The sun broke across his face, hot and unrelenting, dragging him awake. Brock's eyes slit open, heavy with sleep, the room swimming into focus in lazy pieces. He lay sprawled on top of the sheets in nothing but boxers, the fabric cool against his back, but every inch of him tethered by the weight curled into his side. Harper was there, bare skin pressed to his, her head resting against his collarbone so that each breath stirred warm over his chest. One arm draped across him, her fingers spread just beneath his throat; the other wrapped around her own stomach, pinned between them. Her breasts flattened into his ribs, the shape of her body molded close. His palm cupped her hip where the ink of the coiled viper wound beneath his thumb, holding her tight to him. One of her legs was thrown over his, hooking him in, and the heat of her pressed into his thigh—searing, insistent, impossible to ignore.
For a long moment he stayed that way, letting the weight of her keep him pinned. His hand never shifted, thumb tracing idle circles over the edge of her hip bone, skin warm and smooth beneath the ink. She didn't stir—her lips were parted just barely against his chest, each breath feathering soft over him. The sunlight spilled across them in bright bands, catching on her bare skin, and every scar she carried lit like pale silver. Dozens of them, thin and brutal, cut across the curve of her ribs, the flat of her stomach, the line of her thigh—marks that almost glowed in the morning light, every one of them a story carved into her body.
One scar pulled his focus more than the rest, stark against the morning light. A pale line, three inches long, cut straight through the skull of the viper inked on her shoulder—his mark as much as hers. Proof of the first time their paths had crossed, when a bullet from his rifle had carved her there. Back before names, before trust, when they were nothing but enemies set on collision. He could still see it—the yard, the dirt under his boots, her body forced down hard beneath him, his finger tightening on the trigger. He'd been a breath away from ending her, from putting a round through her skull, until her name stopped him cold and changed everything.
He blinked hard, as if the memory itself could be scrubbed away. Her name had changed everything. Last night—like every night—he'd said it over and over, rough in his throat, a prayer he couldn't stop himself from speaking when he was inside her. He worshipped that scar the way he worshipped all of them, mouth and hands tracing each brutal mark with the same reverence he gave her body, as if every wound carved into her skin was another piece of her he owed his devotion to.
He dipped his head and pressed a slow kiss into her hair, lips lingering in the strands. The shift of his chest against her seemed to rouse her; she stirred faintly, leg tightening around his as her hips dragged closer. The friction made his breath hitch—heat grinding harder into his thigh, slick now, damp enough to make him groan low in his throat before he could stop it.
Her hand twitched against his chest, fingers flexing once before a tiny whimper slipped from her. Her body stiffened, arching in a slow stretch that dragged against him before she settled again. Brock's mouth curved, a low chuckle breathed into her hair. "I love the little sounds you make," he murmured. She answered with a muffled groan, burying her face into the side of his neck, nose scrunching as if she could hide there and pretend she hadn't made a sound at all.
He laughed softly again, the sound rumbling against her before he shifted, easing his weight to roll on top of her. His mouth found hers in a slow, unhurried kiss, lips brushing with a tenderness that belied the heat still coiled in him. Her lashes fluttered, eyes cracking open at last, squinting against the sun spilling over them. He pulled back just enough to watch her face, a small grin tugging at his mouth. "Good morning," he said, voice low and warm.
Her lips curved under his, voice rough with sleep as she muttered, "Good morning." She blinked up at him, lashes heavy, eyes half-shut against the spill of sunlight creeping through the blinds.
"Why are you such a morning person?" she mumbled, voice dragging, the question half accusation, half complaint.
He only shrugged, unbothered, gaze sweeping over her like he was memorizing the way she looked spread out beneath him. "Because I get to wake up with you curled against me every morning," he said, matter-of-fact, as if there was no other possible answer.
She rolled her eyes, groaning under her breath as she let her head fall back into the pillow, hair spilling across it in dark tangles. The sound was muffled, reluctant, a little too cute for the scowl she tried to pull off.
"Mmm," he hummed, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "More cute noises." His hand slid firmer over her hip, holding her in place as he leaned down. "Let's see if we can get more of those out of you."
He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the curve of her neck, slow at first, letting his breath warm her skin before pressing a kiss there. The faint shiver that went through her beneath him made his grin widen against her throat.
She answered him without words, her back arching beneath him, lip caught tight between her teeth as if she could swallow down the sound threatening to escape. His eyes caught it, the way she bit back, and his mouth curved against her skin. He nipped playfully at her neck, voice rough with a mock scold.
"Don't hold back on me."
His lips trailed lower, leaving heat down the line of her sternum. He shifted, bracing his weight with one arm while the other slid higher, his mouth finding one breast, then the other. Tongue flicking against her nipples in turn, teasing until they pebbled under his touch. Her chest rose against him, a soft moan breaking free despite herself, spilling into the air between them.
