Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Matt/Gorath
Mornings always felt rough after a mission. I still didn't like them, but waking up with a beautiful woman in my bed took the edge off. And God damn, was she gorgeous.
I lay on my back, arms stretched above my head, fingers splaying against the cool sheets as my muscles uncoiled from sleep.
The ache was actually good. A deep, earned soreness from fighting, from carrying too much weight, from pushing myself past what should’ve been possible.
My ribs expanded with a slow breath, the air filling my lungs until they pressed against scars old enough to have faded into the texture of my skin.
Mandie was still asleep, breathing steadily, black hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink.
One arm was tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting over my stomach, fingers curled loosely against my side.
The tattoos on her forearm had geometric patterns and a constellation that shifted slightly with the rise and fall of her chest.
I didn’t move. Just watched the way the light caught the dark strands of her hair, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.
Then her eyes fluttered.
Just a flicker, like she was fighting the pull of sleep. Her lips parted slightly, a breath escaping that was almost a sigh. I didn’t say anything. The quiet between us didn’t demand filling.
Her hazel eyes opened.
They were always striking, but first thing in the morning, they had this hazy, half-focused quality. She blinked once, twice, then her gaze locked onto mine. For a second, she just stared. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth twitched.
"You’re creepin’ on me," she murmured, voice rough with sleep.
I exhaled a quiet laugh, chest rumbling beneath her hand. "Can’t creep on someone who’s already in my bed."
She made a sound between a scoff and a hum and shifted closer, body warm against mine. The oversized t-shirt she’d stolen from me had ridden up during the night, exposing the curve of her hip. My fingers found the bare skin there, tracing idle patterns.
"What time is it?" Her voice was muffled against my shoulder.
"Early."
She groaned, burying her face in the crook of my neck. "Why are you awake?"
"Because I’m old," I said, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows were just starting to thin. "And my body forgot how to sleep past five."
That got a laugh out of her. Her laugh was low, throaty, vibrating against my chest. She propped herself up on one elbow, hair spilling forward to frame her face.
"You’re not old," she said. "You’re just… seasoned."
I snorted. "Seasoned."
"Yeah." She reached out, fingers tracing the jagged line of the scar on my bicep. The desert scar. The one that changed everything. "Like a good cast-iron skillet."
I caught her wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop the motion. "Did you just compare me to cookware?"
Her grin sharpened, dangerous and playful. "If the skillet fits."
Before she could pull away, I rolled, pinning her beneath me. She gasped, a sharp intake of air as her back hit the mattress. I hovered over her, bracing my weight on my forearms, shutting out the rest of the room.
"Careful," I warned, voice dropping to a gravelly rasp. "Or I’ll show you exactly how seasoned I can be."
She didn’t flinch. She just tilted her chin up, breath ghosting against my lips. "Promises, promises."
I kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was a collision of mouths, teeth, friction of morning stubble against soft skin. She met me force for force, nails digging into my shoulders, legs shifting to cradle my hips. She made a sound that was half frustration, half hunger when I pulled back just enough to breathe.
"Insufferable," she muttered against my mouth.
"You love it."
She didn’t deny it. She just yanked me down again. Her tongue swept against mine, tasting of sleep and that distinct sweetness that was just her. My hands found the hem of her t-shirt, thumbs brushing the smooth skin of her thighs.
Then, she stiffened.
It wasn’t the tension of arousal. It was a sudden, freezing stillness. She broke the kiss, chest heaving, but the hazel eyes searching mine weren't playful anymore. The heat in the room evaporated.
I pulled back, giving her air. "What?"
She didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled. She let out a sharp exhale, angry at herself.
"Have you had a second to think? About yesterday? The fighting?"
The question hit like a bucket of ice water. I blinked, the mood shattering. "Now?"
She sat up, sliding out from under me. I let her go. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like armor. The tattoos on her arms stood out with the dark ink against pale morning skin.
"The team," she said, voice dropping. "It feels like we’re bleeding out because everyone’s got their own agenda. We’re pulling in five different directions. There’s no objective anymore."
I pushed myself up against the headboard, sheet pooling at my waist. The room suddenly felt cold. I rubbed a hand over my face, beard scratching my palm.
"You’re thinking about last night."
