Harper's voice jumped like a flare; Brock smothered it, palm sealing hard over her mouth as he pinned her down and drove rougher, reading her collapse as permission and pressing until the mattress groaned. She arched high and shook hard, heels hooked and hauling at his ribs, throat working under his hand while helpless sound spilled hot into his skin. Her fingers tore fire down his back, a frantic beg turning to a grip that wouldn't let him go; he chased it mercilessly—deeper, heavier—until wood complained and springs kicked and the headboard battered the wall in rough rhythm. Rain thinned to hiss at the glass; heat pooled under them, air tasting like salt and steel and something scorched where their breath collided; she writhed under his weight, desperate and undone, and he kept her exactly where he wanted her, riding every quake she gave him.
"Take it," Brock snarled at Harper's ear—sandpaper command, close enough the heat of it scraped. His other hand clamped the ridge of her hip and hauled her onto the cadence he wanted—grind, drive, grind—unforgiving, exact, accelerating when her body jolted. He wedged his thigh under hers and shoved her knee higher, forcing the angle he chose; sweat turned them into one relentless slide that ate the inches between. He bent and set his teeth to her shoulder until copper salted his tongue; the strangled sound she made shattered hot against his palm. The answer in him lived lower—animal, subterranean—vibrating through his chest into hers while he rode every quake she gave like a handle, roughening when she shook, using everything she offered and taking more.
He drove harder like her body was terrain to conquer—angles forced, pace set, no give—burying himself as if he meant to live under her skin and etch a route there. His mouth never left the place he'd marked; he kept the pressure of teeth and breath at her shoulder so every rough sound he made poured straight into her skin. His palm stayed sealed over her mouth, taking the broken, desperate noises she couldn't help; her breath burned hot against his hand while the frame battered the wall—again, again—until the room narrowed to percussion. He hauled her higher on his thigh, pinning her open with weight and grip, pressing her down like the mattress had to carry both of them through or split. Muscle stacked and rolled under her fingers; she dragged him closer and he answered by driving the cadence harder, turning every shiver she gave into another, merciless in how he used it.
When the lock in him snapped tight, his jaw seized against the bite, then tore free at last—release ripping a wrecked sound out of him. He held there, welded and shaking, breath raking her cheek while heat surged through him in hard pulses, riding the last brutal tremors out of her and through him until the world reduced to breath, the hammering wall, and the hot press of his hand catching every sound she couldn't give the room.
His hand left her mouth and threaded into her hair, fisting at the root; he dragged her face into his chest so the wrecked sounds she still couldn't swallow drowned in salt and heat. Mercy brushed the moment—and he weaponized it. The fist twisted; her head levered back in his grip—throat bared, cords standing, pulse kicking under skin he owned. Air ripped through her teeth. Her hands scrambled and then latched hard at his shoulders, not to push away but to hold on, a frantic clutch that said stay, take, keep going.
His grip on her hip went bruising and exact as he set her still. He sealed his mouth to the column of her neck and took his mark—teeth and tongue and a deep, claiming pull that would bloom dark by afternoon and print under anything she wore. The first drag wrung a startled, choked sound out of her; the second made her knees lock where they bracketed his waist; the third turned her hands from clutch to grasping, fingers biting for purchase while her eyes glossed and her breath shattered in fast, thin threads. He worked the place he wanted until the heat under his mouth throbbed in time with her pulse, until the shake in her traveled from throat to belly to the long lines of her legs.
He didn't rush it. He held her open under the tilt of his hand in her hair, mouth working slow and inexorable at her neck while his other palm spread hard over her hip bone to keep her exactly on the line he chose. Every small noise she made rode straight into his skin; every tremor she couldn't outrun, he followed and pinned—rolling through the aftershocks like he could wring the final flicker out of them, finishing the brand his breath and scent had already staked across her body.
"Mine," Brock said into her neck—voice roughened down to something primal, each syllable dragged across her skin. "Every inch, Harper."