"That's more like it," he murmured against her skin, satisfaction threading through his voice. His mouth drifted lower, laying a trail of kisses down her belly, slow and deliberate, each one making her squirm harder beneath him. He paused when he reached the jagged scar carved deep across her abdomen—the mark Kato's knife had left in her. His lips lingered there, reverent, before pressing firm against it, as if sealing it closed all over again. She twisted under him, restless, but his hands slid to her hips, holding her steady, fingers digging in just enough to remind her she wasn't going anywhere.
Her breath caught, a half-formed protest slipping out, his name soft on her lips—"Brock…"—but he silenced it with a low shush, the sound firm, certain. His body slid further down the bed, his grip leaving her hips only to find her thighs. Strong hands pressed to the inside, urging them apart, and she yielded, legs falling open under his touch. The shift made her hips buck up instinctively, chasing him even as she tried to fight the reaction, heat flaring between them in a pulse he felt all the way to his chest.
His mouth found the inside of her thigh, lips pressing slow, deliberate kisses into the sensitive skin. Each one made her jolt, little shocks running through her until a small, helpless whine slipped past her lips. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails grazing over his scalp as if she couldn't stop herself, tugging him closer. He finally dipped his head between her legs, heat and wetness meeting his tongue, and the reaction was instant—her whole body arching off the bed, a loud moan ripping through her chest. His grip tightened on her thighs, pinning her down as she writhed beneath him, every sound vibrating against his skin.
─•────
The war room carried the muted weight of mid-afternoon, blinds drawn tight against the sun so the fluorescents ruled instead—flat light pooling across the table, bleaching the maps and manifests stacked in ordered rows. The air smelled faintly of coffee left too long on a burner and the acrid edge of marker ink from the boards along the wall. Vex stood at the head, jacket buttoned, one hand spread on the table as he scanned the group with practiced steadiness. Cole sat forward with his forearms on his knees, gaze steady on the papers in front of him. Knuckles sprawled against the wall in deliberate carelessness, one boot hooked over the other, picking at the split in a knuckle. Brock kept to the corner, broad shoulders braced, silence carved into his posture. Beside him, Harper sat with her back straight and hands folded loose in her lap, eyes fixed on Vex.
When Vex spoke, his voice cut into the quiet without effort. "The Maw are running poker nights. Basements, back rooms, nothing flashy. It's how they keep cash moving off the books and how they measure rank. Who gets a seat, who pays in heavy, who walks out with more than they came—that's where you see the power shifts. I want those faces logged, those patterns noted. That's what this job is."
He straightened, eyes sweeping the table. "One of our brokers runs the buy-in. He skims both sides, so he can walk a pair of ours through the door without raising questions. You'll sit as outsiders—nothing more than two strangers with money to burn. While the Maw play, you watch. The value's not in cards; it's in who talks, who pays, who the others defer to."
His attention landed on Cole. "You'll play. Keep your head down, lose light, win enough to stay credible. Don't chase pots. Don't stand out."
Then on Harper. "You'll go with him. A woman at the table shifts the air—they'll look at you before the cards, and some of them won't be able to help running their mouths. That's what I want. You don't need to play, but you listen. You let them talk. Anything you hear, any name, any slip—you bring it back."
Brock's posture in the corner stiffened, shoulders tight. Knuckles caught it, mouth quirking faint like he could already hear the protest building.
Vex didn't miss it. His gaze cut once toward the corner, then back to the table. "You two stay outside," he said, voice flat. "In the car, close enough to come through the door if it turns. But you won't sit that table. You're too familiar. Maw sees either one of you across the felt and the night ends there."
Knuckles gave a lazy shrug, like he'd expected nothing else. Brock said nothing, jaw set, the weight in his silence heavier than words.
Cole only nodded, steady and unbothered. Harper felt the knot in her stomach but forced her shoulders straight, meeting Vex's eyes without flinching.
"The game runs late," Vex said. "You move at dusk, go in clean, come back cleaner. I want names, I want the shape of the room, and I want to know who leaves heavier than they came. Nothing else." His gaze lingered on Harper for a beat. "Don't give them more than they're already looking for."
Knuckles broke the quiet with a low hum, his eyes sliding to Harper. "Guess that's our evening entertainment sorted. Try not to stack the deck, Firefly."
Vex closed the file at his hand, the sound final. "Dismissed."
Chairs scraped against the floor, the shuffling weight of boots filling the silence. Cole pushed to his feet first, and Harper rose beside him. Brock fell into step as they turned for the door, the set of his shoulders unyielding, Knuckles trailing after with a half-smirk that didn't reach his eyes. The room emptied, leaving Vex alone at the table, pen already in hand to mark the next piece on the board.
─•────
The Subaru crouched low at the curb, paint dulled with road grit, nothing in its lines to suggest Syndicate muscle. The WRX rumbled under idle, a car that belonged anywhere—delivery shifts, night runs, backstreet lots—forgettable in a way the Syndicate's armored SUVs could never be. Brock drove, sleeves pushed to his elbows, street clothes plain and dark, the weight of his sidearm hidden beneath a hoodie. Knuckles slouched in the passenger seat, ball cap pulled low, pistol tucked under his jacket, the casual set of his shoulders undercut by the way his eyes kept sweeping the mirrors.
