18. Cam
I think I’m finally getting through to her just how much danger she’s in. I pause the video, right where the sick cunt offers the girl out to his friends, her limp form chained to the wall like a carcass hung to dry.
Talking about these organisations is one thing—seeing them is something else.
Her eyes are wide, lips tight, the usual flush in her cheeks drained to a dull, ashen grey.
“That’s what Darcy’s facing right now?”
she whispers, clutching the cat like a lifeline. Poor thing suffers for it—pinned a little too tightly in her arms. He yowls, swipes her with a paw full of insult, then struts over to me with the wounded dignity of a betrayed prince.
I try to push him away—twice—but he just returns, persistent as ever. Eventually, he flops onto his back, stomach up, daring me to pick him up like I haven’t fallen for that trick before.
Little shit.
I know how his brain works.
“Probably. And that’s exactly what you’ll be facing if we don’t stop them.”
My tone leaves no room for debate.
“You wanted in—this is it. We build a routine. Something predictable. Something they can track.”
She shifts, frowning.
“Talia’s putting together a schedule. You stick to it. No improvising. You’ll use the tunnel to the house next door for entry and exit.”
“Next door?”
“I own it. From the outside, it’s just another house. But I use it as a safe haven—no ties or records. But in your case, we can use it an address they can track. They can’t see you coming in and out of here, or this whole thing falls apart. You need to take this seriously. No detours. Got it?”
She nods slowly, then.
“Yeah… but what about Darcy? How are we going to get her?”
I bite back a curse.
She still doesn’t get it. Doesn’t realise how close she is to being dragged into the same darkness.
“I’ll handle Darcy,”
I say, sharper than I intend.
“Once this part’s in place, and no one screws with the plan, I’ll get some answers. Their extraction teams aren’t as sophisticated as they like to think.”
“You really think they’ll talk?”
I glance at her, a cold edge settling into my voice.
“I’m persuasive.”
Most break within a day. That program was built to find every nerve, every fracture point. It doesn’t end with mercy. It ends with answers.
“Okay, I can do it. I can fight too, you know. I’ll have your back when we go in—”
“I don’t need you to have my back,”
I cut in, silencing her.
“That’s why I have Talia.”
Christ, the thought of Nell charging in with her trusty rolling pin is enough to give me a migraine. The carnage would be biblical.
“All you need to do is stick to the routine. Nothing more.”
She mutters under her breath.
“Still managed to take you out just fine.”
I grit my teeth. I’m not in the mood for games. She’s relentless—stubborn, and dangerously unaware of just how high the stakes are.
“You think so?”
I say, voice low.
“Come with me.”
It’s a challenge, and she takes it like bait, head held high, not realising she’s walking straight into a lesson.
She doesn’t ask questions, just follows—but I don’t slow down. If she wants to play soldier, she can keep up like one. She’s jogging by the time we reach the gym, breath catching, pace scrambling to match mine.
Let’s see how invincible she feels after this.
“Pick your weapon,”
I signal to the box of rubber knives and hard wood sticks we use for practice.
“Don’t you want one?”
her question brings the smallest of smiles to me; she’s overestimated herself entirely.
“Nope.”
She picks a knife. Interesting choice. It’s a decision I clock immediately—filed away for later.
But when she turns to face me, my hoodie hanging off her shoulders like it belongs there, I shake my head.
“Lose the jumper. That shit’s just going to slow you down.”
She frowns but doesn’t argue. Tosses it to the corner of the mat, revealing a fitted vest and absolutely nothing beneath it. As infuriating as this woman is, she’s doing things to my cock that I can’t admit.
I exhale through my nose.
Focus.
She’s chaos in human form—loud, stubborn, unpredictable—but her body… that’s something else entirely. I haven’t seen her like this before, all edges and tension and far too much skin.
If this were a different life, a different mission—I wouldn’t have hesitated.
But this isn’t different. She’s in danger. A target. Just one more name on a list the world forgot how to care about. And I won’t be the man who fails her.
“What now stalker boy?”
I strip off my jacket and toss it to one side—her eyes track the movement and linger a beat too long.
“Try to kill me.”
She doesn’t hesitate—lunges, fast but predictable. I catch the angle of her wrist before she’s halfway through the motion, twist it sharply, and sweep her legs out. She hits the mat with a breathless thud.