Something in Harper let go in a long, clean unwind. Her hands were already hooked at his shoulders; the claws of it softened to a possessive hold, thumbs pressing the hinge where neck met muscle. His fist eased in her hair and placed her head to the pillow—guidance, not mercy—his knuckles skimming her temple as if he were setting her exactly where she belonged. She wore him everywhere: the fresh stamp high on her throat, the print of his fingers along her hips, the ache where he'd held her open, the heat of his mouth still blooming color under his claim.
He pressed once—slow, deliberate—like signing his name, and a helpless sound lifted out of her before settling. He went quiet and heavy over her, chest to chest, weight a shelter and a sentence both. His jaw found her pulse and rested there; breath rolled warm along the mark he'd made, raising a prickle that ran down her sternum and into the fine tremor still living in her thighs. Rain hushed at the glass. The headboard gave a lazy knock as it settled. Sweat cooled where it slicked their ribs; the air tasted like salt and the faint copper he'd taken from her shoulder.
Her lungs stumbled, then matched the pull of his—short, then longer—until her body answered the slow-down he gave with its own yielding. Fingers that had raked him bloody now smoothed once at his shoulders and stayed, a steady hold that read mine back. Under his mouth, her pulse steadied; under his palm at her hip, the last tremor thinned, leaving only heat and the imprint of how completely he'd had her.
He didn't leave her so much as slide lower, jaw grazing the fresh mark at her throat before his mouth settled in the warm hollow between her breasts. Breath pooled hot there, slow and claiming. The hand that had gripped her hair relocated with purpose—palm spanning her hip bone, thumb notched inside the ridge to keep her exactly aligned, forearm a steady bar at her waist. His other hand covered her breast in a firm, possessive hold, thumb bracing along the outer curve as if setting her shape to his. She answered in reflex—back lifting a fraction into his face, a caught sound pressed small between his skin and hers, fingers tightening in his hair before settling to hold him there. Rain hushed at the glass; the room narrowed to his weight, his breath, and the slow, deliberate way he kept her where he wanted her.
He lifted from her chest in a slow, controlled rise, mouth tracing up her sternum—past the throb at her throat, along her jaw—before he came back over her. The hand that had been holding her breast softened, cupped once in a steadying pass, then slid to her cheek; his other hand stayed firm at her hip, keeping her centered under him. He set his mouth to her forehead, a rough-edged kiss laid careful. "You're safe with me," he said, voice low and ruined.
Her breath loosened. She tucked into his shoulder, fingers easing in his hair. "I know," she murmured. "With you, I'm safe."
He eased out in careful inches, the parting drawing a low sound from deep in her chest. He rolled and gathered her with him in the same breath, setting her into the hollow of his body—one arm banded under her shoulders, the other across her waist—until her mouth found the warm line of his throat. The charge bled off; what stayed was enclosure—solid, watchful—his breath marking out a steadier tempo for hers. Tremors unwound; air threaded longer and easier. He smoothed a palm down her spine, thumb catching once at the hollow there, then tucked the edge of the sheet over her hip like he was keeping the heat in. Rain ticked soft at the glass; the headboard gave a lazy knock as it settled.
They lay quiet for long minutes, breath evening out, pulses slowing. Her fingers traced idle patterns across his chest, following old scars with the tip of one nail. His hand stayed steady at her spine, occasionally smoothing down her back in absent comfort. The rain softened to whisper against the window.
Red digits glared from the nightstand, a mean little wound of light. He glanced over, something shifting in his expression.
She felt the change in his breathing before he spoke. "We've got our briefing in half an hour," he muttered, voice still rough from use.
Harper lifted her head from his shoulder, following his gaze to the clock. Her mouth curved in a way that spelled trouble. "That gives us time," she said, already shifting against him with renewed purpose.
The brush of her thigh along his hip made his breath catch. She rose up on one elbow, red hair falling in a curtain around her face as she looked down at him. Her free hand traced a deliberate path down his chest—light, testing.
"Harper." His voice held warning, but his body was already responding to her touch.
She leaned down and set her mouth to the hollow of his throat, tongue darting out to taste salt and heat. "Twenty-five minutes," she murmured against his skin, and he felt the smile in it.
Her hand continued its downward journey while she kissed along his collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make him tense beneath her. When she pushed gently at his shoulder, he let her guide him—sitting up, then leaning back against the headboard as she moved to straddle his thighs.
