The line crawled forward, trays rattling on metal rails, the air heavy with steam-table pasta and coffee burned to bitterness. Harper moved with it, tray balanced in her hands, eyes skimming pale chicken gone dry under the lamps, mashed potatoes slick with a gloss that made her stomach turn. Brock stood ahead, broad shoulders filling the gap, sleeves shoved to his elbows as he spooned vegetables onto his plate without looking back. He was close enough she could count the freckles across his arm, but might as well have been a mile away. Price lingered behind her, restless fingers drumming the tray's edge, muttering about the food under his breath.
Harper's gaze stuck to the line of Brock's shoulders as he moved ahead, the steady way he stacked his plate making the rest of the line look sloppy. She didn't realize how long she'd been staring until Price bumped her tray with his own, smirk cutting sideways.
"Careful, Harper. You'll burn a hole in him." His voice was pitched low, just for her.
Heat climbed her neck. She dropped her eyes fast, scooping whatever hit her plate before sliding forward. When she looked up again, Brock was already three spots ahead, tray balanced in his hands, the gap between them wider than it should have been.
Brock broke off toward a corner table where Knuckles, Keir, and Jensen sat in loose sprawl, their presence enough to keep the rest of the room at a distance. He took the chair beside Knuckles, shoulder to shoulder, leaving the far end open. Harper slid into it, Price dropping in at her side, the length of the table stretched between her and Brock in that same, practiced way. A choice she knew by now was deliberate.
Knuckles' eyes slid her way as she set her tray down, the kind of look that said he'd seen this before and wasn't blind to the distance Brock kept putting between them. The raised brow wasn't long, but it landed heavy—confirmation more than question. Harper held it for a breath before letting her gaze drop to her plate, sliding her fork into food she didn't taste. Around her the table carried on— Keir cracked something about the mess hall coffee tasting like motor oil, Jensen shot back that at least it kept Keir from whining, and Knuckles threw his weight behind the laugh. Even Brock's voice joined in, low and rough, the sound folding easy into the crew's rhythm. The noise rolled over her in warm, familiar waves—but none of it touched her. She kept her head down, picking at her plate, the distance across the table a wall louder than silence.
Ever since they came back from the poker job, Brock hadn't been the same. She saw it the second he stepped into their quarters after meeting with Vex—the excuse of "logistics" flat in his mouth, the weight in his eyes too heavy to hide. She hadn't pressed, but she felt the change that night. In bed, he was unrecognizable in his gentleness. He touched her like she might break if he pushed too hard, kissed her slow, moved inside her as though he needed to carve the memory into his bones. Every motion was measured, his forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering against her mouth as if space itself was unbearable. When it ended, he pulled her in and didn't let go, arms locked like loosening them would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.
By morning, that tenderness was ash. She woke to the mattress lurching, her body flipped like she weighed nothing, her face crushed into the sheets, wrists wrenched behind her spine. Panic spiked through the fog of sleep, the shock of his weight pinning her before she'd even drawn breath. He took her hard, brutal, every thrust rattling through her ribs, snarls ripping from his throat where whispers had been hours earlier. It was anger, not want—she felt it in every motion, each slam a punishment she couldn't name. Her lungs burned against the sheets, vision sparking when he dragged her upright, one arm cinched at her stomach, the other crushing her throat until her body clawed for air. She didn't know whether to fight or yield, so she endured, teeth gritted against the rawness breaking her open. And when it was over, he let her drop facedown, no word, no touch—only silence and the sight of his back as he turned away.
And then, as if nothing had happened, the nights after were normal again. He was Brock the way she knew him—rough, yes, but never cruel. Hands that marked her also soothed her, mouth that bit also kissed her quiet, the edge always threaded with heat instead of fury. He pulled her close when it was over, murmured low in the dark like she was the only thing that mattered. Behind their door, he still joked, still cared, still reached for her in the ways that had once made her certain.
But outside their door, he was someone else entirely. On the floor, he barked harder at her than anyone, his corrections cut deeper, distance carved into every order as if he needed everyone to see it. In the cafeteria, in the halls, he passed her like she was no one at all, eyes never staying long enough to catch. And later, when it was just the two of them, when she tried to ask—soft words pressed into the dark, the edge of a question catching in her throat—he smothered it with his mouth. Heat poured into every kiss, every touch, until she couldn't breathe enough to push him back. It felt like apology and deflection all at once, the harder he pushed her away in public, the harder he clung to her in private.
