Eight
The adrenaline didn’t fade. It only sharpened.
Piece by piece. Barrel. Bolt. Scope. Each component was laid out in clean symmetry.
Behind her, Charlie Team rotated through quiet after-action routines—gear checks, coded calls, silent confirmations that everyone was intact. No one filled the space with unnecessary noise.
Justin closed the door on the team and clicked the lock—a move neither showy nor defensive, just deliberate. A line drawn.
She noticed but didn’t look up.
“They were ahead of us,” he said.
“Yes.” She kept at her work.
“They had surveillance on Elena before we did.”
“Yes.”
“They wanted the engagement.”
She slid a cloth down the length of the barrel. “They wanted the clock.” Her voice was as precise as the weapon in her hands—cool, but loaded.
That made him pause. “The clock,” he repeated.
“They’re compressing our reaction window. Expanding target parameters while shortening response time. Eventually, we choose wrong.”
Justin moved closer, not crowding, just entering her operational radius. “And if we don’t?”
She clicked the bolt back into place. “Then they escalate again.”
Silence stretched between them, not brittle but electric—two tacticians measuring variables, and each other.
He rested his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning slightly. “You weren’t surprised.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“That they went after blood.”
She finally looked at him. “They went after my six in Virginia. This is the same philosophy.”
He held her gaze. “Different scale.”
“Yes.”
The tram shrieked past outside, glass rattling—a reminder the world kept moving, even as theirs shrank to this room.
Anya reassembled the rifle with practiced ease, locking it into its case. Her hands steady, her heartbeat a war drum beneath the calm.
“They wanted you to hesitate,” Justin said quietly.
“I didn’t.”
“No.” He studied her for a beat longer than operationally necessary. “You were faster than them.”
“That won’t always be true.” It wasn’t self-doubt. It was math.
He absorbed that without argument.
Good.
Devon’s voice came through the secure tablet on the counter. “We pulled street cam from two blocks over. Elena left twelve minutes before engagement.”
Anya’s jaw tightened once. “On her own?”
“Yes.”
“Coerced?”
“Negative. She received a call. Untraceable.”
Justin’s eyes flicked toward Anya. “They’re herding.”
“Yes.”
Devon hesitated. “Anya…they didn’t touch her.”
“They didn’t need to,” she replied.
The call ended. The room went quiet again. Justin reached for a bottle of water and set it beside her without comment.
She didn’t drink it.
“You’re angry,” he said finally.
She met his eyes. “No.”
That almost made him smile. “You shot clean. No civilian bleed. No panic. You neutralized and advanced.”
“That’s the job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Her pulse flickered once. “What did you mean?”
He didn’t hesitate. “They wanted to see if you’d break pattern.”
“And?”
“You didn’t.”
She stepped around the counter, closing the distance between them until the air shifted—heat layered under tension.
“You’re evaluating me,” she said.
“I’m evaluating the operation.”
“Liar.”
A faint corner of his mouth lifted. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’m evaluating both.”
The honesty landed between them heavier than an accusation.
She felt it. Felt him. He was dangerously close and all too aware. “You were out of position on the balcony.”
“You compensated.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“It worked.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t improvise every time.”
“No,” he agreed. “But when they change the board, I will.”
The proximity was no longer accidental. The air felt thinner.
“You think I can’t adjust?” she asked.
“I think you’re used to someone anticipating you.”
The words hit. They weren’t meant to be cruel, only accurate.
Alexei had always been the counterbalance.
Justin wasn’t replacing that. He was disrupting it.
“And you?” she asked. “What are you used to?”
“Carrying consequences,” he said.
No pause. No flinch. It wasn’t a dramatic moment; it was the stark, unwavering truth.
She studied him in the half-light of the flat. “You’re not reckless.”
“No.”
“But you’re not cautious either.”
He shrugged faintly. “I calculate.”
She stepped closer.
Heat sparked between them—not sudden, not reckless, but controlled. Like a fuse burning toward something dangerous and deliberate.
“You moved without clearance,” she said.
He cocked his head. “You were climbing the fire escape alone.”
“I didn’t need clearance.”
“You had it.”
That irritated her more than it should have. “You assume I require backup.”
“I assume you don’t want blind spots.”
Her breath shifted.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“You’re not my shadow,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed.
“Then stop trying to stand where he stood.”
He held her gaze. “I’m not.”
Silence stretched.
Then— “I’m standing where you’re exposed.”
The truth of it was sharp. She could feel the space between them recalibrating again—not into dependence. Into alignment. And that unsettled her more than hostility ever could.
Her hand brushed his chest—testing the boundary, the heat, the risk of letting something in.
He didn’t grab her wrist. Didn’t trap her. He let the contact exist.
He was warm, solid, and present. “This is a liability,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You know that.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it stole her next argument.
His hand came up slowly, not forceful, resting at her waist like a question instead of a claim.
She didn’t step back.
The tram screeched past again.
The world outside kept moving. Inside, the space tightened.
“You’re not my weakness,” she said quietly.
“Good.”
“Don’t become one.”
His thumb shifted slightly at her waist. “Then don’t let me.”
The challenge in that wasn’t ego. It was an invitation.