In the back, Cole and Harper rode quiet. Cole wore a button-down rolled at the sleeves, collar open, the kind of man who could sit at a poker table without standing out. A plain watch caught dull light on his wrist—enough to read like he had cash to lose, not enough to draw suspicion. Harper sat beside him in a dress cut to flatter, dark fabric clinging close down her waist and hips, hem brushing mid-thigh when she crossed her legs. The neckline plunged low enough to draw eyes, but the long sleeves covered her shoulders, fabric hiding the ink coiled beneath her skin. Her hair was left loose, a soft frame against the severity of the dress, the kind of contrast that shifted the air in a room before she ever spoke.
Brock eased the car against the curb, one hand loose on the wheel. He glanced once at the mirrors, then turned just enough to look into the back seat.
"Keep your heads," he said, voice low. "Cole, stay quiet. Don't let them bait you, don't chase hands you shouldn't. If it feels wrong, fold and let it go. That's how you'll walk out whole." His eyes cut to Harper. "They'll look at you first. Let them. Don't rise to it, don't give them anything you don't want them to have. You sit there, you hold your line, and you walk back out when Cole tells you. If it starts to tilt, you excuse yourself—say you need to make a call—and you call me. That's the signal. We'll come in."
Knuckles smirked faint at the windshield. "Romantic," he muttered.
Brock didn't look at him. "Practical," he said, voice flat.
Cole gave a single nod, steady as stone. "Got it."
Harper held Brock's gaze a moment longer, the knot in her chest tight but her voice even. "Understood."
Brock studied the two of them, reading more than their words, then gave a short nod. "All right. Go."
Cole pushed his door open, night air folding in around them, and Harper followed, heels striking pavement as she climbed out after him.
She glanced back once at the WRX, catching Brock's gaze through the windshield, the look holding heavier than words. Then she turned to Cole and matched his pace down the sidewalk, her arm brushing his as he set an easy line toward the glow of backstreet lights. They walked close, natural in the way they leaned toward each other, his hand light at her back, her head angled just enough to sell the part. To anyone watching, they were only another pair headed in for a night at the tables.
The backstreet narrowed into a row of shuttered shops and low warehouses, most gone dark for the night. A single bulb burned over a steel door halfway down, paint flaking, the spill of light catching on a man leaned against the frame. Thick shoulders under a leather jacket, arms crossed, a weight that marked him as more than a doorman.
Cole felt Harper's posture tighten beside him and shifted his hand at her back, thumb brushing once against the fabric, a quiet signal to stay with him. She eased into it without breaking stride, the line between them tightening into something that looked natural from the outside.
The bouncer's eyes flicked over Cole, then lingered longer on her, tracking from the fall of her hair to the line of her dress before returning to him.
"Buy-in's covered," Cole said, voice even. "We're expected."
The man let the silence stretch before pulling the door wider. "Names?"
"Dawson," Cole answered without hesitation. "And Lilly."
The bouncer grunted like that was enough. He stepped aside, gaze sliding back to Harper, a look that weighed more than it should have, then jerked his chin toward the stairwell behind him.
Cole guided her through first, the pressure of his hand steady as the door thudded shut behind them.
The stairwell dropped narrow and steep, concrete steps slick in spots where damp crept through the walls. The air grew heavier as they descended, thick with cigarette smoke and the sour edge of spilled beer. Voices carried up from below—low laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of chips on wood.
The room opened at the bottom, a basement with ceilings too low and walls stained with years of smoke. A scarred table sat at the center under a bare bulb, green felt dulled and frayed at the edges, stacks of chips and wads of bills scattered across it. Four men sat in, cards loose in their hands, a haze of smoke blurring their outlines. A fifth man stood off to the side, sleeves rolled to the elbow, shuffling the deck with practiced rhythm—house dealer, not a player, eyes quick enough to catch anything that moved. Folding chairs ringed the table, ashtrays heavy with butts, the air so close it clung to skin. A sixth chair waited empty, the one Cole had been bought into.
They looked up as the door thudded shut behind Cole and Harper. Closest on the left sat a broad man with a shaved head, forearms thick with ink, bulk built in yards and back alleys. His eyes tracked Harper openly, slow to return to his drink. Beside him, a thinner man in a gray sport coat shuffled cards with restless fingers, pale eyes flicking over them both like he was measuring weight. Across the table, a heavyset man in a sweat-darkened shirt leaned back with a cigarette at his lip, grin curling as he looked Harper over. The last stayed quiet, cap pulled low, chips stacked with neat precision, glancing up only once before returning to his cards.
The heavyset one blew smoke, grin widening. "Broker didn't say anything about you bringing company. She's welcome, though. She can take my lap."
Harper smiled sweetly, unbothered. "I can stand."
The man in the sport coat snorted and dragged a folding chair from the wall, snapping it open beside Cole. He dropped it with a clatter. "Sit. Standing's bad for the view."
