when she does, I will fuck her again the way she wants, hard, filthy, with nothing held back.
Two monitors sit at one end, wired into Travis’s laptop. Another screen glows against the far wall, scrolling lines of code and location pings.
Travis stands at the head of the table, posture rigid, eyes locked on the data. He has that look he gets when he digs too deep and doesn't like what he finds.
Brooke sits beside me. Whatever exhaustion sits in her body has not dulled her focus.
Beau leans against the counter near the back wall, arms crossed.
Travis breaks the silence.
“I got into another Collective archive,” he says. “Different build. Different security.”
Brooke leans forward slightly. “Meaning?”
He taps a key and turns one of the monitors toward us.
Kristie Talbert’s face fills the screen. Smiling like she is not a fucking demon.
Brooke goes still.
“She put out a contract,” Travis says. “On both of you.”
My jaw tightens. “Amount?”
“Two million each,” Travis replies. “Dead only.”
Beau exhales through his nose.
Travis keeps going. “One more condition. It has to be recorded. She wants proof.”
Brooke’s mouth curves. “She wants to watch.”
Travis nods. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
The room goes quiet.
I lean forward, palms flat on the slate. “Who else is in?”
Travis pulls up another screen.
Names. Handles. Flags. Locations.
“This is where Beau’s assassin intel comes in,” Travis types something. “Since Knox died, the Collective assumes you’re actively hunting. That moved you from a minor problem to priority.”
Beau steps closer and taps the screen. “These are confirmed entries. Ten so far.”
Brooke scans the list, her eyes moving slowly over each name. “Any familiar ones?”
I nod once. “Elliot. Sophie. Don. Joe.”
I barely pause on them.
“They’re amateurs,” I add. “Easy to deal with. Just harder to find.”
My gaze moves lower on the list, then stops.
“And him,” I tap the screen. “Rafe Calder.”
Brooke looks up. “Who’s that?”
“Claims he’s a sniper,” I scoff. “Has a reputation, but it’s mostly noise. He hits what’s standing still. That’s about it.”
Her posture shifts as she leans in slightly.
I keep reading.
“Sergei Volkov.”
Beau exhales quietly. “Bratva. He’s not just good, he’s patient. He’ll sit on a target for hours if he has to. Doesn’t rush, doesn’t hesitate. If he’s coming for you, you won’t see it until it’s already done.”
Brooke’s grip tightens against the edge of the chair.
“Who else?” she asks.
Beau scans the rest.
“Dmitri Sokolov,” he says. “Another Bratva operator.”
His finger moves down the screen.
“Diego Cruz. Cartel. Close range, fast, messy.”
A pause.
“Jackson Reed. Ex-military. Thinks he’s disciplined.”
He keeps going.
“Ava Carpenter. Freelance. Quiet, but she leaves traces.”
Another name.
“Ezra Kane. Independent. Tracks first, hesitates second.”
Beau’s jaw tightens slightly as he leans back.
“I’ve crossed paths with a few of them,” he says. “They’re not competition. Just persistent.”
There is a quiet edge under his voice now, something colder.
“That won’t matter.”
He glances back at the list.
“Most of them are amateurs.”
I let out a short breath. “Good.”
Travis frowns at me. “Good?”
“Yes,” I say. “It means they’ll rush instead of thinking.”
Beau adds, “Hopefully they won’t coordinate well. Everyone wants the payout. Everyone wants the footage.”
Travis scrolls. “Some of these people specialize in capture.”
Brooke doesn’t look away from the screen. “Kristie wants me killed on camera.”
“Yup,” Beau says. “She wants spectacle.”
Travis rubs his face. “If you don’t disappear, they’ll converge.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “We don’t chase them. We don’t hide from them.”
Beau’s mouth lifts slightly. “We bait them.”
Travis looks between us. “You’re talking about inviting ten killers into your orbit.”
“Yes,” I say. “On our ground.”
Beau crosses his arms again. “If we seed movement and leak location noise, I can track who commits first. The aggressive ones will show themselves.”
“And the careful ones,” Travis adds, “will follow.”
I nod. “Which means we choose the place, the timing, and the exits.”
Brooke’s voice is calm. “Okay, they want to hunt me.”
She lifts her eyes. “Let them come.”
I squeeze her hand once. “We should feel honored, The Collective has to send killers for us.”
Brooke smirks. “Then we collect their fucking heads.”
Kristie’s bounty pool is exactly what you would expect from a desperate politician with too much money and not enough patience.