Page 32 of Code Name: Hunter
Alistair leads us through the villa with the casual arrogance of a man who thinks he can’t bleed. Logan keeps close, his fingers grazing my waist as we enter the salon. Crystal decanters. Velvet settees. A tray of amuse-bouches too pretty to eat. Everything screams curated excess.
There are others here—three men, two women. All beautiful. All watching. Some smile with curiosity. Others with hunger. A man near the drinks cart rests his hand too casually on the curve of his jacket, where the faint bulge of a shoulder rig distorts the linen. But one man, sitting near the fireplace, wears a look I recognize. Detached. Clinical. As if he’s categorizing us like assets. I've seen it in the mirror—watching potential assets. It's part of the job.
Logan takes a seat on the edge of a chaise and pulls me into his lap. Not beside him—on him. One strong arm wraps around my waist like a leash. His mouth brushes my ear. "Stay soft. Breathe."
I do. Barely.
Alistair pours something amber into delicate crystal. Offers it to Logan, who takes it without blinking, but I'm offered nothing. I'm just a pawn to him. "To mutually beneficial alliances," Alistair toasts.
"To clean exits," Logan replies.
Laughter ripples through the room. I lower my eyes playing the obedient pet. But my pulse hammers. I track every movement—who glances where, whose hand strays too close to a concealed holster. It’s a dance. Power disguised as leisure. And Logan? He plays his part too well; it's almost unnerving.
When Alistair asks about our travels, Logan strokes my thigh in lazy circles and lies like a man born to it. "Geneva. Naples. Monaco before that. We don’t stay in one place long. She prefers discretion."
"Of course," Alistair says, stepping closer, his smile too smooth. "Such beauty is a rare currency. Best not to devalue it with overexposure."
His hand rises, slowly and deliberately; the backs of his fingers brushing against my cheek. It’s a caress meant to degrade, to assert power under the guise of flattery. My skincrawls. Every instinct screams to break the offending fingers, to grind bone against bone until something snaps. But I don’t. The scent of his cologne—leather and bitter orange—wraps around me like a trap I refuse to spring. I hold still. I smile. I play the role.
I don’t flinch, but it takes everything I have. I catalog the pressure points in his hand, the angles of his wrist—quiet calculations tucked beneath the illusion of stillness. I can break him in three seconds. But not yet.
Logan’s arm tightens like a vice around my waist. Not theatrically. Not gently. Possessively. His jaw ticks. He doesn’t speak, but his grip speaks volumes—and Alistair notices. The bastard looks pleased.
I smile, all dimples and silence. But inside, I’m cataloging every word, cataloging faces, exits, threat levels. I’ve got it all under control—until I see him. Or rather, the ghost of him.
Across the room, in the hallway just beyond the archway, a man slips past. It’s only a glimpse—a flicker of dark hair, broad shoulders, a profile blurred by motion and distance. But it’s enough to freeze the air in my lungs. Because on his right hand—a ring.
Silver. Ornate. Engraved with the same symbol Wolfe wore—the same crest burned into memory with unforgiving precision. I recognize it instantly. The one I traced with my fingers years ago, pressed against his chest while he swore loyalty and lies in the same breath. The same ring I saw flashing on the hand of an attacker at Villa Tenebrae.
My breath catches—sharp, involuntary, a jolt beneath my ribs. Not enough to draw attention. But enough to crack something inside me. Just for a second. Just enough.
Logan’s fingers tighten on my hip. His breath shifts against my temple, sharp and shallow. I feel the subtle change in his grip—not pain, not warning. Just presence. He doesn’t speak, but hisentire body angles toward mine like a shield. He felt the tremor. He knows something's wrong.
It's not just a warning this time—but an anchor, a tether to the now as my thoughts careen into memory and fear. A silent question thrums beneath his grip, but I don’t move. Don’t speak. My breath is caught in my throat, brittle and thin. My heel shifts against the parquet, searching for balance that isn’t there. It couldn’t be Wolfe. Not here. Not now. He’s dead. I buried him—in thought, in grief, in anger. And yet—some primal part of me reacts like it knows better. Like it never truly believed he was gone. The ring we saw was too real. That stride too familiar.
My mind spirals, whiplashing through years of lies and touches that once felt like truth. If he’s alive... if he’s really alive—then nothing I’ve done since Prague is safe. Nothing is true. Not even this.
"Something wrong, my dear?" Alistair asks, his voice smooth.
Logan answers before I can. "She’s overwhelmed. I forget how fragile she is when we travel."
Alistair’s eyes gleam. "Ah, a delicate appetite."
I lower my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide the blaze in my cheeks. Logan shifts beneath me, his thigh muscles tense. He leans in. "Get it together," he whispers against my neck. "We’re not done."
His voice grounds me. Pulls me back. I nod slightly, adjusting my posture. Reclaiming the mask. But it’s harder now. The ring lingers in my mind like a bruise.
Eventually, we’re led to a private room. Clean lines. No cameras. It’s a show of trust—or a trap. Alistair hands Logan a flash drive. "As discussed. But I expect reciprocity." His gaze lingers a beat too long on me, like the price is already calculated.
"You’ll get it," Logan says. No inflection.
We leave without another word—but not without a performance. Logan tucks me tighter against his side, his gripjust a little too possessive, his expression unreadable. I drape myself over him like a spoiled ornament, eyes half-lidded, smile faint and languid, as if we’re exactly what we claim to be: a dominant man and his decorative plaything.
We don't rush. That would raise suspicion. Instead, we move through the halls like we own them—me trailing one step behind. Alistair watches us go, his smirk smug, but he doesn’t stop us. That would mean admitting he doesn’t have control—and men like him never give that away for free.
Only when we’re past the last set of ornate double doors and clear of visible surveillance, do I let my spine stiffen and my mask slip.
Logan’s already reaching for the key fob. "Get in. Now."
