Page 38 of Code Name: Hunter
He eyes the pills as if they’re poison. "Bossy."
"Alive," I correct. "Swallow."
“That’s what every guy says when he wants a woman to choke down his cum.” He laughs at his own joke, then sighs with exaggerated drama before tossing them back with a grunt of reluctant compliance.
"Jerk," I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it. My mouth curves despite myself, the corner lifting before I can stop it.
His lips twitch. "And yet you keep me around."
"For now," I shoot back, though the truth is the thought of not having him here makes my chest ache. “Next time, I may just let you die.” I tease him.
We move through the safehouse with quiet purpose, loading ammo into packs and stuffing food and water into the pickup. As I slam the tailgate shut, he catches my gaze for a beat, as if weighing whether to ask what’s really on my mind. I deflect with a terse, “We need to move. I'm driving.”
"I'm not arguing with you," he says with a tired half--smile, gripping the doorframe for balance before easing himself slowly into the cab. "Not worth the energy."
I smirk as I get into the driver's seat. "Good boy."
The drive to the port at Bastia stretches in a long, tense silence, the low growl of the engine our only soundtrack, every mile thick with the unspoken. Street lamps and the occasional curve of coastline flash by.
Once on the ferry to Piombino, with a stop in Portoferraio, the air shifts to the salty tang of the open water. We trade only a few clipped words, more comfortable in quiet; the wind makes the deck pitch, and each time it does, his steadying hand settles on my knee. His touch is firm, deliberate—protective. Every shadow on the deck feels like a set of eyes. Nowhere to run if someone decides to make a move. The irony isn’t lost on me that he’s the one keeping me anchored when he’s the one with a gaping hole in his side, bleeding for both of us.
Over ten hours later, when the Cerberus safehouse outside Rome finally rises into view, the weight in my chest hasn’t eased. It appears at first like an abandoned hillside villa, its stone walls weathered and draped in ivy, roof tiles dulled to the same clay hue as the surrounding earth. A narrow gravel drive curves up to a reinforced wooden door set deep in a shaded archway.
Security cameras hide in the eaves, their lenses barely visible. Beyond the threshold, I know we’ll find the interior stripped of any pretense of comfort—concrete floors, steel-framed doors, low ceilings that make the space feel both secure and claustrophobic.
I remove a handgun from the glove box and move through the safehouse in a practiced sweep, clearing it room by room before letting him inside. My feet echo on the bare concrete as I check corners, sweep my gaze across shadowed recesses, and mentally mark the location of every exit. I map where I’d forcean intruder to bottleneck, where the kill zones are, and how long it would take to get Logan clear. I clock the sight lines from windows and the angles of approach from the drive, cataloging anything we might need if trouble finds us here. If Wolfe followed us here, I want to know every inch of ground we can use against him.
Logan has joined me and is propped in the doorway. His posture says he wants to argue he’s fine, but I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders. “Bed. Now,” I tell him, steering him toward the back room.
He doesn’t fight me, and when he sinks onto the mattress, I stand there for a moment longer than I should, watching the man who’s bled for me, wondering if I can keep both him and this damned dossier safe much longer.
Once Logan is asleep, I find some clothing in the closet for both of us to change into. They're not very fashionable, but they're better than what's left of his suit and my skin-tight dress. After a quick shower, I key in the secure comms channel for Opus Noir. Fitz’s voice crackles through, roughened by static and that unmistakable Scottish brogue.
“Report,” he demands.
“We’re in the Rome safehouse. Logan’s down—stable for now, but it was close. He took a bullet, I pulled it out, stitched him up, and patched what I could,” I tell him, my voice brisk but steady. I give Fitz the rundown in precise beats of last night—where it happened, how we got out, what we saw—stripping out nothing essential, knowing he’ll hear the grit in my tone even without the details I’m holding back.
There’s a beat of silence before Fitz exhales sharply. “Bloody hell. Keep him safe, lass. Both of you keep your heads down. I’ve got operatives in the area, but you’re still in the wind until we close this net.”
“You think they’ll follow us all the way here?”
“I think they’ll go as far as they have to for that dossier or your head. Which means you don’t get to relax, not for a heartbeat.”
I nod slowly, even though he can’t see it, the motion more a bracing of myself than agreement. “Understood,” I murmur, letting the word carry the weight of both acknowledgment and the unspoken resolve tightening in my chest.
“Good. I’ll be in touch when I’ve got movement on our end. And Vivian...”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do anything daft.”
For a moment, I almost tell Fitz about how close I came to deleting the dossier. But the words stick in my throat. Instead, a humorless smile tugs at my lips, though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“No promises,” I tell him, fingers hovering just above the keyboard as my gaze locks on the dossier looking back at me, the weight of its secrets pressing heavier with each breath.
The delete button is my siren. Its pull is a whisper I can almost hear, promising peace at a price I’m not sure I can pay.
16