The cycle left her hollow. She didn't know what had shifted, or what sin she'd committed to turn him this way—only that something had, and it clung like weight she couldn't shake. Each day she tried to read him, tried to trace the line back to where it started, but the answers stayed locked behind his silence. Every deflection, every hard edge in public pressed deeper, until the doubt was no longer a thought but a tide dragging her under. She couldn't stop it, couldn't slow it—only feel herself sinking, pulled toward a depth she couldn't name.
"You feeling okay?"
Harper blinked, Keir's voice cutting through the haze. He sat across from her, chair angled just enough that he could study her without making it obvious. His tray was already half-empty, fork idle in his hand as his eyes flicked from her untouched food to her face.
She startled like she'd been caught, then gave a small shake of her head. "Not really," she murmured, voice low, unguarded for once.
Her gaze slid past him, across the table to where Brock sat with his shoulders squared, leaning close to Knuckles as if the rest of the room didn't exist. He didn't look up.
Keir followed the glance, then brought his eyes back to her. His mouth pressed thin, but his voice stayed even. "Then don't force it. Eat what you can, get out of here. You've been running hard."
Heat built at her neck. She ducked her head, nudging at the food with her fork. "Yeah. I will."
He didn't push, but he didn't look away right away either. For a moment his eyes held hers, steady, almost protective — the kind of look that said he saw more than she wanted him to. Then he leaned back, fork scraping against his tray as if nothing had passed between them.
Harper stayed rooted a few moments longer, the voices around her blurring into a hum she couldn't break into. Her fork rested idle against the tray, food untouched, her throat too tight to force anything down. Finally, she slid the tray forward with a quiet scrape, the sound cutting through her nerves like it was louder than it was.
"Excuse me," she murmured, barely above the clatter of the room.
She rose, chair legs whispering against the floor, and gathered the tray in both hands as though steadying herself with the weight. Crossing to the garbage felt like moving under a spotlight — every step measured, every sound amplified until the scrape of plastic hitting the bin rang in her ears. She set the tray down, careful, almost delicate, like breaking it would betray something she couldn't afford to show.
She didn't look back. Couldn't. The thought of catching Brock's eyes—or worse, finding no one's on her at all—tightened something in her chest. Her arms folded across her midsection as if she could hold herself together, trayless hands clutched close. Harper pushed through the cafeteria doors, the rush of cooler air from the corridor washing over her as the noise behind her dulled to a hum. Her steps quickened, heels striking soft against the tile, carrying her farther from the press of voices, away from the weight of wondering if anyone noticed she'd gone.
"Voss."
The sound cut from her right. Harper jerked to a stop, pulse thudding as Vex stepped out from a side corridor, slotting himself into her path like he'd been waiting for the exact moment she passed. His hands were loose at his sides, his posture unhurried, but his eyes locked on her with a weight that made the hallway shrink.
She forced her back straight, tamped the jolt down, and turned to face him. Her voice came even. "Sir."
Vex's hand lifted, a small motion toward the elevator. "A moment, if you will."
The hair prickled at the back of Harper's neck, but she dipped her chin in a short nod. She fell in behind him, heels softened against the tile, the corridor stretching too long before the elevator doors parted. He stepped in first, and she followed, the air closing tight as the doors slid shut. Neither spoke as the car climbed, the silence weighted, her reflection pale beside his in the steel.
The bell chimed soft at the fifth floor. Vex stepped out without pause, and she followed, the hall stretching long and hushed ahead of them. He pushed through the door to his office, held it just long enough for her to enter, then moved to his desk. His hand gestured once toward the chair opposite.
Harper sat, spine rigid, palms pressed flat against her thighs to hide the dampness there as Vex lowered himself behind the desk. The quiet pressed down between them, heavy as stone.
She hadn't been in this office since that day all those months ago—since he'd torn her from this very chair by the hair, fists and boots driving her into the carpet until her ribs screamed and her mouth filled with blood. She could still feel the rough weave scraping her cheek, the muzzle steady at her skull, the click of the safety cutting through the blur in her head.