Cole shifted his hand at Harper's back as he eased her down, the pressure light but anchoring, then took the empty chair beside her, chips already stacked from the buy-in. Harper smoothed her dress as she sat, crossing one leg over the other, posture easy though she could feel every eye still on her. The cards moved slow across the felt, the dealer sliding them out with a practiced flick.
The heavyset man with the cigarette gave a laugh that rumbled deep. "Guess we oughta make it friendly, since broker vouched you in. Name's Russo." He tapped ash into the tray, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling.
The broad, ink-heavy one lifted his chin. "Mack." His voice was gravel, his stare still fixed more on Harper than the cards.
The man in the sport coat twitched a smile that never touched his pale eyes. "Call me Denton." His fingers kept riffling chips as he spoke, restless, sharp edges under every movement.
The last, the one in the cap, didn't look up. He pushed a stack forward, voice flat. "Ike." Then he went back to his cards.
Cole leaned back in his chair, unbothered. "Dawson. This is Lilly."
Russo gave a low laugh, smoke spilling from the corner of his mouth. "Lilly, huh? Pretty name. Bet you smell like one too." His grin widened, cigarette bouncing as he chuckled. "Careful, Dawson, might not get her back if she sits too close."
Harper's smile didn't falter. "Then it's a good thing I'm sitting here," she said lightly, crossing her leg a little slower this time, as though the comment rolled right off her.
The dealer swept the deck into his hands and snapped it into a blur, cards sliding out in practiced rhythm. Chips clinked as Russo tossed in an easy blind, smoke spilling from his grin. Mack followed, sliding his forward without comment. Denton stacked his neat and precise, pale eyes darting toward Cole and Harper before flicking back to his cards. Ike pushed his in last, head bowed under the brim of his cap. Cole matched them with steady hands, movements unremarkable, designed to be forgotten. Harper folded her hands in her lap and let her gaze drift, cataloging every twitch of fingers, every lean of shoulders, every glance that said more than their cards.
Russo leaned forward, voice rough. "Look at the fresh face. Broker must've felt generous." He tossed in more chips than the pot called for, the slap of plastic on felt deliberate. "Let's see if he's here to bleed or bite."
Mack pushed across his call without looking up. Denton's fingers twitched before committing, his pale eyes cutting at Cole, hungry for a tell. Ike stayed wordless, just added his neat stack with mechanical calm.
Cole glanced at his cards once, unreadable, then folded them down. "Not my hand." His tone was steady, no challenge in it, nothing to hold onto.
Russo snorted, raking in the pot as he dragged on his cigarette. "Smart boy. Might even last the night."
The dealer kept the cards moving, hands stacking one after another, chips clinking into the center. Russo filled the room with noise, laughing at his own jokes and pressing every pot louder than it needed. Denton twitched through his chips, always counting angles. Mack stayed steady, his presence heavy in its silence. Ike barely spoke at all, sliding bets forward with mechanical calm.
Harper let the smoke sting her throat as she tracked them one by one. Russo talked too much, Denton was restless, Mack a wall, Ike unreadable. The cards were only cover; the tells were in the men.
The night stretched with the shuffle and clatter, drinks pouring, laughter swelling, the pot climbing in fits and drops. Time blurred in the haze, marked only by the slow drift of ash and the steady rhythm of chips across felt.
Russo dragged the next pot in with a booming laugh, tipping his glass toward Harper. "You're too quiet, Lilly. Pretty thing like you oughta have a drink in your hand." His eyes lingered as he poured, the weight of them crawling over her skin, holding too long on the line of her dress.
Harper kept her smile easy, though her chest tightened, every nerve alive to the way he watched her. She shook her head lightly. "I'm fine, thank you."
Russo chuckled, not moving the glass. "One won't kill you."
Her pulse ticked faster, but Cole shifted beside her, his hand leaving the stack of chips long enough to settle on her thigh under the table. The squeeze was quick, steady, a reminder that he was right there. His voice stayed calm, level. "She said she's fine."
For a moment the table stilled, smoke hanging in the low air. Then Russo sneered, dragging on his cigarette. "So that's it—your girl. Thought so. Pretty thing like that, you better be ready to share if you bring her in here."
Cole's eyes stayed on his cards, voice even. "Not on the table." He slid a chip forward, steady and unbothered.
Denton gave a thin laugh, restless fingers riffling his chips. "Don't mind Russo—he thinks volume counts as charm." His pale eyes flicked to Harper, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach. "Place like this isn't exactly built for good company. Surprised you'd waste a night down here."
Harper tilted her head, letting the smile soften. "I like to watch."
Denton's fingers stilled for a moment, his gaze sharpening. "Then you'll see plenty. Some people don't know when to keep their cards down—or their mouths shut." He leaned back, stacking his chips neat again, as though the slip hadn't mattered.
Harper let a light laugh spill, sweet and easy. "Sounds like you've seen that happen more than once."
Denton's mouth twitched, a smug flicker ghosting across his face. "Let's just say… the Maw like to test their own. Some boys play higher than they should. Last week one of 'em couldn't cover the table, and it didn't end well. Not for him, not for the people waiting on him." He snapped a chip against the felt, restless again, but his gaze lingered on her. "You'd be surprised what gets said when the stacks run out."