His mouth parted—whether protest or prayer didn't matter—because she set her palm flat to his chest and looked at him with eyes gone dark and determined. The sound he made cut off low when she slid down between his legs, hair spilling wild around her face as she traced a path with her mouth that marked him in stages: the hinge of his jaw; the long line of his throat; the ledge of his collarbone; the center of his chest. Each stop landed warm and wet, edged with the brief nip of teeth then soothed, a patient claiming. She moved like a mapmaker—piece by piece, heat by heat—charting her way back to the place she knew he'd break.
His breath hit rough and fast; his head knocked back against the headboard. One hand lifted toward her hair and then hesitated, hovering. She caught his wrist and guided his palm to the back of her neck—not stopping, just giving him something to hold onto. She took her time at the hinge where pelvis met thigh, teeth setting the lightest warning that made his whole body jolt; she soothed it in a slow pass and mirrored the mark on the other side until he was matched and shaking. The muscles in his thighs stood like cables, bracketing her shoulders; a raw sound dragged up from his chest and stayed, thickening the air. His fingers curved against her nape—helpless, answering—while she breathed warm over the sensitive seam she'd mapped, gaze cutting up through the mess of her hair with a look that promised ruin and then followed through by going slower.
"Harper—" The sound of her name came out ragged and desperate. She only looked up through dark lashes, catching his eyes with a smile both defiant and wickedly promising, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in deliberate provocation. Her mouth gleamed with the heat of her path, swollen and inviting.
One hand slid up the hard planes of his abdomen with torturous slowness, fingers tracing every ridge of muscle as if memorizing him, while her other hand gripped his hip possessively. His palm slipped from her neck to her shoulder, trembling against the curve, but she leaned into the contact with a soft moan that vibrated against his skin, her eyes never leaving his as she lowered her head between his trembling thighs.
Her breath was molten against him, teasing, before her mouth parted with deliberate hunger. She took him in slowly, savoring, her tongue working magic that made his world fracture apart. Air stuttered from his lungs in sharp bursts, chest heaving, every muscle in his body drawn tight. Her hand on his abdomen pressed firmly, feeling the way his muscles contracted beneath her touch, claiming every response she wrung from him.
The sound that tore from his throat was wordless—a prayer, a curse, a surrender—as his fingers found her hair at last, threading through the red silk as she undid him with relentless, patient worship.
─•────
The locker room rattled with noise—velcro tearing, buckles snapping, the scrape of steel on tile. Harper braced at the bench, shoving a plate home into her carrier, the ceramic locking in with a flat, decisive thud. Another followed, heavier, the weight settling across her forearms before she hauled the whole vest up and over her head.
She cinched it down with hard tugs, the straps biting until it hugged tight to her ribs. The fitted black turtleneck beneath hid the bruises stamped high on her throat, a secret sealed under layers of armor. She flexed her shoulders once, testing the fit, then reached for the gloves waiting on the bench. The leather squeaked faint against her damp palms.
Around her, the team kitted up in a chorus of clicks and snaps—magazines checked, blades sheathed, rifles chambered—the air thick with gun oil, canvas, and the churn of adrenaline. Breath fogged faint in the cold space, the whole room stinking of sweat and metal.
Harper threaded her comms wire down through the carrier, fingers working it under the straps until the earpiece settled snug against her skin. She glanced up in the motion and caught Brock across the room, bent over his boots, pulling the laces tight in rough, practiced jerks. The sight set a flutter low in her chest, alive beneath all the armor.
The moment didn't last. A heavy clap landed between her shoulder blades, jolting her forward. Her breath caught as she twisted, and there he was—Kier, close enough that the locker-room light carved the edge of his smile.
"Nice to see you're back in the game," he said, his hand cupping the back of her neck as he leaned close, pressing his forehead to hers.
She hesitated, the memory of him dragging Wedge's body out of the Den mixing with the knowledge that it was his hands doing CPR on her in the back of the truck. Then she lifted her own hand, cupping the back of his neck in return as she leaned into the press. "It's all thanks to you," she murmured. "Thank you, Kier."