Now she sat rigid, hands pinned tight to her thighs as if the pressure could hold her still. The desk was the same. The carpet was the same. Her face gave nothing away, but her body remembered, every nerve thrumming under the silence.
Vex leaned back in his chair, hands folding loosely on the desk. His voice came smooth, almost cordial. "How are you finding it? Life under this roof. Life in the Syndicate."
Harper held his eyes a moment too long, then let them drift to the edge of the desk, as if measuring distance. "It's…structured," she said evenly. "Clear lines. Clear orders. I know what's expected."
Vex's mouth edged faint, not quite a smile. "And you prefer it that way?"
Her shoulders stayed square, but her fingers pressed against her thighs until the fabric creased. "It keeps me useful," she answered.
The pause stretched a half-second before she added, quieter, "That's enough."
Vex shifted, one elbow sliding to the arm of his chair, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the leather. His tone stayed level, almost conversational. "And useful you have been. More than that—impressive. The runs, the fieldwork—you've shown talent I didn't quite expect." His gaze pinned her like a specimen. "Truth is, I didn't think you'd keep going after the Maw had you. Most don't crawl back from that kind of treatment, let alone stand where you're standing now." He tipped his chin once, a nod dressed as approval. "But you did."
Harper kept her eyes on him, face neutral, but her chest pulled tight. Compliments weren't his currency. Every line felt too even, too deliberate, and she searched his expression for the catch—for the trap strung quiet in the calm. Her fingers pressed flat to her thighs until the fabric creased. She let the silence stretch a moment, drew in a measured breath, then released the words as though testing their weight. "Thank you." Polite. Careful. A phrase set down like glass that might shatter if it slipped.
Vex inclined his head, gaze steady over steepled fingers. "You've earned more than shadows to work in. It's time you take something of your own. A solo job." The words carried as if he were granting freedom, a door opening instead of a chain tightening. "No backup, no hand on the line but yours. A mark of trust, Harper. You get to show me you can stand alone."
Harper blinked once, the offer catching harder than she let show. Her spine stayed straight, shoulders locked, but something knotted low in her chest. Freedom was never free in his hands. She fixed her eyes on him, steady, waiting—measured stillness the only answer she trusted him with.
Vex shifted in his chair, voice still mild, as though he were offering her a gift. "It's a simple run, on the surface. A package, light enough to carry, nothing that will weigh you down. You'll cross the river, deliver it to a contact who'll be waiting in a quiet spot—neutral ground, easy to reach if you keep your head. Hand it off, take their acknowledgment, and walk away. No gunfire, no chase, not unless you make it one. If you do it right, no one even remembers you were there. Clean work."
He let the pause stretch, his gaze holding hers. "And it will be yours alone. No leash. No shadow at your back. Just you, Harper. Let's see what you do with that kind of freedom."
─•────
Brock's boots landed quiet against the residential hall, the low hum of the compound steady around him. After lunch he'd dropped down to the range with Knuckles, hours burned on drills until the powder stink clung to his shirt and his shoulders throbbed from recoil. Hunger gnawed low, the pull of near-dinnertime twisting his gut, but it wasn't just food dragging him forward. He caught himself lengthening his stride, the thought of Harper waiting in his quarters pulling tighter than the ache in his stomach. He hated the way he'd left her adrift in his silences, hated more that he still couldn't stop. Even so, he wanted her. Every step home felt like gravity.
Brock pushed through the door, the latch snapping shut behind him. He took one step inside—and froze.
Harper sat on the couch's edge, bent over her boots, yanking the laces tight. Cargo pants tucked neat, long sleeves stretched close to her wrists, and a ballistics vest strapped firm across her chest. The plates hugged tight to her ribs, edges stark against the fabric. She rose in one fluid motion, tugging a jacket over her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back clean, her face set in focus that left no space for softness. A duffel waited at her feet, heavy and zipped, ready to be lifted.
His eyes locked on hers, breath held tight in his chest. For a moment the silence pressed thick between them, until his voice broke it—low, flat. "What are you doing?"
Harper met his stare without flinching. "I've got a job." She tipped her chin toward the kitchen, calm, almost domestic against the gear on her shoulders. "Your dinner's in the fridge."
She dragged the zipper up her jacket, the vest vanishing beneath the fabric. Brock's gut twisted. She'd never gone out on a job without him—never. That was theirs. His to cover, hers to lean into. Watching her seal the armor away felt like betrayal, like she was stepping somewhere he couldn't follow.