“Dead,”
I say, calm as ever. “Again.”
She grits her teeth, bounces on the balls of her feet, trying to shake off the sting. Warming up like we’re just getting started.
Good.
The next attack comes from the other side—an overhead strike, too bold, too slow. I step into her space and redirect the blade with ease. My hand finds her wrist, twists again, and her own arm drives the knife to her ribs. I press in—just enough pressure to let her feel the blade kiss her skin.
“Dead,”
I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Again?”
she challenges, voice tight.
I nod once, stepping back, resetting.
She circles, slower this time, watching my feet and hands. There’s caution now—humility bruised into strategy—but still that same spark of reckless boldness flickering behind her eyes.
She fakes left, spins, and comes at me low, blade angled for my hip—smart but predictable.
I sidestep, twist her momentum against her, and in the next breath she’s on the mat again—my knee pressing into the space just below her sternum, knife trapped between our hands, angled harmlessly to the side.
“Dead,”
I say, again. But this time, my voice is quieter. Less final.
And I can’t help but notice something’s shifted.
She’s lying beneath me, chest heaving, skin flushed, her arm pinned by mine. Her eyes lock with mine, breath catching—and not from the fall this time.
Close. Too fucking close.
I push off her like she’s burning.
“You’re not ready,”
I mutter, turning away before I look too long.
“You didn’t have to go full Marine on me,”
she says, voice flippant but tight around the edges as she pulls herself up.
I don’t answer, because if I open my mouth now, I’m not sure what will come out.
She’s not bad. Sloppy, sure, and wild with her angles. But there’s raw instinct there. Not trained, definitely not reliable—but it’s something.
The knife clatters across the mat and she’s flat on her back again, breath ragged, stubborn pride still blazing in her eyes. I don’t say it this time. Don’t need to. ‘Dead’ is already written in the way her chest rises and falls.
I step back to give her room. Try to reset.
But I can still feel the heat of her skin from where I’d pinned her. Still smell whatever citrus scent clings to her hair. Still see her—the way she moved, the tension in her shoulders, the hesitation right before the lunge.
She’s trying. I’ll give her that. But she has no idea what she’s up against.
“You always fight like that,”
she says, brushing sweat from her brow.
“or is this just you showing off?”
I turn my head slowly, catching her stare. Hold it just long enough to remind her that I’m not playing.
“I only show off when someone thinks they’re ready for a fight they wouldn’t survive.”
That wipes the smirk from her face.
She tries another jab, this time with her words.
“That was supposed to impress me?”
But it falters. Doesn’t land with the usual fire. And she feels it too—the electricity humming in the air between us. The echo of contact. The something neither of us wants to name.
I walk off before I say anything stupid to grab a towel. Wipe down the back of my neck like it’ll cool the heat pooling there.
“Session’s over.”
But her stare is still burning into my back.
And somewhere beneath the discipline and duty and rule-following I’ve nailed to my skin, I feel it too.
I don’t say goodnight.
She knows where her room is. She can find it without me walking her there like some damn chaperone.
Instead, I bury myself in intel—maps, reports, timelines—anything with clean lines and sharp logic. Anything that doesn’t smell like her shampoo or remind me of the way she looked at me on that mat.
This tension? It’s ridiculous. Implausible. A distraction I can’t afford.
So I’ll drown it in strategy, and pretend that’s enough.
As night settles over the house and quiet creeps in, I find myself watching her. Not intentionally, just habit. The cameras are a necessity in this line of work—paranoia isn’t a flaw, it’s a survival mechanism. I don’t monitor the bathrooms, obviously—I’m not a monster—but every other space is fair game. It all has to be controlled and secure.
For a while, her room is empty. Still. Almost serene. Then the bathroom door swings open and she steps out, wrapped in nothing but steam and damp skin, a trail of water ghosting across the floor as she digs through her suitcase with growing irritation. Her skin radiates against the faint glow of the lamp on her bedside, rivulets of water still dripping from her bare skin.
Frustration flickers across her face. Whatever she’s looking for, she’s not finding it—tugging at zippers, flipping clothes, muttering under her breath. She yanks at the bag like it’s personally betrayed her.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
She still doesn’t know I can see her. Or maybe she does—and just doesn’t care.
Either way, I keep watching.
She tugs something out from her suitcase. Small. Matte black. Familiar in a way that punches straight through my discipline.