Harper widened her eyes just a fraction, letting her voice slip light, almost curious. "The Maw?" She leaned closer, head tilting as though embarrassed to even ask. "I don't even know who that is."
Russo snorted around his cigarette. "Course she doesn't."
But Denton leaned in, hungry to be the one to enlighten her. "They're the only ones that matter down here," he said, almost smug. "Every chair you're looking at, every bill on this table—runs through them one way or another. Keep your ears open, Lilly. You'll figure out fast who's climbing and who's bleeding."
Harper let her smile brighten, tilting her head like the words were more fascinating than frightening. "Good thing I've got someone to explain it to me, then."
Denton's pale eyes sparked at the attention, shoulders drawing a little straighter. "Most of these guys won't tell you half of it. But me? I watch. I notice." He flicked a glance at Russo, smirk tugging. "They don't realize how much they give away when they're too busy trying to be loud."
Harper laughed softly, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. "So what have you noticed?"
Denton spun a chip between his fingers, satisfaction curling in his grin. "Couple of crews bleeding dry since the warehouse went up. One of the boys here's been covering the loss in side pots, and it's only a matter of time before he can't. Maw doesn't forgive debts. They use them." He dropped the chip back with a click, pale eyes still on her. "That's how you see who's climbing."
Cole's hand brushed steady against Harper's knee under the table, grounding her as she kept her mask in place, letting Denton believe he'd just told her something worth knowing.
Russo noticed. He leaned across the table, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes cutting between Cole and Harper. "What's this? Your girl getting cozy with Denton while you sit quiet? Thought you had a tighter leash than that." He chuckled, smoke spilling from his mouth. "Maybe she's just looking for a better seat."
Harper's laugh came light, easy, sliding between them like smoke. "I don't do leashes," she said, sweet as sugar. Her smile curved slow as she leaned back in her chair, tongue tracing along her teeth before she caught her lip between them. "Settling down's boring."
Russo leaned in at once, grinning wide. "Boring, huh? Then you're at the right table. I can give you a night you won't forget." He blew smoke across the felt, eyes raking over her.
Denton cut in before she could answer, voice loud enough to slice through Russo's laugh. "Christ, Russo, you think every girl's just waiting to fall into your lap? You're all bark." He turned his pale eyes on Harper, smile thinner, but steadier. "Some of us know how to keep things interesting without shouting about it."
Russo laughed, but his jaw tightened as he dragged on his cigarette. Mack slid chips into the pot without looking up. The dealer kept the cards moving, like the table wasn't thrumming with heat.
Harper tilted her head, smile never faltering. She let her gaze linger on Denton a heartbeat longer than necessary, then slipped it back to Russo with a look that kept them both hooked.
Cole stayed silent, steady, fingers brushing her knee under the table to remind her he was right there, the anchor beneath the current she'd just stirred.
Chips clattered back into the center, the rhythm of the game dragging them forward. Russo leaned hard on every pot, his laugh too loud. Denton played tighter, twitching with each move, eyes flicking to Harper like he was waiting for another scrap of attention. Mack remained steady, Ike unreadable in the haze. Harper sat sweet and still, letting the men think the cards had her attention when it was really their faces she was watching.
The dealer snapped the deck into a blur, cards whispering around the table. Harper leaned back, her smile easy, as if she were only half paying attention to the game. Then she tilted her head, catching Denton's eye.
"You mentioned earlier," she said lightly, "about someone who couldn't cover his play. The one who got in trouble." She let a little laugh slip, almost apologetic. "Who was that? I'm still learning who's who down here."
Denton's pale eyes sparked—he'd been waiting for her to ask. "That was Vargas," he said, pride curling his mouth. "Sat heavy last week, lost his stack in under an hour. Been begging the wrong people ever since."
Russo barked a laugh, smoke spilling from his grin. "Vargas is a dead man walking. Maw's already picked his bones clean. Better pray you're not tied to his crew." He blew a stream of smoke straight across the felt, grinning wider. "That's what happens when you play higher than your station."
Mack slid his chips forward, silent, but the look he cut across the table landed heavy. Denton's fingers twitched over his stack, restless again, but Harper only let her smile brighten, as though Vargas was nothing more than gossip worth passing along.
Harper let the name roll off her tongue like it meant nothing. "Vargas," she repeated softly, smiling as if she were filing it away. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like a private question. "So if he's sinking… who takes his place?"
Denton's pale eyes caught hers, restless fingers stilling for once. Triumph flickered across his face. "Carlo's been circling. He's covered more than one buy-in lately, and the Maw don't hand out favors for free. Man like that doesn't throw chips unless he's buying a seat at the bigger table." He smirked, flicking his chip neat into the pot. "You watch. Couple more weeks, he won't just be sitting here—he'll be running the room."
Russo let out a rough chuckle, smoke leaking from the corner of his mouth. "Carlo's a fool with deeper pockets than sense. He'll play himself under same as Vargas, and I'll be here to rake it in when he does."
