Ash's POV
They say trust gets you killed in this world.
I say it's the hesitation that does.
And hesitation is the one thing I didn't allow myself around Seraphina Viper.
Unfortunately, today's assignment required exactly that.
Trust.
And Seraphina.
Fucking fantastic.
The mission came at dawn. I was still strapping on my boots when the message blinked across the old tablet by my bed.
Target transport recovery. Vehicle interception. Paired unit: Seraphina Viper.
I stared at the screen.
Laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because someone out there thought I was ready to be in close quarters with the woman I wanted to strangle or kiss—depending on the angle and blood loss.
Paired unit? Who the hell wrote these? Cupid?
I didn't waste time. Didn't bother telling anyone. Didn't even drink water.
If I was going to make it through a job with Seraphina, I needed two things: focus and steel.
No space for thirst. Or feelings. Or breathing too loud near her perfume.
We met near the south exit of the compound.
She was already waiting.
Black gloves, tight combat uniform, long coat fluttering behind her like she thought she was the reaper herself.
Maybe she was.
She didn't greet me.
Didn't speak at all.
Just handed me a helmet and turned toward the matte-black motorcycle behind her.
"You drive?" she asked without looking back.
"I kill," I answered, straddling the bike.
That earned me a sharp smirk.
No warmth. Just teeth.
She slid in behind me, one arm around my waist.
I flinched.
Just slightly.
Enough for her to notice.
"Problem?" she murmured near my ear.
Her breath was warm against my neck, and I hated that it didn't feel like poison.
Not exactly.
I revved the engine. "Just wondering how long it takes to dump you off the back."
She laughed.
And fuck, even that sounded weaponized.
The ride was thirty minutes.
We didn't speak again.
Didn't need to.
The city bled around us—buildings cracked with time, alleys full of fire barrels and faces that watched too long. Sirens in the distance. Always something burning.
Our mark was a military-grade truck carrying stolen munitions.
It would cross the Sector 9 bridge in fifteen minutes.
We'd be waiting.
We parked the bike in the shadow of a ruined factory, the metal carcass stretching over the freeway like rusted teeth.
Seraphina stepped off and pulled a silencer from her jacket, loading her sidearm with the kind of grace you don't learn from books. Only blood.
I checked my own—knife tucked at the back of my spine, Glock locked and cocked.
Still no talking.
I didn't ask what the plan was.
Because I already knew it.
Same as always: intercept, eliminate threats, retrieve cargo.
But with her beside me?
The threat was sitting too damn close.
We crouched in silence on the edge of the overpass.
The truck appeared on schedule—military green, armored cab, no obvious backup. But Seraphina's gaze narrowed.
She was thinking the same thing I was.
Too easy.
She turned to me.
"Flank left. I'll distract."
"I don't take orders from girls with trust funds."
"You do today."
I didn't move.
Neither did she.
That tension again—coiled between us like a fuse waiting for fire.
She leaned in, close enough to whisper.
"This doesn't work if we don't move together."
"And what makes you think I won't let you get shot just to make my day better?"
Her smile was pure venom.
"Because you're not reckless. You're angry. There's a difference."
I hated that she was right.
I hated that she saw me.
But I moved.
Because the mission mattered.
And because leaving her alone with bullets didn't feel like winning—it felt like cheating.
It all went to hell two minutes later.
We took the truck clean. I dropped the driver with a shot through the windshield, and Seraphina vaulted onto the hood like a goddamn cat, firing through the passenger window.
Clean.
Efficient.
Then backup rolled in.
Three cars. Armed. Fast.
Shit.
I jumped from the truck and ducked behind a broken pillar as gunfire sliced through the air.
Seraphina landed beside me, breathing hard, gun out, eyes scanning.
"I thought you said this would be easy," I muttered.
She reloaded. "I never said that. You assumed."
"Figures."
She peeked out, fired twice, dropped one shooter.
"Cover me."
"Say please."
She didn't.
She just sprinted.
I cursed and followed, laying down cover fire, tagging a man in the leg, another in the shoulder.
We reached the truck's side, both panting, both bleeding from shallow scrapes.
Close.
Too close again.
Her arm brushed mine.
I flinched.
She didn't.
"You like this," she said between breaths.
"What? Getting shot at?"
"No. Standing next to me with a loaded gun and no leash."
I met her eyes.
"You're flattering yourself."
Her smirk was crooked now. Less perfect.
"I think you want to break me," she said.
"I think I want to bury you."
"So why haven't you?"
I cocked my head.
"Because I don't know what makes you scream louder—pain or pleasure."
She blinked.
Just once.
But it was there.
The crack.
And I saw it.
Then she turned, lifted her gun, and fired a final shot.
Last man dropped.
Blood pooled under the pavement like ink.
Silence returned.
Not peace.
Just quiet.
The bad kind.
The kind that settles in your lungs like smoke.
We didn't talk as we drove back.
Didn't need to.
The tension sat between us like an extra rider.
Heavy.
Breathing.
Watching.
When we pulled into the garage, she got off the bike, tossed her helmet to the floor, and turned toward me.
"I don't trust you," she said plainly.
"Good. I don't want you to."
"But I'm starting to enjoy you."
I narrowed my eyes. "That's dangerous."
She smiled.
"That's the point."
Then she walked away.
Didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
Because I was still standing there.
Watching.
And hating the fact that part of me wanted her to turn around.