Page 10 of Code Name: Hunter
My pulse kicks. The words land somewhere behind my sternum, where control and temptation collide. There's heat under the surface—memories I’d rather forget, fantasies I never let myself fully unpack. I don’t flinch, but something in me tightens. Not fear. Not revulsion. Something darker.
He’s seen too many operatives fall in love with a ghost and call it loyalty. I wonder if he sees himself in the ruin I’m about to become.
I don’t answer right away. I’m thinking about her mouth, about the way she used to stare at nothing at all when she was calculating an outcome and pretending not to care. About the look she gave me at that table tonight—eyes sharp, but her mouth soft, like she was daring me to try to read her.
He’s not wrong. But he’s not completely right either. It’s not about domination. Not exactly. It’s about control—and the razor-thin edge between desire and duty. And I’m already bleeding on that blade.
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we bury her. Along with whatever truth she’s carrying.” He waves at the illuminated screen of data.
The words hang there, cold and final. I flinch—but just barely. It's not the threat that hits—it’s the ease with whichit could be carried out. The practiced steel in his tone. As if she's not a woman, not a warning, but just another variable to eliminate at his will.
I don’t breathe for a second. Just feel the old heat rise under my collar, the one that says this isn’t just a war—it’s personal.
I stare at the screen again. Names. Blood. Shadows. The blueprint of corruption we’ve all been swimming in for years. Layers of it. Like sediment in a poisoned well—each deposit another buried deal, another body no one claimed. I can feel it in my gut, the way old instincts twitch when the truth surfaces too cleanly. Every name here means something. Every thread is a noose. And she didn’t just hand us a bomb—she set the timer, chose the detonation point, and dared us to watch it tick down.
“Logan.” I turn. Fitz doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.
It's at that moment, I make the decision I already know is going to ruin me. “I’ll...” I don’t finish the sentence. I just nod, jaw tight. The decision’s still there, coiled in my chest. But for now, it stays unsaid.
His eyes narrow. “You sure?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But what other choice do I have?”
He nods once, the faintest motion, like a general sending a soldier to war with a silent salute. That’s all the approval I’ll ever get—and all I need. There’s no handshake, no final warning. Just that single, steel-threaded gesture that says: You’re in. Now don’t fuck it up.
I turn back to the screen, but my mind lingers on Fitzwallace’s expression—that fractional pause, the flicker of something darker in his gaze. Approval, maybe. Or a warning. He knows what this means, what I’ve just committed to. And he’s going to let me walk straight into the fire, because that’s what we do—we walk into flames and call it duty.
The screen glows in the low light. Names scroll like epitaphs—slow and unforgiving, each a whispered indictment in glowingtext—each one a nail in the coffin of plausible deniability, each a loose end I might have to hunt or bury.
The glow isn’t just digital—it’s judgmental. Watching. Accusing. And suddenly I feel it crawling up the back of my neck like static. Like memory sharpening into obsession. Vivian’s dossier is still flickering in front of me, coded and deadly. Just like her. And I know the next time we meet, it won’t be as a shadow and a threat. It’ll be as a weapon and a fuse. I just have to figure out which one of us is which. And when that fuse burns down, I’m not convinced either of us will be left standing.
If she thinks she’s the one writing the story, she’s about to find out who’s holding the pen. And this time, I’m not just doing the editing—I’m authoring the whole goddamn ending.
5
VIVIAN
Opus Noir is darker than I expected—not just in lighting, but in intent. Velvet carpet and leather furniture soak up secrets, the air faintly perfumed with candle wax, polished wood, and a trace of expensive cigars that lingers like an afterthought. The air itself feels charged, like it knows what’s coming. Or maybe it’s just me—wired and on high-alert. Something about tonight feels off. Not just suspense. An omen.
This scene—the club, the corridors, the tension in the air—belongs at the start of something tactical. Tradecraft sharpens in places like this. So let it start here.
The walls seem to hum tonight, as if they know what’s about to unfold. I walk like I own the damn floor in four-inch heels and a silk blouse I hate but wear like armor. I’m not here to beg. I’m here to remind them why I was always the one to watch. I don’t bluff. I survive. I endure. If you back me into a corner, I don’t just push back—I bury you. Tonight, I hold every card that matters. That used to be enough. Confidence. Control. A wicked smile and a faster lie. But Logan always saw through it. And tonight, I’m not sure my armor will hold.
I’ve walked halls like this with blood on my heels and secrets in my pocket. But I’ve never walked into one where I might leave with nothing but truth.
If Fitz is pulling strings, there’s always another layer. And if Logan’s in the loop, then the file I sent has already started a conversation in rooms I’ll never see—ones that remember every digital footprint, even the ones I buried.
Fitz set the meeting. Which means it’s not a request. If I want my life back, then I damn well show up. That alone shifts the stakes. I don’t know if he’ll be there or if this is some red herring ploy to bait me out. But if Logan is involved, the equation changes. That’s a complication I can’t afford tonight. Not when I need clean extraction and zero emotional drag. Save the history for after the job. Right now, I need to stay sharp. Focused. Ruthless.
I walk past the main lounge where submissives kneel in quiet worship at the feet of their chosen gods, where power shifts with a look and entire stories are told through demands. Velvet and steel, obedience and control—this club wears them all like perfume. And tonight, it wraps me in a shiver I can’t quite shake, and I don't have time to absorb.
A woman nods, guiding me down the corridor to the private rooms. Her eyes flick over me like a scan, lingering a beat too long—not in judgment, but in quiet appraisal. No words. Just expectation. The corridor feels longer than it should, each step echoing with decisions I haven’t made yet. I adjust the fall of my blouse, a reflexive move to settle my stance as if I’m walking into an op, not a reckoning.
Then we stop. Room Seven. The number brands itself in my mind—unfinished business, sharp edges, and history soaked in silence lie behind this door. My hand hovers for a beat. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or memory that makes my fingers curl. This door doesn’t just hold a meeting—it holds a reckoning I mightnot be ready for. Logan always demanded the truth. And tonight, I don’t know if I can survive giving it.
As it clicks open. I half expect to see Fitz lounging inside with one of his damned predatory smiles, ready to pull strings from the dark. But it’s not him. It’s candlelight, shadows... and Logan. Just Logan. And yet, that changes everything. Logan Radcliffe neverjuststands in a room. He claims it. Commands it. Like he’s already counted the exits and chosen which ones I’ll beg for by the end.
