12. The Anchor
The Anchor
LILY
The SUV grinds to a halt.
Tires kick up a spray of mud against the rusted siding of the abandoned logging facility. The structure sits deep in the mountains, a forgotten ghost in the wilderness.
Julian cuts the engine. The sudden silence of the mountain air is jarring, ringing in my ears after the roar of the firefight and the escape through the jungle.
Dax doesn't wait for orders. He pushes his door open, drops into the mud, and sweeps the tree line, weapon raised.
"Secure." He gives a curt nod toward the facility. "Bronco, Hammer—gear inside."
I remain frozen in the backseat.
The strength that carried me through the firefight vanishes all at once, leaving me shivering against the upholstery. The concrete dust covering my clothes feels like a shroud.
My father managed the financial cage holding Andrea. The Consortium lured us into a trap to silence me. The pristine life of a ballerina died on the Grand Solarium's stage, and its ghost is buried in the mud of that jungle compound.
Dax turns back at the tree line, his gray eyes finding me through the rain-streaked window. The tremors shaking my hands are undeniable. Exhaustion fractures the disciplined mask I fought to maintain.
He crosses to my side of the vehicle, pulls the door open, and extends a hand. "Inside."
I take it and slide out. My legs threaten to buckle the second my shoes hit the mud. The humid mountain air presses against my lungs.
Bronco hauls gear bags into the main structure from the second vehicle. The big one follows—Hammer, the one who took the wall down—carrying a canvas satchel away from his body the way you carry something that shouldn't be jostled.
He glances at me on the way past. Not the way the others look at me. No assessment in it, no calculation. A man checking that a civilian is still on her feet.
I follow Dax into the cavernous interior of the logging facility.
The building smells of decaying wood, motor oil, and damp earth. A generator thrums to life deep in the bowels of the structure, powering a string of lights along the exposed rafters.
"We need a secure terminal." Julian drops a canvas bag onto a rusted metal workbench and pulls a bundle of cables from a Pelican case. "The metadata from the staging area is encrypted. I need to crack the localized firewall before the Consortium scrubs their servers."
Dax stops in the center of the room, ignoring the tactical chatter. He drops his empty M4 onto a wooden crate, unclips his Kevlar plate carrier, and lets it hit the concrete with a thud.
He turns to look at me.
The detached operator is back in control. The sniper's mask is locked in place. He's putting the professional distance back between us because his team is watching. He's trying to protect me by pushing me away.
"There's a secure room in the back." His voice is a low rumble. "Take off the vest. Try to sleep. We'll formulate a strike plan when Julian cracks the encryption."
He turns his back on me and walks toward the weapons cache, where Bronco greets him with a tossed magazine pouch and a muttered, "You look like hell, Calloway."
I stand in the center of the room. The tremors in my hands worsen. My father's betrayal claws at the edge of my sanity. I'm alone in a room full of killers.
I refuse to accept the distance.
I refuse to let him push me away.
I cross the concrete floor, ignoring the sharp glances from Dax and Julian, and push through the heavy wooden door at the back of the facility.
The room is small, windowless, utilitarian. A single bed sits against the far wall. A rusted metal sink stands in the corner.
I drop my gym bag onto the floor, unclip the Kevlar vest, and let it fall. The absence of the weight is a relief, but it does nothing to stop the shaking that starts in my core.
At the sink, the corroded handle groans and a stream of cold water sputters from the faucet, splashing against the stained porcelain.
I plunge my hands into the water and scrub the dust, the grime, and the blood from my skin, my fingernails scraping against my flesh.
The girl in the cracked mirror above the sink is a stranger.
Her eyes are hollow. Her skin is pale and marred by bruises. The prima ballerina's posture is gone. She's fractured.
My father financed human suffering. He valued perfection. He demanded immaculate grades, flawless recitals, and total obedience. He cultivated my image as the perfect daughter. His masterpiece.
I hate it.
I want to destroy it. Burn down the identity he constructed over two decades. Shatter the porcelain doll he created and salt the earth where she stood.
He made me a commodity, an untouched prize the Consortium believes they own.