Mack pushed in his call, still wordless, but Harper caught the way his jaw tightened before he looked back to his cards. A reaction worth remembering.
She let her smile stay bright, eyes wide as if it were just gossip. "Guess I'll have to pay more attention."
The game slowed as stacks dwindled, chairs creaking under the weight of hours. The dealer's shuffle lost some of its snap, smoke hanging low and heavy, drinks watered down to amber dregs. Russo leaned back from the table, bragging loud about hands already played, while Mack gathered his last pot with steady hands.
Cole pushed his cards back toward the dealer, stacking his chips neat. "That's me." He rose, voice calm, forgettable.
Russo jeered, but the noise rolled past.
Harper shifted to stand with him, but Denton's chair scraped back. "You don't have to run off yet," he said, pale eyes cutting to Cole before sliding back to her. "Let him settle up. Stay a minute."
She glanced at Cole, pulse tight, waiting for the smallest sign. His hand brushed the back of her chair—steady, deliberate. Permission.
Harper let her smile brighten, turning it on Denton. "One drink," she said lightly. She rose with the kind of grace that looked casual but kept her angle, just enough to keep Cole in her line of sight at the table.
Denton straightened, restless energy sharpening as he gestured toward the side of the room where bottles lined a crate. "This way." He moved fast, eager, as if worried she might change her mind.
Harper followed at an unhurried pace, heels clicking against concrete, her gaze sliding back once toward Cole. He'd already turned his attention to the felt again, playing his role to perfection. But she knew he was watching, even when his eyes weren't on her.
Denton poured quick, amber sloshing as he set a glass in her hand. "You don't need to sit there letting Russo slobber over you," he said, voice pitched low, like he was giving her an out. "He thinks being loud makes him worth a damn. You deserve better than that."
Harper let the smile stay soft, amusement more than agreement. "And you think you're better?"
His mouth twitched into a smirk, restless fingers tapping against his own glass before he leaned closer. "I don't have to think. I can see it." His pale eyes traced the line of her dress, bold enough he didn't bother to hide it. "You walked in that door and the whole table shifted. You know it, too."
She sipped slow, eyes catching his over the rim. Her tone stayed light. "And here I thought I was just here to watch the cards."
Denton chuckled, bracing one hand on the crate beside her. "Cards don't matter. You could sit at any table in this city, and I'd follow. That's what makes me different from Russo—I don't just want to win a hand. I want you."
Harper let a laugh slip, low and easy, her gaze holding his. She shifted just enough to close the space, her hand brushing his sleeve like it was nothing at all. "You're forward," she teased warmly. "But maybe I like forward."
Denton's grin widened, hunger sparking as he slid his hand to her hip, testing her. When she didn't pull away, his grip firmed, fingers spreading bold over the fabric. "Knew it the second you walked in," he murmured, eyes fixed on her mouth.
Harper tilted her head, smile curving slow as though she were weighing him. She leaned close enough that he could feel her breath, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Then maybe you should show me what else you notice."
Denton tugged her that last inch until her back met the wall, the pressure firm but not rough. His mouth skimmed the line of her throat, heat of liquor ghosting over her skin. "You don't play coy with me, Lilly. I can feel it—you're wound tight under that dress. Bet I could take it apart, piece by piece, make you beg to stay."
Harper's pulse surged, a knot twisting deep inside, but she smoothed it over. She loosened under his hold, tilting her hips forward until they brushed his, her hand sliding slow up along his shoulder. Her smile curved sweet, practiced. "You sound awfully sure of yourself," she murmured, low and warm, every note of it playing into the part.
Denton laughed under his breath, his hand sliding to the small of her back to press her tighter. His mouth trailed higher, grazing her jaw, his voice rough against her ear. "Sure of myself? I don't need to be anything else. You feel that. That's no bluff."
Harper tilted her head, giving him the angle, her nails grazing lightly along the back of his neck. "So you're the one worth watching, then?" she coaxed.
His pale eyes lit, pride swelling as he drew back just enough to look at her. "I'm not the only one. But I notice more than the rest. Who's climbing, who's bleeding. That's why I don't end up like Vargas."
Harper let a low laugh spill, sweet as though it was just for him. Her lips brushed his ear. "Then tell me," she whispered, coaxing. "Who's climbing?"
Denton's grin curved hungry. His hand roamed bolder at her waist, his mouth dragging lower to the hollow of her throat. "Carlo's just the front. Greco's the one with the money—he's been covering the tables, feeding the Maw what they need. They're grooming him to take a bigger chair. And it won't stop there."
Harper's smile curved slow, nails tracing the line of his collar. "Go on…"
Denton's pale eyes burned with the thrill of it, restless energy spilling unchecked. "Mendez. Old bastard's finished. Been coasting too long, letting everyone else carry his weight. Greco's already covering for him, and the Maw don't forgive dead weight. Couple weeks, maybe less, and Mendez is gone. Greco steps in, and half the crews will be reporting to him."
