Page 24 of Seek Me Darling

Matteo lifts his chin slightly, eyes fierce. "Then let's get them. Reyes is careful, but careful men get complacent."

I smile, sharp and dangerous. "Exactly. Cruz, Mendoza, Navarro—all roads lead back to Reyes. Somewhere there's a gap he thinks we've overlooked, a vulnerability he's forgotten. That’s where we strike. So, let’s tear these assholes’ lives apart. Find me something we can exploit."

Eli spins back around, grinning wickedly. "You know how much I love it when you talk dirty, Seanna."

"Focus, Eli," Jensen mutters, though amusement gleams in his eyes.

My lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Dirty talk later. Right now, get to work."

They all nod, determination clear as they dive back into the fray, keyboards clattering furiously as we chase down every lead. I lean back for a moment, letting the bullpen's chaos wash over me. Ford’s warning rings in my ears again, mixing with Hydessa’s cautious determination.

We’re so damn close, I can feel it—one slip-up, one mistake, and Reyes’s whole world will come crashing down around him. And when it does, I’ll be standing right there, watching it burn.

Game on, indeed.

Chapter 11

Seanna

Pullingintomydriveway,the first thing I notice tonight is the emptiness on my doorstep. No sleek little box, no flower tucked neatly inside with a cryptic note. I should probably feel relieved—maybe my secret admirer finally figured out their creepy little gestures weren't having the desired effect. But weirdly, irritation spikes instead. Clearly, I'm more fucked-up than I realized—missing my nightly dose of unsettling affection.

I step inside, locking the door behind me even though I know damn well it's pointless. I don't normally bother—what's the point when locks mean fuck-all to the type of people I hunt? But tonight, I crave the illusion of control. Between the weight of Ford’s judgment at the DEA, the crushing expectations of my family, and the constant, underlying pull of the organization, my grip on normalcy feels dangerously tenuous. Sometimes it feels like I’m caught between worlds—respected agent by day even if I do step over the line occasionally, shadow operative by night, and always a Darling. Always living in someone's legendary shadow, always expected to perform. And I’m fucking tired of performing.

My mission, though, is clearer than ever: burn down every last scrap of corruption, drag every smug bastard out of the shadows, and hold their sins against the innocent up to the light. I might be twisted, but even I have lines I refuse to cross. Protecting those who can’t protect themselves, making those who think they're untouchable suffer—it's a mission I've willingly taken on, and I'll see it through no matter what the cost.

Dragging my exhausted body down the hallway, half-expecting another sinister surprise, I push open my bedroom door. The emptiness here is oddly reassuring. No black boxes, no sinister flowers. Maybe my stalker got bored. Maybe I've finally scared them off. Stripping off my clothes, I let them fall carelessly to the floor, too drained to give a shit about anything except sleep.

The mattress welcomes me, but my mind refuses to shut down. It churns relentlessly through every goddamn detail—the case, Reyes, Cruz's calculating gaze, and Hydessa off chasing her own monsters on some island that I hadn’t even bothered to get the name of. A twinge of worry hits me, familiar and bitter.

I might be fucked up, but my protective streak toward my twin is undeniable. She's smart, methodical, and cautious—traits I envy. Traits that I never quite mastered.

Our family doesn't do casual; we obsess. We love dangerously, fiercely, possessively. Anything less would bore me to tears. Anything weaker would crumble beneath my intensity.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts a tangle of twisted knots. There's something almost comforting about admitting my own darkness, acknowledging the parts of me that most people would find horrifying. I'm not a good person, not in the traditional sense—and I've never pretended to be. I just happen to direct my particular brand of ruthlessness at people who deserve it even more than I do.

I've gotten used to my own vicious cycle—work until exhaustion, fall into bed, stare at the ceiling until my brain finally surrenders to darkness. Lather, rinse, fucking repeat. Most nights I can at least fool myself into thinking I'm making progress, but tonight feels different. Emptier. Like I'm chasing ghosts that are always one step ahead, laughing at my futile attempts to corner them.

God, I hate feeling like this.Vulnerable. Uncertain. These moments when I'm alone with nothing but my thoughts are when the carefully constructed armor I wear starts to show its cracks. The fierce, unapologetic agent facade slips, and underneath is just... me. The real Seanna Darling—messy, complicated, and perpetually unsatisfied.

"Look at you," I mutter to myself, "lying here feeling sorry for yourself when there's a fucking drug lord out there who needs to be destroyed."

But that's the thing about nighttime thoughts—they don't care about your to-do list or your vendettas. They dig deeper, unearthing all the shit you'd rather keep buried.

I roll over, punching my pillow into submission. The truth is, I'm not just frustrated about Reyes. I'm pissed at myself for being so goddamn obsessive about these creepy little gifts. Why do I even care? Why am I lying here actually disappointed that there wasn't another twisted present waiting for me?

"Because you're fucked up, Seanna," I whisper to the darkness. "Normal people run from danger. You fucking chase it."

And that's the real issue, isn't it? The adrenaline rush, the thrill of the hunt—it's become my drug of choice. The more dangerous, the more forbidden, the more Icraveit. I've built my entire identity around being the fearless one, the reckless Darling who laughs in the face of death. Meanwhile, Hydessa is the careful one, the planner, the thinker.

Sometimes I wonder if we've both been typecast since birth—me as the wild child and her as the responsible one. What would happen if I tried to be cautious for once? Would the universe implode? Would my family even recognize me?

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah, right. Like you could ever be anything but what you are."

I've never been good at lying to myself. I am who I am—relentless, fierce, and unapologetically intense. I don't do half-measures. I don't understand moderation. I throw myself headfirst into everything—work, fights, sex, life—with a reckless abandon that would terrify most people.

And yet... sometimes in moments like this, I catch myself wondering what it would be like to just... stop. To breathe. To not constantly be at war with the world and myself. To find peace in stillness instead of chaos.

"Bullshit," I scoff at myself, rolling over again and shoving the thought away. "You love the chaos. You'd be bored out of your fucking mind without it." Peace is for people who aren't me. I've tried stillness—it makes my skin crawl. I need the intensity, need the fight, need the danger. It's not just what I do; it's who I am.

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