My jaw tightens as I fight an internal battle with my morality.
I know exactly what it is.
I should stop. Turn off the feed. Remind myself this isn’t my business. That she’s entitled to whatever comfort she can steal in a world like this.
But my hand doesn’t move.
Because now it is my business. I let her through the door. I swore I’d keep her safe. And underneath all the posturing and boundaries and tactical routines, something in me is hooked—and I don’t like how deeply.
The plans I’d been reviewing blur into static. Routes, aliases, fallback zones… all gone.
All I see is her.
All I hear is my own shallow breath.
While the rest of the world thinks I’m a fortress of resolve and ice, I am currently losing a war of restraint against a woman who doesn’t even know she’s weaponised.
And this?
This was never part of the mission.
She reclines onto the mattress slowly, as if weighing whether she even deserves rest. Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat of the shower, the vibrator still nestled loosely in her hand like an afterthought—or a lifeline.
I know what it is. Anyone with field knowledge does.
At first, I pretend it doesn’t matter. That this is about protocol, protection, paranoia. That I’m just ensuring the perimeter holds. That she’s safe.
But I’m not watching the perimeter. I’m watching her.
The way her brow creases when she hesitates. The small, near-invisible breath she takes as she closes her eyes. The slow spread of vulnerability across her face—real, unarmoured. Unaware.
And that’s the problem.
She doesn’t know I’m here—silent and faceless, behind a wall of feeds and flickering security monitors. Doesn’t know that every rule I claim to live by is unravelling in real time.
It should have been easy; a glance, a check, and move on.
But I don’t move on.
I sit here like an addict, transfixed. Not by lust, not exactly, it’s something else, something closer to possession. Or obsession, maybe. Not with her body, but with what she represents; the illusion of normalcy in a life that’s anything but.
I should shut it down. Cut the feed. Look away.
But instead, I lean forward.
I haven’t let someone in for years. Not really. Not since Kyla. Not since everything shattered. And now this woman with fire in her voice and chaos in her veins has somehow wrenched open the one door I swore I’d never unlock.
And I don’t know whether to slam it shut… or let it open wider.
But my body acts of its own accord, my dick straining behind my fly. From here, it’s safe. No harm done. She never needs to know about this secret. My rational works enough for me to cave, freeing my dick and running my hand up and down my length in time with her own movements.
I’m observing every move she makes—the bite of her lip, the arch of her back, the way she grips onto the pillow behind her like a lifeline.
Imagining it’s me bringing her the pleasure.
Imagining it’s my tongue running all over her body, tasting her heat. The way she’d moan my name…
No.
This is wrong.
I slam the laptop shut with more force than necessary, the sound snapping through the quiet like a gunshot. My jaw clenches. Breath locked somewhere between shame and fury.
She’s a target. Someone I swore to protect.
And this? This is not protection. This is weakness masquerading as curiosity. Obsession, dressed up as vigilance.
I shove the device aside and sink into the cold edges of the room, dragging discipline back around me like armour. I will not let myself fall into that rabbit hole. Not again.
I’ve lost too much already.
With a frustrated grunt I shove away from the desk and begin to pace.
First mistake.
Like walking will burn the image out of my skull—her stretched across the mattress, skin still dewy from the shower, that damn toy cradled like a secret only she’s allowed to keep.
My jaw locks.
This is why I stay alone. Why I draw lines in blood and concrete. Why no one stays under this roof long enough to chip the walls I’ve built around every goddamn feeling.
Vulnerability isn’t poetic. It’s leverage. And she’s leverage wrapped in temptation.
I drag a hand down my face, then admit defeat and sit and crack open a file—surveillance data, protocol updates, contingency plans. Anything that gets me back to solid ground.
I make it halfway through a sentence before the words dissolve. I can’t focus, not now. All I see is the curve of her back as she dug through her suitcase, the way she moved like she belonged, like she’s already settled into this space. Into me.
I slam the file shut and reopen the feed, avoiding her bedroom like a plague. Only externals this time—the cold stuff. Anything unfeeling and safe.
This… this is better.
No scent. No heat. Just mission parameters and possible threats. Nothing that softens me.
I lean back, trying to tell myself this is control. But even now, with everything still and silent and the world locked down tight—I feel her under my skin like a stain I can’t scrub clean.
And that?
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.