Page 28 of Code Name: Hunter
Every part of me screams to step away. To not make the same mistake twice. But God help me—I want to believe him. "You say that. But he said it, too. Not in words—but in the way he trained me, trusted me, made me feel like I belonged. And I clung to that, like a lifeline I didn’t know was fraying. I believed in him—God, I believed in him. And look where that got me. Burned. Branded. Haunted. I want to believe you, Logan. I do. But I’m exhausted. Every time I trust someone, it feels like handing them a weapon and turning my back. And maybe I’m not strong enough to survive another betrayal. Maybe I don’t want to find out."
“You never belonged to anyone,” Logan says fiercely, his thumb brushing beneath my eye like he can erase the past with a touch. "But if you did—it sure as hell wouldn’t be him."
I let out a shaky breath, my voice quieter now. "I’m tired, Logan. Tired of looking over my shoulder. Of second-guessing everyone’s motives. Of wondering who’s playing me and why."
He nods, pulling me closer. "Then stop running. You don’t have to anymore. You’re safe with me. I swear to you—I’ll never hurt you."
I want to argue. Want to throw up every wall I’ve built. But instead, I press my forehead to his chest and whisper, "I hope so. Because if I’m wrong again.. I won’t survive it."
His arms tighten. "You’re not wrong. Not about me. Not this time."
12
LOGAN
Vivian sits at the edge of the safehouse kitchen, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her shoulders are stiff, too stiff, like she's holding herself together by sheer force of will. There's a tremor in the set of her jaw—controlled, but not invisible. She's trying to stay armored, but I can see the cracks. Not fear, exactly. Anticipation. Distrust. And something else—a glimmer of retreat in her eyes, like she’s already rehearsing an exit strategy. Her thumb scrapes once along the inside of her elbow, like she’s checking for a pressure point she can use if she has to move fast.
That’s what gets to me.
That quicksilver flicker in her eyes—the one that says she’s already judged the battlefield and found me suspect. It’s not loud. Not a blow. It’s the soft slide of a scalpel under skin.
I’ve spent years learning how to read the tells, to map out risk and betrayal in split seconds. But seeing that doubt directed at me? It hits with a precision I didn't expect. Not because I think she’s wrong to question it—but because I know exactly how it feels to look at someone you once trusted and wonder what truth they’re hiding.
Back in Prague, I wore that look. Somewhere outside, a delivery van rattles past, its diesel growl cutting through the memory for half a second before I’m back there in the dust. Back when the dust never settled, and the dead didn’t stay buried. And now? It’s like watching that same shadow rise in her.
Not the steel, not the edge—I’ve seen her wield both like weapons. But that look, like she’s already bracing for the blade to come from me, not the enemy. It guts me in a way I'm not ready for. Makes my protectiveness twist into something sharper. Something closer to guilt.
The moment she looks at me like that—like I might be next on her list of betrayals—I realize just how high the stakes have become. Not just the mission. Not just the op. But her. Us. Whatever fragile thing we’ve been rebuilding since Monte Carlo.
In her eyes, I see the weight of every man who’s ever lied to her, used her, made her doubt every promise and motive. I see what it costs her to question me—and it damn near guts me. I want to protect her from whatever’s coming next. But more than that, I want her to believe I’ll still be standing here when the smoke clears. That I’ll still be on her side, even when the rest of the world isn’t.
I’ve seen her in firefights, seen her outnumbered and outgunned—but this? This kind of quiet is worse. It means she’s already calculating what she’ll do if I turn out to be one more man she can’t trust. Her eyes are wide, sharp. Watching me. I look at her. Really look. She's still flushed from earlier, her hair a wild halo around her face, but the softness is gone. Replaced by steel. And fear.
"The tracker pinged before we got it out and into the containment box," I admit. "That’s all, but that’s enough."
"Fuck."
Yeah. That about covers it. But the words feel thin—like armor stretched too tight. I glance at her again, catch the tremorin her exhale, the way her hands clench and unclench in her lap. There’s a storm brewing under that calm exterior, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t know if I’m her shelter or the next threat.
The tension between us draws tighter, thick enough to cut—like wire pulled taut between opposing forces, waiting to snap. And in the silence that follows, I realize this isn’t just about the op anymore. It’s about trust. About history. About what we’re becoming—and what might break us before we even get there... what it'll cost me if it does.
We’re in the SUV within moments, burner comms reactivated, safehouse protocols cleared. Tires crunch over loose gravel as we pull away, the safehouse shrinking in the side mirror until it’s nothing but a dark smudge in the glare. The vehicle smells faintly of worn leather and clean linen—like sun-warmed cotton and old books, something comforting and familiar, a stark contrast to the antiseptic quiet of the safehouse. The engine hums low beneath the hood, but inside me, everything thrums too loud—heartbeat, breath, the tick of paranoia whispering that we’re already behind the eight ball.
My hands grip the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me. Each knuckle strains beneath skin, and the tension in my spine hasn’t released since we hit the road. Adrenaline’s fading, but what replaces it isn’t calm. It’s calculation. Cold and wound tight, like a spring loaded past its limits.
Vivian doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move much either. She’s angled toward the window like she’s willing herself somewhere else. Arms crossed, jaw locked. Her profile is all hard lines—elegant and razor-edged—and the sun catches her lashes, making them glint like tempered gold.
She’s too still, and that kind of stillness isn’t peace. It’s preparation. She’s not shutting down—she’s sharpening. Herfingers drum once against her bicep, then still—like she’s decided patience will cut sharper than any blade right now.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye. There’s a faint tremor in her left hand. Barely there, but I catch it. Could be tension. Could be restraint. Could be both. I want to say something—to crack the silence with some scrap of reassurance—but the words don’t come. Not when I know I’m holding pieces back, too.
Then there’s the guilt. Sharp and silent. Because I can feel her drifting, just a little, like she’s shifting weight toward the exit. Like she’s already built three contingencies for leaving me behind if I turn out to be one more bad bet.
I hate that.
Instead of speaking, I watch the mirrors. Scan every car behind us. Every shadow that lingers too long in an alley. The city’s gold-edged now—sunlight slipping low, the sky bleeding orange—but it feels like the closing of a trap. My brain tallies blind spots, fallback routes, burner caches within a twenty-kilometer radius. A black sedan lingers two car-lengths back longer than I like before peeling away at the next roundabout.
She shifts in her seat. The soft sound of her jacket moving is loud in the silence.
