Page 17 of Cipher's Baby Girl
The same kind that's left bodies cooling in alleyways across four continents. The same kind that extracted information through means that would make hardened killers vomit. The same kind whose hands are so stained with blood they'll never be clean.
The voice of my NSA handler echoes in my mind: "You're a weapon, Walsh. Not a man. Don't forget that."
For years, I've lived by those words. Weapons don't have desires. Weapons don't have needs. Weapons certainly don't kiss innocent girls rescued from human traffickers and imagine fucking them.
But I did.
And worse—for those few minutes, with Rose in my arms, I forgot what I am. I let myself believe I could have something I have no right to touch.
I’m a killer and I’m good at it. Cold-blooded. No remorse, no hesitation, just cold, methodical execution.
That's who I am. That's what lives inside me.
And Rose—sweet, gentle Rose who's endured so much pain already—deserves better than to be touched by the hands of a monster.
I push myself to my feet, wiping blood from my knuckles onto my jeans. The compound buzzes with the continuing celebration, music and laughter carrying through the night air.Normal people living normal lives—a world that has no place for an aberration like me.
The few brothers I pass give me a wide berth, recognizing the dangerous energy radiating from me. Smart. Very fucking smart.
The door to my surveillance cave opens with a soft click. Inside, the blue glow of monitors bathes everything in cold light. I sink into my chair, eyes automatically scanning the feeds until I find her.
Rose is back at the party, standing near the edge of the celebration. Even through the camera lens, I can see the slight tremor in her hands. Her lips—swollen from my kiss—form a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
I did that. I put that hurt there.
Good. Let her hate me. Let her fear me. It's better than the alternative—better than her believing I'm capable of being whatever white knight she's imagined in her head.
I zoom in, studying her face. Are her eyes glassy? I zoom in again and catch a tear as it trails down her face. The sight sends a fresh wave of self-loathing through me so intense it's like acid in my veins. I've made her cry.
As she moves swiftly through the crowd, I switch camera views, following her progress across the compound. The dress she's wearing clings to her slender curves in a way that makes my jaw clench. Other men are noticing too. I watch as a member of the Renegade Kings tracks her movement, his interest obvious in his predatory stance.
My finger hovers over the keyboard, tempted to identify him, to mark him for special attention later. The thought of his eyes on her, his hands anywhere near her body, sends murderous rage coursing through me. My heart rate spikes, vision narrowing to a pinpoint.
But what right do I have?
The rational part of my brain—the part that allows me to function in society—says absolutely none. The primal part, the part that's been steadily growing since I first laid eyes on Rose, disagrees vehemently.
I force myself to switch screens. Focus on something productive. Something that doesn't involve imagining how many ways I could disembowel a man for looking at Rose.
But my eyes keep drifting to the camera showing Rose. She's sitting alone now at a table, her expression lost and wounded. My chest tightens painfully.
This isn't working. I need something more effective to drive these demons back into whatever dark corner they escaped from.
I know exactly what I need.
The training room occupies the basement level of the clubhouse, a space outfitted with weights, heavy bags, and a sparring mat. At this hour, with most of the brothers at the celebration, I expect to find it empty.
Instead, Hawk is there, pummeling a heavy bag with methodical precision. He pauses mid-strike when I enter, taking in my bloodied knuckles and tense posture with a knowing look.
"Again?" he asks. There's no judgment in his voice, just weary recognition.
I nod, already stripping off my cut and shirt, leaving me in just my jeans. The fluorescent lights reveal the tapestry of scars covering my torso and back—thick keloid ridges from burns, jagged lines from knives, circular marks from cigarettes pressed into flesh. Evidence of my time in captivity and the life I've led since.
I reach for the utility rope hanging on the wall rack, methodically binding my right arm—my dominant arm—behind my back, securing it tightly enough to render it useless.Next, I strap twenty-pound weights to each ankle, the familiar restriction immediately altering my balance.
"The blindfold too?" Hawk asks, watching me with a mixture of resignation and concern as I reach for the black cloth.
"Half-vision," I reply, positioning the fabric to cover my right eye while leaving my left unobstructed.