I stare at my reflection, my breathing slowing as a cold resolve crystallizes in my chest. If my innocence is what makes me valuable to those monsters, I'll strip it away.
I will take control of my body before they can sell it.
And I know who I want to give it to.
I turn away from the mirror just as the wooden door groans open.
Dax steps into the small room, carrying a plastic medical kit. He closes the door behind him, cutting off the sounds from the main room.
He stops just inside the threshold. His frame dominates the cramped space, sucking the air from the room. The tension radiating off his body is electric.
"You're shaking." He drops the medical kit onto the edge of the bed. "That was a lot."
"I'm fine." I turn from the mirror. The icy water drips from my fingertips onto the concrete, matching the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
"You aren't fine." He closes the distance in two strides and stops inches from me. The heat radiating off his chest cuts through the damp cold of my clothes. "You're crashing."
"Don't diagnose me." I tip my head back to meet his gaze.
"I'm keeping you alive." His hands grip my shoulders. His touch is heavy, meant to ground me, to still the tremors tearing through me.
It does the opposite.
The contact ignites a fire in my blood. The crash never comes. The tremor in my veins mutates into hunger.
He starts to pull his hands back, reaching for the tactical distance.
I grab his wrists and stop him.
"Don't." My voice is a raspy whisper.
He freezes. The muscles in his forearms turn to granite beneath my grip.
Under my fingers, raised lines of ink run along the inside of one forearm—three words in stark Latin capitals I can just make out in the dim light.
Ex Tenebris Lux. I don't know what it means.
Not yet. His gray eyes lock onto mine, searching for the panic, searching for the trauma.
He finds nothing but defiance.
"Lily." The single word is a warning. A plea for control.
"You lied to me." I step closer, eliminating the space between us. My chest brushes his damp shirt. "You let me believe my father was innocent. You protected my ability to function."
"I did." The sniper refuses to apologize.
"Then protect me now." I slide my hands up his arms, burying my fingers in the damp fabric.
The reality of my father's betrayal clicks into place. The innocent image he cultivated wasn't a father's pride. It was a commodity. He kept me fragile and untouched because it made me valuable. My virginity is the prize the Consortium wants to cage and sell.
I want to cut that part of myself out. I want to excise the porcelain ballerina before they get the chance to touch her.
"Sleep with me." The demand tears out of my throat.
His frame goes rigid. The intensity in his eyes fractures, replaced by shock. He grabs my wrists, pulling my hands away from his chest.
"No." His voice is a harsh command. He takes a half-step back, fighting to rebuild the distance. "You're in shock. You don't know what you're asking. I'm not going to take advantage of your trauma."
"Stop lying." I step forward, erasing the space he just made.
I press my body flush against his. Even through the damp layers of clothing, the straining ridge of his arousal is undeniable against my stomach.
A sharp breath hisses through his teeth. His hands tighten around my wrists.
"Stop pretending you don't want this as much as I do." I tip my head back, my lips inches from his jawline. "I feel you, Dax."
He shuts his eyes. The muscles in his neck jump as he battles his restraint.
"I won't lie to you. Not again." His voice is a ragged scrape in the dark room.
"I've wanted you since the second I put you in my crosshairs.
" He opens his eyes, the intensity burning through the shadows.
"But this is wrong. I'm not going to make your first time be in a decaying facility in the middle of a rainforest."
A breathless laugh escapes me. Heat flushes my cheeks, a shy contrast to my bold demands. "Not my first choice, but the dungeon of the love hotel isn't exactly an option right now."
His eyes widen. The operator freezes, derailed. "I would never take you to a place like that."
"Being a virgin doesn't mean I'm ignorant." I slide my hands up his chest. "If it were up to me, a place like that sounds like what I want. We don't have a dungeon. We have this place, and we have now."
He stares down at me, the shock morphing into heat.
"A bed. A rusted sink. My entire team on the other side of a wooden door.
" His hands flex at his sides, reaching for me and refusing to, both at once.
"You've had the worst forty-eight hours of your life.
You watched men die. You found out your father—" He stops himself.
"You should have candles. A real bed. Someone who isn't—" He gestures at himself, at the scars, the holstered pistol, all of it. "This."