"With who?" The words came rough, edged. "Onyx? Cole?"
Harper's smile curved faint, almost casual, as she shook her head. "Nope. Just me."
The bottom dropped out. Brock froze, fury and dread crashing together until one word roared through him: Vex. Of course it was Vex. The thought burned as he closed the distance, each step heavy, relentless. His hand clamped onto her arm, the jacket's fabric stiff under his palm, but her warmth bled through—hers, alive, his, too close to lose. She lifted her eyes to his, searching, and the look carved deeper than any plate of armor could shield.
"Why are you doing this?" Her voice was quiet, but it landed heavier than any shout.
His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"
"All of it." The words caught, ragged with frustration. "You shut me out the second we step into the field, like I'm weight you don't want to carry. And then in here you act like nothing's wrong, like we're fine." Her breath hitched, unsteady in her chest. "What did I do to deserve that?"
Brock's mouth parted, the excuse already on his tongue. "It's not—"
"Forget it." The words came fast, but they wavered, frayed at the edge. It was enough to stop him cold. Her eyes flicked away, then back, hurt written clear in the shine there. "Don't bother. You won't give me a straight answer anyway."
The words went straight through him, no armor to stop them. For a moment he couldn't mask it—the hitch in his chest, the flicker of something giving way behind his eyes. His grip on her arm faltered, tightened once in reflex, then fell useless to his side. She saw it, and the sight cracked something in her, softening just enough to let him see that, too.
"I don't know what happened between you and Vex." Her voice caught on the name, breaking low before she steadied it. "But I'm sorry anyway. For whatever it was. For whatever I did."
Her hand closed around the duffel strap before he could answer. She hauled it up, the weight settling against her shoulder. "I need to go. I'm going to be late."
She brushed past him, his hand twitching as if to stop her, but he didn't. The scent of her hair lingered, her shoulder grazing his chest without a kiss, without even a glance back.
Brock didn't move. He just stood there, watching the door swing shut in her wake. The latch clicked, small and final, and the silence after pressed in heavy, sealing him off. Her words lingered in his chest, not fading, just settling deeper with every breath he tried to take. His hands hung useless at his sides, jaw locked, the weight of her absence pulling harder than his own anger.
Time stretched. Long enough for him to shift a half-step toward the door, hand twitching to reach for it—then stop again, anchored in place.
The handle turned. Brock's spine snapped straight, breath catching hard. For a beat he was certain—she'd come back, she'd walk through, the look in her eyes undone. Hope hit raw, unguarded, before the door even opened.
But it wasn't Harper. Knuckles stepped in, cap low, his gaze flicking once over Brock, taking in the room's stillness, the weight in the air. The door shut behind him with a solid thud, the sound too heavy for the hope Brock had let rise.
"I just passed Harper downstairs—boots laced, jacket on, bag over her shoulder. She was moving like she had somewhere to be. And she was alone. Where's she going like that, when you're up here?"
Brock met Knuckles' stare, jaw locked. "She's going on a job," he said, the flatness costing him. The next word came slower, rougher, as if it hurt to force out. "Alone."
Knuckles went still, weight rocking back hard onto his heels. "What?" The word landed low, disbelieving, like he couldn't have heard right. His jaw tightened as the silence stretched, then his voice came rougher, cutting through the room. "Why the fuck would she be going out alone?"
Brock's jaw flexed, but no words followed. The silence carried his guilt clearer than anything he could have said.
Knuckles stepped in, glare locked on him. "What the hell's going on between you two? You've been cold to her for days, like she's nothing. And now you're sending her out on jobs alone? Did you forget the last time she left this compound by herself, and what happened? Did you forget what people out there see when they look at her?"
Brock's jaw tightened. "I didn't send her," he ground out. "Vex did."
Knuckles' glare faltered, shock flashing in its place. "Vex?" His voice pitched harsh. "The fuck do you mean, Vex?"
Brock's eyes stayed locked, flat and heavy. "Vex knows."
Knuckles blinked hard, like the words didn't fit. "What? How? The rest of us know, sure—anyone with eyes can see it. But nobody would take that to him. None of us would ever sell —"
"No." The word snapped out, cutting him off. Brock's voice scraped raw, the hurt bleeding through. "I fucked up. After the poker job—I pulled her out of the car myself, hand on her like it was nothing. Didn't even see him there. He was watching."