Kier's mouth curved wider, and his fingers squeezed once at the back of her neck before he let go. "Let's give 'em hell," he said, the words rough but bright, then turned away into the clatter, already reaching for his kit.
Harper watched him vanish into the blur of bodies, then bent back to her rig. She finished buckling her vest, sliding the last strap home before crossing to the rack. A rifle came first, weight familiar as she checked the chamber and slung it tight across her carrier, followed by a sidearm holstered snug at her thigh. Knives, spare mags—each piece fell into place until the balance of it settled across her body. One last tug at the straps, and she moved for the door, boots striking tile as the locker room bled out behind her. The hall ahead carried her toward the garage, where the low rumble of engines idled and waited.
The garage was alive when she stepped in, the air heavy with exhaust and voices. Engines roared under the high ceiling, headlights slicing pale beams through the haze of oil and rain slapping off the bay doors. This one was big—big enough that bodies filled the floor, some faces she recognized, others she didn't. Syndicate crews loading crates, slamming doors, tossing last-minute checks back and forth. Brock's men were there, armored up and ready, and further down the line she caught Ryker's unmistakable frame, broad-shouldered and all angles, directing a cluster of prospects toward the trucks. The scale of it hammered home what today was: an infiltration—bold enough that the Maw would bleed if it landed.
A hand slid across the small of her back, firm and steady, and instinct jolted her until the touch registered. She turned, breath easing when she found Brock at her side. The weight of his smile cut through the din, small but grounding.
"You ready for today?" he asked, voice pitched low enough that it carried only to her.
Harper's mouth curved in answer, thin but sure. "As ready as I'll ever be."
He gave a short nod, and together they moved across the concrete toward the armored Tahoe, steps falling in rhythm as the clamor surged around them.
The Tahoe crouched under the bay lights, matte armor swallowing the glare, the motor growling like it had teeth. Harper swung into the driver's seat, the leather cold against her thighs as she tugged the door shut. She slipped her rifle into the vertical rack fixed to the armored partition just behind her shoulder, the clamp snapping over the receiver before she settled both hands to the wheel.
Brock took the passenger side, his rifle following hers into the rack. He shoved the latch down hard, then leaned back, forearm braced on his knee as he adjusted the comm at his collar.
At the rear doors, Mason and Vale leaned in first, slotting their rifles into the remaining clamps on the partition before tossing packs and tool cases into the cargo bay beyond. Price followed with a crate of mags, setting it in with a dull thump before he swung the hatch closed. Only then did they climb in, boots thudding to the floorboard, the Tahoe rocking under their combined weight. Mason dropped onto the bench with a grunt, Vale elbowing him aside for space, and Price slid in last, the door latching with a solid thunk. Each of them rode clean now, sidearms only, their rifles locked upright in the rack within reach if the doors blew open.
Engines thundered as the convoy pulled into formation, blacked-out SUVs stacked nose-to-tail beneath the bay lights. Beyond the open doors, rain pounded against asphalt, exhaust hanging thick while crews shouted and sealed the last lids. The whole garage vibrated with the weight of it, dozens of bodies and machines moving in lockstep.
Brock tapped his comm twice, the click snapping in Harper's ear. "Convoy, check in."
A chorus answered back, overlapping voices from every truck—Knuckles calling point, Ryker further down the line, others layering in until the channel steadied into order.
"Copy across," Brock confirmed, leaning back into his seat. His eyes slid toward Harper. "Driver's green. Take us out."
Harper dropped the Tahoe into gear, the wheel alive under her hands as she eased them forward. Headlights cut into the rain as the line rolled out together, tires hissing on wet pavement, black armor sliding into the night one after another.
The convoy rolled out in force, blacked-out SUVs sliding nose-to-tail through the wet streets. Late afternoon light slanted low between the buildings, turning every slick of rain on the asphalt into a mirror that caught and warped the headlights. Tires rolled steady over the pavement, water kicking up in fine spray that clung to the bodywork. Pedestrians on corners stilled to watch the line pass, the rhythm of traffic bending around them as if the city itself gave way. The column held tight formation, engines low but constant, an unbroken procession of steel and glass carrying the Syndicate deeper into East Halworth.
