Page 41 of Code Name: Hunter
We make our way up through the safehouse’s interior, its narrow stairwell spiraling toward the top floor. Old steps creak underfoot, the air cooling, carrying the resinous scent of olive trees. When we push open the final door, the rooftop garden unfolds like a hidden heartbeat above the city—broad planks of weathered wood underfoot, a low wrought-iron railing wrapped with warm string lights, and a few potted olive trees leaning lazily toward the last scraps of sunlight.
A wrought-iron table and two chairs sit off to one side, their paint flaking just enough to suggest they’ve been here longer than the current safehouse keepers. From up here, the skyline cuts a jagged silhouette, domes and bell towers bathed in the deep gold of a city that hides as many secrets as it shares.
Beyond the low stone walls, the hum of traffic below softens with distance. Up here, with the wood floors underfoot and the scent of herbs in the air, it feels like the world has stopped holding its breath.
We eat dinner in silence, the tension not letting up. I can’t take the silence anymore as I watch Logan pour himself another glass of wine. The taste of linguine and briny oysters still clings to the back of my tongue, mingling with the faint herbal perfume of the garden. The white wine lingers on our lips, cool and crisp against the warmth of the evening air, the memory of sweetness weaving into the moment.
After cleaning up, I find Logan standing by the balustrade, his gaze on the skyline like he’s memorizing it. The pergola’s light throws faint gold across the angles of his face, catching on the hard cut of his jaw and the shadowed line of his cheekbones. His shirt stretches across a chest that looks carved from something far more stubborn than stone, and the dark of his hair ruffles just enough in the breeze to make him seem less untouchable. The tension in his shoulders has eased since we arrived, but only just—he’s always half in the fight, even when the battlefield is far away.
I watch him for a few beats, my eyes tracing the way the pergola’s light clings to his shoulders and the easy, dangerous grace in the way he stands. My mind drifts into places we probably shouldn’t go—fantasies I’ve shoved down for years until the edges of them blurred—but here, now, they surge sharp and insistent. I can’t help it. I want him. I’ve always wanted him—wanted the heat of his body, the weight of his focus, the way he makes the rest of the world fade. I was always afraid to ask, to take, to admit it aloud. But not tonight. Tonight, the fear is gone, replaced by a hunger that’s been waiting far too long to be fed.
I let my hips sway as I close the distance, each step measured, deliberate, letting him see the heat in my eyes. My voice is a lowpurr when I finally stop just close enough to catch his scent. “I want to try something,” I say, my gaze flicking over his mouth before locking on his.
He turns toward me, the stem of a half-full wineglass cradled loosely in one hand, the other lazily winding a lock of my hair around his fingers. His gaze is heavy-lidded, hungry, the look that makes the cool night air feel suddenly too warm. One eyebrow lifts, his mouth curving in the faintest hint of a smile. “That sounds dangerous coming from you.”
“Trust me?” My voice is quiet, deliberate.
He studies me for a beat, then nods once. “Always, Vivian. Always.”
His words say one thing, but the look in his eyes betrays him. He doesn’t trust me completely, but then again, I don’t think I completely trust him, yet, either. It’s a two-way street, but neither of us is willing to make that leap. Not yet, anyway.
I step closer into his space; the wood creaking softly under my boots. My fingers toy with a strip of black silk, the fabric cool and sinuous, gliding over my skin with a decadent promise. It’s light as a whisper yet carries the weight of intent, sliding between my fingers like liquid. His gaze drops to it, lingering for a beat, then lifts back to meet my eyes.
“Do you want me to blindfold you again?” Logan asks, his voice low, his mouth curving in a way that’s not quite a smile. He looks like a man testing me, already confident he knows the answer.
“No.” I keep my tone steady, even though my pulse pounds fast and heavy. The strip of silk slides from my fingers, landing on the rooftop stones with a faint whisper.
The night air is warm; the rooftop is edged with low planters and scattered string lights that cast us in a soft, uneven glow. Distant traffic hums below, but here it feels like the world has narrowed to him and me. I’ve been under his control more timesthan I can count. Sometimes it was necessity, sometimes choice. Often the line blurred until I couldn’t tell which side I was standing on. But tonight, I want something different.
I step closer, the short distance closing until his heat radiates against my skin like a live current. My breath hitches, but I force my chin higher, meeting the steadiness in his gaze. The air between us hums with tension, charged and intimate. My voice comes out softer than I intend, almost swallowed by the night. “Close your eyes,” I murmur, a request that feels like a dare.
He doesn’t. His gaze stays locked on mine, steady, unflinching, and patient. The silence stretches until my breath catches, until I wonder if he’ll refuse. Then he exhales, deliberate, slow, the sound weighted. “Vivian.” My name is both a warning and a promise.
I lift my hand to his jaw, fingers steady despite the tremor in my pulse, my thumb grazing the rough stubble that marks his strength. The contact steadies me as much as it tempts him. My voice drops lower, more intimate, the words catching between us like a vow. “Just tonight. Let me lead. Trust me.”
His mouth hovers against mine, the barest brush of warmth teasing my lips and stealing my next breath. The faint curve at the edge of his lips isn’t an invitation but a challenge, a reminder written in the tautness of his body that no matter how close I draw him, he will never truly give up control. It is the almost-kiss that tells me I can want, I can push, but he decides how far it goes.
I press my hand lightly to his chest and step forward. He lets me guide him, though his palm settles firmly on my hip, a quiet reminder of how easily he could change the balance. When his calves bump the cushioned bench, he sits, not because I push him down, but because he chooses to follow.
I swing a knee over him and straddle his lap, heat sparking at the contact. My palms flatten against his chest, feeling the steadyrise and fall of his breathing. He doesn’t move, his arms resting loosely at his sides. At first glance it might look like surrender, but I can feel the tension in him, restrained and deliberate.
“You always see everything,” I murmur. “Always one step ahead, always in control.”
“Not always.” His voice is low, the kind of quiet that carries weight.
“Tonight, I want to see you.”
Something simmers in his eyes—curiosity, hesitation, calculation. I lean in and kiss him before I can second-guess myself. His lips are warm, steady, his response measured, like he’s allowing me to dictate the pace. I press harder, wanting him to break. My hand slides to the glass in his hand, taking it from his fingers. I set it aside on the table; the faint clink loud in the quiet. When I look back, his eyes are on my mouth. The hunger there is impossible to miss.
I trail kisses down his throat, tasting salt and heat. My hand slips beneath his shirt, sliding over scarred skin, rough textures telling stories I haven’t been trusted with. He exhales, a sound so low I feel it more than hear it.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says.
“Yes.” The word leaves me with a breath that’s half -confession, half -hunger. Heat coils low in my belly, sharp and demanding. “I need to feel like I can take,” I murmur, my fingers pressing harder into the muscle beneath his shirt, sliding lower with purpose. “To claim instead of always surrender, to drink in the way you shiver for me. I want to take until there’s nothing left but us, raw and bare.”
For a long moment he studies me. Then, with deliberate calm, he leans back against the bench, stretching his arms out along the back. To anyone else, it might look like yielding. But I feel the charge under his stillness, the restraint of a predator waiting to strike.
I kiss him again, slow and deliberate. His mouth is steady beneath mine, but when I pull back, I see the tightness at the corner of his jaw. My hand slips lower, undoing the button of his jeans, then easing down the zipper. His eyes never leave me as I slide my hand inside, curling my fingers around the heat of him. A sound breaks from his chest, low and rough, and pride flares sharp and bright inside me.