Her pulse kicked. She closed the remaining distance.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was a collision—controlled, but fierce. Heat without surrender. Pressure without giving ground.
The kiss deepened—no gentleness, no apology—just a fierce, pent-up hunger finally unleashed. Every second felt stolen, urgent, like they were burning through years of restraint in a single breath.
Anya gently pulled away from the kiss, yet neither of them shifted an inch. Her breath came in ragged, uneven waves, barely under control. Holding his heated gaze, she said quietly, “This is a mistake.”
His hand at her waist tightened—just enough to change the balance. “Then stop.”
Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. That was her answer: no retreat, not now.
Something in his expression shifted—sharpened—and the next movement was faster, rougher.
Her back met the wall—a solid, purposeful impact, as if the room itself was closing around them.
She didn’t resist.
Their eyes locked—a silent dare. Hands moved with a feverish urgency, stripping away clothes in a blur of fabric and friction. Each touch was a demand and a promise: nothing held back, nothing left for later.
Justin leaned his forehead to hers, arms bracketing her, breath ragged but tight with restraint. “Can you keep quiet? The team’s on the other side of that door.”
Anya’s response was electric. She reached down, fingers claiming him, hunger thrumming through her veins—need layered with defiance, as vital and reckless as survival itself.
He lifted his head, a genuine smile breaking through—unexpected, disarming, lighting her up in places lust alone never could. She felt it, deep and dangerous, but she wasn’t ready to unravel that now. She’d sort it later. That was survival, too.
“I’m sorry, but this has to be fast.”
She understood that. That was all she wanted. For Anya, sex was a brief escape, a momentary thrill without emotional ties. Given the life she and Alexei led, desire and unwanted feelings could be dangerous.
His fingers found her, testing readiness. Anya closed her eyes, holding the moment at the knife-edge of control, then opened them and whispered, “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Justin chuckled softly. “Oh, Anya.”
Before she had a chance to ask for clarification on his brief remark, he picked up her right leg and wrapped it around his waist. Their eyes met in a silent challenge of control when he removed her hand from his cock and lined himself up with her slick entrance.
“Hard and fast?” he clarified.
She smiled. “Hard and fast.”
His mouth crashed down on hers as he thrust up, filling her in one hard, perfect motion—a collision of will and want that left no room for hesitation.
Her breath caught, and he pulled back, capturing her gaze.
In response to his unspoken question, she reached up and pulled his head back down to hers for a kiss so intense that it probably left her with bruised lips. But she didn’t care.
All she wanted was for this man to move inside her. She’d have to sort out those feelings later. For now, she just wanted to feel, and Justin made her feel.
Each thrust was rough, raw, fueled by heat and the need to prove something neither would say aloud. Their kiss was a battle—wills clashing, tongues daring, each surrendering only for the chance to take more.
With one hand around her leg, the other reached under her T-shirt—something they’d both failed to remove—and toyed with her breast and tweaked her nipple.
Anya broke the kiss with a gasp, head falling back against the wall, eyes shut—lost, overwhelmed, and for once, unguarded.
Pleasure crested—sharp, consuming, nearly terrifying in its intensity. He filled her perfectly and for a heartbeat she wanted to slow down, to feel every second. That craving, that risk, scared her more than the chaos outside ever could.
Before she could process it, Justin’s hand found her clit—his kiss breaking, his voice rough in her ear: “Come for me, Anya.”
His mouth captured hers as she shattered, body trembling, every layer of defense stripped bare. His grip steadied her—if not for him, she’d have melted to the floor.
Justin thrust fast a few more times before he gave a low groan against her lips.
With their foreheads touching and their breathing no longer controlled, he released her leg and steadied her with his arms on her waist.
She broke the connection first. Not retreating—just resetting. She reached for her clothes, voice cool. “This doesn’t change command structure.”
Justin reached the counter to rip off a paper towel and hand one to her. “No.”
She accepted. “It doesn’t change mission priority.”
“No.”
“And when this is over—”
“We’ll reassess,” he finished.
Her mouth curved, just a hint of softness. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“What were you going to say?”
“That when this is over, you don’t get to disappear.”
His expression shifted—barely. “I won’t.” He wasn’t dramatic, just certain.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly. She stepped back, clearing her throat, mission sliding back into place. “Charlie Team’s rotating in fifteen.”
He nodded.
The moment closed without shattering. The fire banked, not extinguished—just waiting for the next spark.
The tablet buzzed again.
Justin cleared his throat and answered the call, looking at Anya. “Yeah?”
“New intel,” Devon said. “Sokolov’s voiceprint confirmed on the Virginia call.”
The name landed like a bullet. Anya’s spine straightened.
“Colonel Viktor Sokolov,” Devon continued. “Original program architect.”
Justin’s jaw tightened. “So it’s him.”
“Yes.”
Anya felt something settle inside—cold and focused. “He’s not cleaning up,” she said quietly.
“He’s erasing witnesses,” Justin replied.
Her gaze met his. “And we’re next.”
Outside, the tram passed again. This time, she didn’t notice.
Because the hunt had snapped into focus—no more hesitation. No more defense. Only the next move, and it would be theirs.
And the next move wouldn’t be defense. It would be decisive. Predatory. Exactly what Silent Night should fear.