Inside the Tahoe the air was close, the five of them sealed into steel and leather. Harper kept both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking from the mirrors to the slick ribbon of road ahead, the weight of the vehicle humming steady through her arms. Brock rode silent at her side, elbow on the door, comm pressed tight against his ear as he listened across the net. In the back, Mason had his shoulders braced against the partition, knee bouncing a restless rhythm while Vale sprawled loose beside him, boot angled up on the seat frame like he owned the space. Price sat rigid at the far end, spine straight, chin lifted, scanning the side streets through the tinted glass as if the threat might already be there. No one spoke. The only sound was the thrum of the engine underfoot, the hiss of tires on wet pavement, and the faint crackle of voices bleeding through Brock's comms.
The Tahoe surged with the line, water sheeting off the windshield. Brock leaned forward, one hand braced on the dash. "Harper, keep us tight on Knuckles. You park hard on his six, nose straight, so when the doors go we're right there to follow them in."
She gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the convoy lights through the rain.
"Infiltration's fast and together," Brock went on, his voice even but cutting through the hum of the engine. "We roll out as a block—me and Harper lead, Mason and Vale lock the sides, Price anchors the rear. No gaps, no strays. We clear the left floor as one, hold it while demo sets their charges. Once the warehouse is burning, we fall back through the same hole we came in. Simple. Violent. Tight."
In the back, Mason sat forward, hands flexing against his knees; Vale drummed fingers restless on the seat frame; Price stayed stone still, eyes scanning the side streets through tinted glass.
Brock glanced at each of them in turn, his voice low but edged. "We move like one body. You miss your corner, someone else bleeds. Clear?"
Three short nods came from the back bench, Harper's grip tightening on the wheel up front as the convoy carried them closer.
The column slowed, brake lights pulsing red in the wet. One by one engines dropped to idle, then cut, until the street was filled with nothing but the sound of rain. Harper eased the Tahoe in behind Knuckles', parking hard on his six as ordered, the truck settling with a groan of suspension.
Doors cracked open in near unison, soft thuds swallowed by the weather. Harper slid out first, pulling her rifle from the rack in one smooth motion before her boots touched the wet asphalt. Brock was a shadow at her shoulder, muzzle down, checking the street with a slow sweep.
At the rear, Mason hauled his weapon from the clamps, racking it once before settling into guard. Vale slung his pack from the cargo bay and pulled his rifle free, grin flashing sharp in the gloom. Price moved last, lifting the crate of mags out long enough to strip his own load before shoving the rest back into place for resupply.
The Tahoe's doors closed soft, almost gentle, five armored figures now standing in the rain. Around them the rest of the convoy was doing the same—Knuckles' crew at the lead hatch hauling breaching charges, Ryker's men spilling into the alley with rifles held low, others stacking tight against fences and walls. Engines had gone silent, but the weight of the Syndicate pressed into the block all the same, a dozen trucks worth of bodies kitted up and ready to strike.
Brock tugged his comm once and pitched his voice low. "Stack up. We move on Knuckles."
Knuckles stood in the shadow of his Tahoe, plate carrier snug, stopwatch cold in his palm. "We're on the door. Gunner, Cole—charges prepped and set fast. Briggs, you hold the corner, nothing slips by. Jensen, you stay glued to me on the cord. We go loud when I drop my hand. No hesitation, no chatter. In, clear, burn it down."
Four nods in the rain. Gunner swung the hatch, Cole hauling out the charge plates, black tape dangling from his fist. Briggs rolled his shoulders once and took position at the mouth of the alley, rifle angled steady. Jensen scooped the cord and clutched the detonator like it was alive.
Knuckles moved first, boots silent on wet pavement, stopwatch clipped back to his vest. He pressed in at the roll-up, palm flat against the cold steel, then glanced once over his shoulder at the line of Syndicate SUVs stacked behind them. His fist went up—the signal to lock still.
Gunner and Cole slapped the plates into place, tape tearing loud in the rain. Jensen fed the cord out quick, eyes on Knuckles' back. Briggs' rifle swept left, then right, steady as stone.
Knuckles dropped his hand.
The charges blew, a concussive rip that punched the block apart, steel screaming as the doors were hurled inward in a storm of sparks and smoke.