Harper's laugh was soft, airy, as if it were gossip and nothing more. Her lips brushed close to his ear. "Good thing I've got you to keep me caught up."
Denton's grin widened, pride humming through him as if her laugh had sealed the deal. His hand slid lower, cupping bold at her backside as he drew her tight. His mouth left her throat, trailing down to her collarbone, then lower still, breath hot against skin the neckline of her dress barely hid.
"The table doesn't matter," he rasped, voice thick with want. "You want to know who's really winning tonight? Let me take you upstairs. I'll show you what it means to be on top."
Harper let her body stay pliant under his hold, her smile practiced, her nails grazing the back of his neck like she was giving herself over. But her eyes flicked past his shoulder, through the doorway. Cole sat where she'd left him, steady at the table, and for the briefest moment she caught his gaze. Her expression softened, almost pleading, the barest crack in the mask before she smoothed it again.
Denton didn't notice. He was too caught up in the feel of her, in the game he thought he'd already won. His mouth climbed back up her neck, lips pressing warm against her skin, kissing along the line beneath her ear. His free hand slid up the front of her dress, fingers bold as they closed over her breast, squeezing slow, possessive.
"That's better," he breathed against her skin. "I could have you forgetting your own name before the cards hit the table again."
Harper's eyes squeezed shut, her breath unsteady before she forced it smooth, every nerve alive as she kept her body pliant beneath his touch, mask holding by a thread.
Denton kneaded her breast, mouth dragging along her throat, tasting the heat of her skin. His hand drifted higher, sliding to her shoulder, fingers hooking at the fabric there. He tugged, dragging her sleeve down an inch at a time.
Harper's body went taut beneath the practiced mask, every nerve sparking in alarm. The ink slept just beneath that fabric—the viper's head, coiled and waiting to betray her. She forced her smile soft, tilting her head as though leaning into his mouth, even as her mind screamed to stop his hand before it slipped lower.
"Lilly!" Cole's voice cut across the space, loud enough to fill it.
Denton snapped back, his hand dropping from her shoulder, mouth pulling off her skin. Harper caught her breath and forced her expression smooth before it could betray anything.
Cole closed the distance in a few strides; anger carved into his face. He caught her arm and yanked her half a step toward him, eyes fixed hard on Denton. "What the hell is this?" he said, voice low but heated.
Cole didn't wait for an answer. His grip on Harper's arm tightened as he roughly hauled her toward the doorway, his voice a growl meant to be overheard. "We're done here."
The scrape of chairs and the drag of smoke marked their reentry into the poker room. Russo let out a coarse laugh, Mack only lifted his eyes, Denton's absence hanging heavy in the air. Cole kept his fury carved on his face, dragging Harper past the table without a glance at the men watching.
"Keep your girl on a leash, Dawson," Russo called after them, chips clattering as he tossed in a bet.
Cole didn't break stride. He pulled Harper to the stairwell, boots pounding on concrete as they climbed. The bouncer at the top looked up, brows lifting, but Cole just gave him a clipped nod, his fury a shield no one dared test.
Out on the street, the air hit cooler, cleaner. Cole kept her arm locked in his until they were half a block away, city noise swallowing the basement's smoke and laughter. Only then did his grip ease, his shoulders loosening as he let her go.
Harper drew in a ragged breath, the mask finally gone, her voice soft. "Thank you."
Cole turned to her then, the heat gone from his eyes, voice gentler than she expected. "You don't thank me for that. I've got you—always."
─•────
The WRX rolled back through the compound gates, engine low as Brock guided it into the garage. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, spilling pale light across concrete and the row of Syndicate SUVs lined silent and heavy along the wall. He killed the ignition, the hum of the car fading into the stillness. Knuckles was already out, stretching his shoulders loose as he scanned the space. Cole climbed out his side, quiet and efficient as ever.
Brock stepped from the driver's seat and rounded the hood without thinking, his stride steady. He pulled open the rear door, a motion more automatic than deliberate. Harper shifted to climb out, but his hand was already there—steadying her elbow, then sliding down to her waist as he helped her clear the step. His thumb brushed once against the fabric of her dress before he let go, unconscious, as if it were no different than settling a weapon into its holster.
Harper moved on without pause, but the contact hung in the air longer than either of them seemed to notice.
Up on the mezzanine, Vex leaned against the railing, a shadow cut sharp against steel and glass. He'd been waiting, quiet, watchful, and he caught the whole exchange—the way Brock's hand lingered, the thoughtless flick of his thumb. Nothing in his face shifted, but his eyes fixed on the moment, storing it away.
He didn't speak until Cole and Knuckles had peeled off toward the interior hall, Harper already striding clear. Only then did his voice drop from above, calm but carrying. "Lawson."
Brock looked up, shoulders squaring, oblivious to the weight behind it.
"Upstairs. Five."
Vex was already turning, boots echoing across the grating, gone before anyone could read more in his face.
