Page 38 of Seek Me Darling

The warehouse district looms ahead, a sprawling maze of corrugated metal and concrete. Most of the buildings look abandoned or barely operational—perfect for our purposes. No prying eyes, no nosy civilians, just the quiet isolation we need to regroup and plan our next move.

We pull into the open garage of a nondescript building with faded numbers on its side, the paint peeling away like dead skin. Matteo kills the engine, and we sit in silence for a moment, scanning our surroundings with practiced vigilance. The air feels charged, heavy.

Behind us, Jensen and Eli pull their vehicle into the warehouse next. The rumble of the engine cuts off as Jensen steps out and moves to a control panel by the entrance. He presses a button, and the massive garage doors begin to close with a mechanical groan, sealing us in.

The moment the doors thud shut, the tension breaks. Time to debrief. And time to decide what the hell comes next.

Chapter 17

Seanna

Matteokillstheengine,and for a moment, the silence feels almost reverent. Sacred. Like we’ve stepped into some kind of confessional booth where sins aren’t just whispered—they’re cataloged.

I push open my door and step out, heels clicking against cracked concrete, the air inside this abandoned shell of industry stale and thick with dust. Eli and Jensen approach, their body language as tight and sharp as mine.

But it doesn’t matter that I just walked out of a cartel nightclub in stilettos and a skin-tight dress without flinching. Doesn’t matter that I’ve got three of the most dangerous men I know watching my six. The weight on my shoulders isn’t Reyes, or Cruz, or the meet I have to finesse tomorrow. It’s them.

Rule and Ruin.

The ghosts I can’t seem to shake.

The warehouse smells like oil, metal, and secrets. Not the comforting kind—if those even exist—but the kind that rot from the inside out. The kind that cling to your skin like old smoke.

“Back room,” Jensen says, breaking the silence as he jerks his chin toward the hallway that splits off from the loading bay. “Let’s not stand around like targets.”

We fall into step, boots crunching over cracked concrete as we move deeper into the belly of the warehouse. This place isn’t unfamiliar—we’ve used it before when shit got too hot or too complicated to bring back to HQ. The bones are solid, the location off-grid, and the interior? Just polished enough to pass for a war room if you squint.

The temporary debrief space is a converted office in the far corner—bare fluorescent lights overhead, a battered table in the center, mismatched chairs, and an old whiteboard still stained with marker ghosts from our last op here. One of the dry erase pens sits in a coffee mug with “World’s Okayest Sniper” printed on the side. Matteo's, obviously.

I take the seat at the head of the table without waiting for anyone to offer. Matteo drops the pouch onto the table and leans against the wall behind me, arms folded. Jensen pulls up surveillance feeds on the tablet and drops it in front of me while Eli flops into a chair like it personally offended him.

“He’s hooked,” Matteo says, eyes tracking mine like he knows exactly how close I am to snapping. “You hit the exact nerve we needed. He wants to trust you. Thinks you’re some high-class drug queen looking to move weight.”

“Good,” I say flatly. “That means we’re one step closer to Reyes.”

“That also means,” Eli cuts in, his tone serious, “you’re one step deeper in Cruz’s territory. Which makes you a fucking red target if you so much as twitch wrong tomorrow.”

“Then I won’t twitch wrong,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. My voice slices the air, and the silence that follows is taut, brittle.

Jensen watches me with that unreadable expression of his—quiet, careful. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

“Seanna,” he says finally, voice low, deliberate. “You sure you’re good? You’ve been… off. Since this morning.”

I meet his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Define‘fine’,” Eli mutters from the side, pretending to scroll through his tablet. “Is it the ‘slept great, ate breakfast, ready to kick ass’ kind of fine? Or the ‘didn’t sleep, punched a mirror, and now holding it together with caffeine and spite’ kind of fine?”

My jaw tightens. I don’t answer.

Because the second one is dead-on.

And because I’m not giving them the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

Matteo moves toward the window, peering out through the slats. “No sign of tails,” he says. “But I still don’t like this. Cruz is a snake, he won’t confront you head-on, but get too close and he’ll sink his fangs in.”

“Let him bite,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’ll tear his fangs out and shove them down Reyes’s throat.”

Jensen lets out a low whistle but says nothing. Eli doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

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