Page 33 of Code Name: Hunter
In the SUV, I finally breathe—but it’s shallow, tight, like my lungs forgot how. Outside, a cicada buzz saws the night air, then cuts off abruptly—as if even the insects know to keep quiet. The second the door slams, it’s as if the illusion cracks wide open. Logan’s fists are clenched on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, jaw rigid.
He doesn't speak. Just stares ahead through the windshield as though the villa might explode behind us. His chest rises and falls like he's forcing air through stone.
I curl into my seat, pressing my forehead briefly to the cool glass of the window. The silk dress sticks to my skin, sweat prickling at the base of my spine. My pulse hasn't slowed since I saw the ring—and now that we’re alone, the reality presses down like a vice.
His voice cuts the silence like a blade. "Talk."
But I already know the question that follows. And the answer isn’t one I want to give.
"Talk," he snaps. "What did you see?"
I swallow hard, my voice a whisper scraped raw. "It was another damn ring like Wolfe’s. Same silver band. Same crest. Isaw it only for a second, but—it hit me like a punch to the gut. But it was his gait… the way he moved. It was the same. Not similar. The same. Like my memory pulled him out of the grave and dropped him in that hallway." My throat tightens. "I don’t know if it was him, Logan. I can’t know for certain, but if it was…"
I stop because finishing that sentence means reopening a wound I thought had scabbed over. It means admitting that the man I mourned—the man who used me and burned me—might still be breathing. Might be watching. Might be ten steps ahead. Again.
His jaw ticks. "Why didn’t you say something inside?"
I press my fingers to my temples. "Because I couldn’t. Because if I had, I would’ve broken, Logan." My fingers knot in the silk at my thigh, wrinkling it past repair. My voice is hoarse with the weight of it. "You needed me calm. We needed that intel. And I needed to stay inside the role, even if it killed me."
He turns toward me slowly, his expression still cut from granite, but his eyes are softer now. "Vivian…"
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just air and exhaustion. "I didn’t know if I was hallucinating. I didn’t trust myself to speak his name and not shatter. I’ve spent years building walls over that memory, trying to bury the part of me that still looks for him in crowds. And then tonight, that ring—his ring—was just... there."
He pulls the SUV to the side of the road with sudden, controlled precision, tires crunching against gravel. The vehicle idles low, a rumble beneath us like distant thunder. Before I can ask what he’s doing, Logan cuts the engine, the silence swallowing us whole. He turns his full-body now, his knees angled toward me. His hand finds mine—not forcefully, not commanding, but deliberate. He threads our fingers together like he’s stitching something broken. It’s not just a gesture—it’san anchor. Firm. Steady. Like he’s trying to root me back to the present.
I don’t pull away. But for a split second, I think about it. Because of the warmth of his palm, the certainty in his grip—it’s too much. Too kind. Too dangerous. And I don’t know how to let myself have it without falling apart. What the hell is happening to me?
"Next time," he says, voice low but sure, the pads of his fingers tightening just slightly around mine, "I’ll know. I’ll adjust. But don’t shoulder it alone." He lifts my hand to his chest, just for a beat, anchoring it over the steady thrum of his heart like he’s daring me to feel how real this is—how present. "If he’s back, if he’s really out there, we face it together. No ghosts get between us. Not anymore."
My throat tightens. I nod slowly. I want to believe him. Because I’m so damn tired of running. I’m so tired of being alone. Because part of me—the fractured part that remembers what trust used to feel like—still hopes he means it.
We stare at each other, the silence thick between us, crackling like the charged air before a storm. Logan exhales hard; his thumb brushes once over my knuckles, the calloused pad a stark contrast to the fine tremble running through me. I grip back, not tightly, but enough to say I hear him. That I’m still here. That maybe, for now, I don’t have to carry this alone.
I nod because I believe him. Because I have to. I’ve always stood alone, trusting only my instincts, my steel. But if Logan falls now—if I lose him before he’s truly mine—I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
We got the intel—but at a cost. We were seen, clocked, and catalogued. The shadows are watching now, sharper and closer. Wolfe may have even seen us. Heard us. And whatever game Wolfe’s playing, he didn’t just raise the stakes—he changed the rules. Again.
Somewhere behind us, the villa’s clock tolls the hour, and it feels like it’s marking time we don’t have. And for the first time in years, I’m not sure I’m ready.
14
LOGAN
The mountain road is a narrow ribbon of asphalt twisting between jagged rock and black pine, the smell of resin and cool mountain air filtering in through the vents. Out here, there’s no guardrail between us and a hundred-foot drop—just jagged stone waiting to turn metal and bone into shrapnel. Gravel crunches under the tires when I edge too close to the shoulder. The low growl of the engine vibrates through the wheel, each gear shift a pulse under my palms.
I keep the SUV’s speed just shy of reckless, the weight of the intel sitting in my chest heavier than the engine’s hum. Vivian’s quiet beside me, her gaze fixed out the passenger window, but I can feel the tension bleeding off her in sharp, silent waves, like static before a storm.
I check the mirror again, scanning for anything out of rhythm with the sweep of rock and pine. I manage to avoid the rumble strip, making its telltale sound, keeping the tires tight to the center without drifting over it. A sudden gleam slices through the curve of glass—deliberate, too steady to be sunlight off a stray bumper—and my gut locks down. It's the same black sedanI clocked idling near the villa’s outer gate, now hugging the turns with the confidence of locals or professionals.
It's two car lengths back, low profile, holding disciplined spacing like they’ve trained for this on this road. In my head, the calculus runs hot and fast: distance, cover, terrain, speed, exit points. The glint off their windshield isn’t random—it’s the predator’s glimmer when it’s found the herd’s straggler. Every option was assessed, discarded, or banked in a heartbeat. We’ve got company, and they’re patient enough to be dangerous.
“Logan...” she starts, turning toward me.
“Don’t move,” I cut in.
My voice is low, calm—the calm that means danger just walked in and shut the door. Without taking my eyes off the road, I ease my right hand from the wheel just enough to reach down toward the holster wedged between the seat and console, fingers curling around the familiar grip. The cool polymer meets my palm, the solid weight a quiet reassurance that if this tail makes a move, I’m ready to answer it.
Her brow furrows. “What...”