She gave a short nod and slipped into motion, heels soft against the concrete as she crossed into the corridor. He watched until she disappeared toward the elevator, the door swinging shut behind her. Only then did he turn, shoulders tightening as he took the stairwell, boots carrying him steady, flight after flight, toward the fifth floor where Vex was waiting.
The hall was hushed, steel and glass stretching long to the corner office. Brock pushed through the door, the quiet inside heavier than the corridors below. Vex stood by the window, back turned, city lights flickering against the glass.
"Close the door," Vex said, voice firm, leaving no room for drift.
Brock swung the door shut, the latch catching with a solid click. He stayed just inside, shoulders squared, weight balanced, hands resting easy at his sides. Vex didn't move at first, the city's glow painting him in silhouette against the glass. Then he turned, crossing the room without hurry, office light cutting a pale line across his shirt. He stopped close—close enough that distance became something Brock had to decide.
"Can you tell me exactly what I saw down in that garage, Lawson?"
Brock's jaw flexed once before he answered, voice flat. "I opened a door. Helped her out of the car. Nothing more than that."
Vex's gaze didn't move from him. "Is Voss still living in your quarters?"
"Yes." Brock's answer came without hesitation, no apology in it. "Barracks are a bad idea. Too many men, too much history. She's safer in the residential wing." He knew where Vex was steering, felt the weight of it pressing in, but his expression stayed steady, nothing shifting but the set of his jaw.
"She is still in your spare room?"
Brock's shoulders drew taut. "I don't see how that's relev—"
Vex cut him off, voice low and direct. "Are you sleeping with her?"
The question landed heavy, but Brock's reply came even, guarded. "My personal life isn't on your ledger. My results are."
Vex's eyes narrowed, unblinking. "You didn't deny it. That tells me enough." He stepped in closer, presence pressing like a wall. "It is on my ledger if my top commander is in bed with a subordinate. I can't afford weakness, Lawson. I can't afford drift because you decided to fuck what you should've kept at arm's length."
Brock met his stare head-on, voice iron steady. "Nothing's changed. You've seen my record. You've seen the field. Point to where I've slipped."
Vex let the silence stretch, the weight of it pressing thin. "You haven't," he said at last. "Your numbers hold. Your runs are solid. But this isn't about you, Lawson—it's about her. She's been delivering, yes. Precise jobs, tight execution. But results aren't absolution. She came in bound. She bled Syndicate men before she wore our colors. Retraining rewires habits; it doesn't change the bone. You keep her in your quarters, and that isn't discipline—it's indulgence. You wanted her close, so you bent the rules to make it happen. Don't pretend otherwise. And I won't let your cock blind you to what she was. That's risk. If it spreads, it's on your head."
Brock's jaw flexed once, but his voice stayed even, anchored. "I don't need reminding what she was. I was the one who dragged her in. And I've seen every move she's made since. My judgment hasn't drifted—and it won't."
Vex's gaze stayed flat, unblinking. "Then hear me now. If she falters—if she drags you even an inch off the line—I'll end it myself. Quick. Clean. She dies before she takes one piece of this Syndicate with her. And if you put me in a position to choose between her pulse and our strength, Lawson—she doesn't walk away."
Brock didn't flinch. "Understood."
Vex turned from him, already done. "You're dismissed."
Brock pivoted on his heel, the door shutting solid at his back. The air outside felt thinner, sharper, like he'd been holding it too long. He hit the stairwell hard, boots striking fast against metal as he took the steps two at a time, every climb wound tight in his chest. By the time he reached the residential floor, the fury had steadied into resolve. He crossed the hall with long strides, keyed into his quarters, and shoved the door open, the weight of the night pressing in with him as it closed behind.
The door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the echo of the stairwell. Harper was already there, curled on the couch, bare legs drawn under her, his t-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder where she'd changed out of the dress. Her hair was damp, fresh from a shower, the low lamp turning the strands to gold where they spilled around her face.
Brock's shoulders eased the instant his eyes found her, the weight from upstairs breaking apart in silence. He crossed the room without a word, the hardness stripped out of his stride by the time he reached her. She shifted, uncurling just enough to meet him halfway, knees still tucked to the cushion as her face lifted toward his. He braced a hand on the back of the couch, leaned in, and his mouth found hers. The kiss was steady, grounding—his way of telling her what he hadn't risked saying out loud.
Harper kissed him back, slow and soft, her fingers curling at his jaw as if to hold him there a moment longer. When she finally drew back, her eyes searched his, steady but gentle. "What did Vex want?"
Brock's mouth tightened before he shook his head, brushing it off. "Logistics. Nothing worth keeping you up." His thumb traced the bare line of her thigh, a distraction as much as comfort.
But Harper knew him—knew the way his eyes carried weight heavier than his words. She didn't press, not yet. She only held his gaze, letting him feel that she'd seen it, whether he admitted it or not.
Brock sank down beside her, the couch dipping under his weight. Harper shifted with him, leaning in until her cheek found his chest. His arm circled her shoulders, holding her close while his eyes stayed fixed on the dark beyond the window.
The quiet stretched, warm on the surface, heavy underneath.