"It was a disaster, Matt. Roger is so obsessed with his public image that he’s second-guessing every punch. Sebastian is trying to be a therapist and a superhero at the same time. Johnny’s running from his past so fast he’s going to trip, and Donovan... Donovan thinks he’s broken."
She paused, pressing her lips together. "And you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Me?"
"You’re still trying to prove something. To your daughter. To yourself."
The words landed heavy in the center of my chest.
"Maybe," I admitted after a long beat. "But Capital Punishment is playing us like a fiddle. We’re too busy sniping at each other to see the strings."
Mandie reached out, threading her fingers through mine. Her grip was firm, grounding. "What if that’s why he’s winning? Individually, you’re heroes. But together?" She looked at me, eyes bleak. "You guys are a mess."
I ran my thumb over her knuckles. She wasn't wrong. But admitting it meant admitting vulnerability, and that was harder than taking a bullet.
"I don’t have an answer," I said. "But we need one."
She studied me, then leaned in, pressing her forehead to mine. "We’ll figure it out. But we can’t do it if we’re all fighting different wars."
"You’re something else, you know that?" I murmured.
She smirked, soft and tired. "Yeah. I know."
She kissed me again. It was slow, deep, an apology and a promise all at once. For a moment, the mission faded. But only for a moment.
Because she was right.
The scrambled eggs were fluffy, steaming, with cheese stretching in golden threads. Donovan had outdone himself again. The kid had a knack for making breakfast feel like a peace offering.
I watched him move around the kitchen, black nail polish glinting under the lights as he poured coffee. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing pale forearms dusted with flour. He hummed under his breath, a quiet counterpoint to the tension in the room.
Mandie was slumped beside me, arm draped over her chair, tracing the ink on her wrist. She hadn’t touched her food.
Roger, on the other hand, was holding court.
"You know how many boxes of Frosted Flakes sell every year?" he asked, grinning around a mouthful of toast. "I bet kids would love me more than that tiger."
Mandie rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Can you imagine? 'Riven Crunch'—now with one hundred percent more existential dread."
Sebastian didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. He sat ramrod straight, hair slicked back, looking like he was about to give a press conference.
"You realize that’s a marketing goldmine? Hero-themed cereals. The merchandizing writes itself. I’ll mention it to the boss," Roger continued.
Mandie cracked a smile. "Yeah, because this world needs more sugar-fueled kids with delusions of grandeur."
Roger leaned back, stretching until his shirt strained across his chest. "Speaking of delusions, we gotta roll. Boss wants eyes on Seattle. Capital Punishment might be making a move on the museum. Probably an all-day op."
The laughter died. The air thickened, heavy with the sudden reality of the job.
Johnny pushed his plate away, ceramic screeching against the table. "Finally. Something that doesn’t involve sitting around analyzing our feelings." He cracked his knuckles. "Let’s go play traffic cop with some assholes."
Donovan was at the sink, aggressively scrubbing a pan. "I’ll keep watch inside. It will be easy for me to blend—"
"Yeah, we know, Flex," Johnny said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make the kid stumble. "You’ll turn yourself into a pretzel. Appreciated, but save the heroics for when things go sideways."
Donovan just nodded, eyes on the bubbles.
Sebastian stood up, smoothing his vest like he was straightening a tuxedo. He walked over to Mandie, tilting her head back for a kiss. Possessive. Precise. "Be a good girl while we're gone."
Roger was next. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "Be good," he murmured, grin not quite reaching his eyes. "Or don't."
Johnny wasn't subtle. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him, and planted a rough, hungry kiss on her mouth. Mandie’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist, nails digging in, but she didn’t push him away.
"Later, Mands," he said, pulling back with a wolfish grin.
She wiped her mouth, eyes bright. "Fuck off, Pulsewave."
"Love you, too." He winked.
Donovan hovered by the door, shifting his weight. Mandie watched him, waiting. Finally, he stepped forward, bent down, and pressed his lips to hers. It was soft, hesitant. It was a stark contrast to the others.
I sat back, sipping my cold coffee, watching the ritual. I didn't feel jealousy. I felt... settled. This was the pack. This was how it worked. I didn’t hate it. I actually liked it. It felt normal.
Donovan pulled back, face flaming red. He mumbled something that sounded like "bye" and bolted for the door.
The door clicked shut.