Page 20 of Code Name: Hunter
“You’ll go where I say, when I say.” My voice is low, but sharp enough to slice the air. Something flares in my chest—control laced with something darker, more primal. Her stare dares me to break first, and for a half-beat, I want to—because there’s a pull in the space between us, dangerous and raw.
My jaw tightens, every instinct screaming to drag her closer, to remind her exactly who’s in charge. The command isn’t just professional—it’s personal. It's a boundary drawn with barbed wire. Every part of me demands obedience, and she knows it—knows exactly how close I am to snapping the leash and taking what’s already mine. "You don’t get to dictate the length of your leash.”
Her smile is razor-thin, wicked with challenge. “Then you’d better learn how to hold it—unless you plan on me dragging you by it instead.”
The image flashes unbidden—her hand wrapped in my leash, her pace dictating mine—and it burns hotter than I want Fitz to see. She steps just close enough that I feel the heat from her body tease against mine, voice dropping half an octave. “Careful, Logan. You pull too hard, something might snap—and it won’t be me.”
Fitz clears his throat, the sound deliberate and sharp, like a gavel slamming down on a courtroom bench. “Enough.” His voice cuts clean through the charged silence, not loud, but authoritative enough to make even Vivian blink. The weight behind it isn’t just command—it’s finality, layered with just enough steel to remind us who still runs this room, no matter how volatile the players get.
Vivian leans against the table. “If you want the rest of the dossier, I ride along. I have markers Wolfe can’t erase—ghost signatures, burn trails. Wolfe left markers—old caches, fallback points. I know where they are. I left breadcrumbs he doesn't know I buried. You want him? I lead.”
“No.” The word snaps out, flat and final. I don’t hesitate, don’t blink. “You’re compromised.” The air between us shivers with tension, her eyes narrowing like she expected resistance but not the speed of it. I hold my ground, voice ironclad. “You know I’m right. You want in, you play by my terms—or you’re out.”
She tilts her head, voice cool and deceptively light. “Really? Every decision you make in this room—every call, every order—has my name tangled in it. Don't act like you're not bleeding all over the leash you claim to hold.” For half a breath, I can’t speak. She’s right—and it cuts deeper than any blade she’s ever carried. I’ve trained her in discipline, command, restraint. And yet, hereI am—bleeding out in front of her, every word another wound she knows exactly how to open.
The hit lands lower than I expect—right beneath the armor I’ve spent years reinforcing. A hitch in my breath. The faintest twitch in my jaw. Fitz catches it instantly, his gaze narrowing like a marksman tracking a target. He doesn’t say a word, but his posture sharpens, sensing the breach I didn’t mean to show.
I draw a breath, steadying the war brewing under my skin. “You’re a target, not a tool. I’m not risking the integrity of an operation just to let you run after ghosts in the open, playing vigilante under a pretty alias. You want to help? Then you do it under orders, not fantasies.”
She steps forward, invading my space like it’s her birthright—chin lifted, eyes glittering with challenge. “Then stop pretending I’m a civilian. You know better. You trained me, Logan. You helped forge the blade. Don’t act surprised now that I’m sharp enough to cut back.”
“I know exactly what you are.” My voice lowers, honed to a razor’s edge. “Which is why you’re not stepping beyond these walls until I’ve vetted every name in that file and hunted down everyone you’ve left behind. You want out there? You earn it. Until then, you answer to me—every move, every breath.”
She’s so close now I have to hold back from grabbing her by the nape of her neck, a warning, and a dare, like two storm fronts colliding with nothing but dry air and friction between them. Her lashes lower, but her gaze never drops. “And if I decide to walk?” The question slides between us like a blade—slow, deliberate, meant to draw blood whether it cuts or not.
I lean in, not touching her, not needing to. “Then I’ll drag you back in chains, Nocturne. You want to test my leash? I’ll show you what it feels like to be pulled tight—no slack, no mercy."
I want her to see it—steel biting skin, the unyielding pull that reminds her exactly who closed the distance and who controlsthe lock. The words leave my mouth coated in steel, but beneath them, something coils hard in my chest. It’s not just dominance. It’s a possession, sharp and beginning to fray at the edges. If I lose control now, it won’t be calculated—it’ll be personal. And that’s more dangerous than anything Wolfe could throw at us.
"You move because I allow it,” I continue. “You breathe because I don’t stop you. This isn’t a threat. It’s a vow. Not from handler to operative—but from Dominant to submissive.” And she hears it in my voice. I know she does. She taught me how to say it without words. How to demand surrender with breath and proximity alone. “Make no mistake. You belong to me now. Remember my terms."
The air thickens.
Fitz finally steps forward, his movements unhurried but laced with command, clearing the tension like smoke off a battlefield. His expression is unreadable, but the slight tilt of his head and the steely calm in his eyes cut through the room like a blade. One hand rests loosely at his side, the other gesturing with the quiet finality of someone who’s ended wars with less. The silence that follows isn’t peace—it’s the sound of everyone recalibrating to his authority. “I’ll allow it.”
We both turn.
“I want Wolfe found,” he continues. “Nocturne rides backup. Controlled insertion, limited radius, full-field surveillance. Logan, she’s yours—handler and Dominant. That means control through whatever means necessary.” He doesn’t flinch when he says it. Because he knows what it costs. Knows what it stirs. Fitz isn’t just deploying an asset—he’s lighting a fuse between two people already primed to explode. He’s not just granting permission—he’s betting on the detonation to hit our enemies first. And he’s counting on the fallout to lead him to Wolfe.
Vivian gives a satisfied smile—slow, sure, the kind that says she knows exactly how deep she’s burrowed under my skin—anddamn if it doesn’t send a sharp twist low in my gut. It’s not just attraction. It’s possession wrapped in memory, tension braided with control I’m rapidly losing.
“Pack your gear,” I growl. “We move in one hour.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m already packed.”
She exits with that deliberate sway—hips rolling like a metronome of temptation sharpened into defiance—and I feel my jaw lock against the impulse to follow. Her scent lingers in the air, curling around my spine like a noose with memory for rope. I catch Fitz watching me, one brow slightly raised, amusement flickering behind the sharp edges of calculation in his gaze. He doesn’t have to speak for me to hear the warning loud and clear: this isn’t just an op anymore. And I’m already in too deep.
“You’re too close,” he says, voice calm but edged with quiet warning.
His eyes narrow—not with judgment, but calculation—and the faint crease between his eyebrows betrays the weight behind his words. Concern or strategy, I can’t quite tell. Fitz has known me for too long to miss what’s happening here. The edge in his tone is personal. He sees the fracture. And if he’s calling me on it, I’m past the line.
I nod. “And too far to back off now.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Don’t let it compromise the op.”
I don’t answer because the op’s not what’s keeping me up at night.
It’s her. The echo of her scent hits like a sucker punch—heady, unshakable. Her voice? It doesn’t just brush my pulse; it entwines with it, syncs to the beat like she’s always belonged there. And her eyes—God, those eyes—slice past every barrier I’ve fortified, peeling back layers until only the truth remains.She doesn’t just affect me—she infiltrates, burrows in, and rewrites the rules I’ve lived by.
