Page 31 of Code Name: Hunter
"Logan."
I glance back.
Fitz’s voice lowers. "Watch her." He thinks for a moment. "Hell, watch out for each other."
We head for gear-up in silence.
Vivian stops outside the locker bay, arms folded, her posture deceptively casual but her eyes sharp. "Something you’re not telling me?"
There’s a flicker in her expression—cool, composed, but I catch the faint shift beneath it. Not anger. Not fear. But something rawer. Her weight shifts minutely onto the balls of her feet, like she’s bracing for whatever I’m about to drop. Doubt. Maybe even hurt. And that stings more than I want to admit.
I school my face into impassivity, but inside, something twists. I hate the distance I see there—worse; I hate that I’m the one putting it there. It reminds me of Prague—of the silence in her voice after the op went south, and of the way she’d looked at me like she expected me to vanish too, and before she faked her own death.
Maybe that’s the part that hits hardest. Because after everything, I want to be the one person she doesn’t brace against. I want to be the line she can count on, not the shadow she has to outrun.
I pause, meeting her stare. "Plenty."
She narrows her eyes. "So we’re doing that again? Secrets and shadows?"
I lean in, just enough that my voice goes low. "Until I know for sure? Yeah. We are."
Her jaw clenches, and the light in her eyes flares—frustration and fury braided together with something more fragile. "Don’t expect me to play dumb forever."
"I never have."
She storms off, her boots echoing sharply against the tile. I let her go. But my chest is tight. Because if she’s doubting me now—if Wolfe’s ghost is still between us—this whole op may unravel before it even begins.
If the code really traces back to her... either she’s being set up or this runs even deeper than I thought.
And I’m not sure which option is worse. And for the first time since Prague, I wonder if the real danger isn’t the mission—it’s what’s already cracking between us.
13
VIVIAN
The Corsican villa is a sun-drenched slice of old money and new secrets. All carved stone, wisteria-dripped terraces, and security so discreet it might as well be invisible. But I feel it—the eyes. The pressure. The weight of unseen surveillance tucked behind antique mirrors and ornamental lion heads. Deep within the villa, a grandfather clock marks the seconds with a hollow, deliberate tick. It’s too steady to be comfort—it’s a countdown.
Fitz sent us here to meet a man rumored to hold the thread that might unravel Wolfe’s location—if he’s still breathing, if our instincts haven’t led us in circles, if this isn’t just another mirage in a desert of ghosts. The intel he offers could help crack the encryption buried in the remaining fragments of the dossier I still carry. Maybe it points to Wolfe. Maybe someone else buried so deep in this conspiracy we haven’t even named them yet.
The only thing I know with any certainty is that I’m ready for this to end. For the lies, the running, the ghosts trailing every step—I want it done. I want my life back. I know it won’t look like it did before Prague. Honestly? I don’t want that life. That version of me lived in half-truths and shadows, trusting people who didn’t deserve it and doubting the ones who did. I’ve bledfor my second chance. And I won’t go backward. Not for anyone. My nails press into my palm through the silk clutch. The bite of it steadies me.
I wear the dress Logan picked. Black. Fitted. Silk. It molds to every curve, dipping low in the back with a high slit, just slutty enough to pass as arm candy for the dangerous man at my side. Logan hasn’t spoken since we crossed the villa’s threshold. His jaw’s locked, expression granite. But his hand is firm at the small of my back—possessive. Intentional. We’re here as predator and property. Two cameras—one disguised as a smoke detector, another behind a gilt sconce—sweep the foyer in lazy arcs. I keep my gaze soft, but I clock both. Make no mistake, I am not his, or anyone else’s, prey.
I've spent years mastering silence that screams and smiles that kill. It costs more than it looks. But here, in this den of elegant predators, my survival depends on how well I can make the act look effortless.
Our host—Sir Alistair Keene, former MI-6 Deputy Director who’d retired long-before Operation Persephone—is a silver-haired viper in a white linen suit. He kisses my hand with the polish of a man who’s traded in lives and futures and called it a business. His accent carries the crisp authority of old Oxford, smoothed by decades of influence.
"Logan," he purrs, shaking Logan’s hand. "And your exquisite guest?"
Logan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His glance at me is subtle but loaded, a flicker of power and possession that plays perfectly into the roles we’re here to inhabit. I respond with a sweet, muted smile, tilting my chin in the practiced gesture of submission that looks effortless but costs more than anyone in this room could guess. Alistair doesn’t know who I am—just another accessory on the arm of a dangerous man. But I knowexactly who he is. And that’s the advantage I carry like a blade beneath silk.
“She doesn’t speak unless I permit it,” Logan says, his tone flat but lined with something darker—something meant to land like a collar around my throat. It works. The room stills. Eyes shift toward me, gauging my reaction. I lower my gaze as trained, but inside I brace. Every syllable is a weapon, every pause a test. And Logan? He delivers the line like it’s not just a role—but a truth he’s daring them to question. Heat licks the back of my neck. It’s not shame—it’s the deliberate burn of being marked as his in front of predators.
Alistair arches an eyebrow, his lips curling with amusement. "Ah. One of those arrangements." He doesn’t look disgusted or surprised—instead, he looks intrigued. Pleased, even. Like we’ve confirmed something he hoped was true. His gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, as if reappraising my worth now that he’s slotted me into a familiar, palatable box. It almost makes my skin crawl, but I don’t flinch. I just breathe through it. Let him see what he expects to see, not the weapon that I am.
"The only kind that works," Logan replies.
My stomach knots, but my face stays smooth—serene, even. This role? It’s armor forged in necessity and pain. I’ve worn far worse masks in far darker rooms. But this one... this one fits too well, and that unnerves me more than I’ll ever admit. I don’t have the luxury of unpacking what that means—not here, not now. So I let the stillness settle over me, let the illusion become truth, and wear it like a second skin.