Knuckles went rigid, shoulders locked, as if the air itself had turned on him.
Brock's stare lifted to him, steady but hollow. "Knux, he doesn't want her here. He told me that night—said he'd kill her if she so much as breathes wrong. And now he's proving it. He's sending her out on a fucking job alone."
Knuckles swore under his breath, pacing like the room was too small to hold him. "Jesus Christ, Brock. He said that to you? And you let her walk out the door?" His cap brim shadowed his eyes, but the heat burning through made it clear.
Brock's jaw locked, no answer coming.
Knuckles stopped pacing, hands braced on his hips. "Maybe it was a bluff. He's thrown shit like that before, trying to scare people straight. But if he meant it—" His gaze cut back to Brock, sharp and tight. "That's not a job—that's a setup. He's putting a target on her back and daring you to stand there and watch."
The silence pressed heavy until Knuckles dragged in a breath, forcing his voice down, rough but steadier. "You can't take him head-on. Not now. Not yet. But you find a way to keep her breathing, Brock. Because if Vex wants her gone and you don't stop it…" His stare fixed, unflinching. "…that's on you."
─•────
The Charger rolled quiet into the garage, tires humming over concrete, engine a low growl that bounced between the pillars. The sound carried in the cavernous space, rising and falling in hollow echoes until she eased off the gas. She slid into a slot halfway down the row, between two empty sedans coated in dust, and killed the lights. The car sank into shadow, the sudden dark closing around her like a shroud.
Stillness pressed in. The air stank faintly of exhaust and damp stone, metal tang layered over fumes that never cleared. Overhead, a single fluorescent tube buzzed and flickered, throwing strips of light that didn't quite reach her. Somewhere deeper, a drip ticked against concrete, each fall too loud in the void.
Harper's fingers tapped restless against the wheel, the rhythm too fast, her breath caught tight. Vex had called it simple—just a delivery. Drive the package in, hand it over, drive back. No team. No backup. Just her. He'd said it like a gift, like trust finally earned.
She knew better. Nothing in this life came clean. Every job cut somewhere, left blood on the edge. This wasn't trust. This was a test. Or worse—a line drawn to see how far she'd go before she finally broke.
The console buzzed. Harper startled, breath snagging, before she forced her jaw shut and reached for the phone. The lock screen lit, flooding the dark with a frozen moment: Dante's cheek pressed to hers, both of them grinning wide, Wedge, Lena and Skiv crammed around them, loud and alive in a way that would never come back. For a second she just stared, ache pulling hard.
She swiped it aside and opened the message.
Please message me when you're on your way back. I love you.
Brock.
The words glowed steady against her palm while everything else shook. She sat with them until her throat ached, the garage hum swallowing the moment whole. Then she thumbed the screen dark, slipped the phone into her jacket, and pushed the door open. Her boots hit concrete, the sound cracking too loud in the emptiness.
She moved to the back, each step echoing, and lifted the trunk. The duffel waited in the dark, its bulk a shadow against the liner. She hauled it up, the strap biting into her shoulder, the weight pulling her down as if to remind her what she carried. She squared it, locked the trunk, and forced herself forward into the stillness.
Her ponytail swayed with each step, boots kicking echoes that carried too far. Eyes down, but every nerve alert. She mapped the space without turning her head—the stutter of the flickering light overhead, the drip of water ticking from a pipe, the faint slam of a car door two levels up. Movement brushed the edges of her vision and she catalogued it all, sound and shadow, without breaking stride.
No weapons—Vex's orders, the client's demand. What scraped her raw wasn't just being empty-handed, it was the missing weight she knew by heart: no holster snug against her ribs, no pistol drag at her hip, no knife resting warm against her thigh. The absence left her skin exposed, stripped of the armor that made her whole.
At the far end, concrete gave way to glass doors framed in brass. A gust of cooled air spilled out as she pushed through, erasing the oil-and-exhaust stench in an instant. The hotel above might as well have been another country. Polished floors gleamed under soft light, the air scrubbed clean of smoke and sweat. The shift jarred, too neat after the grit below.
Nobody looked twice. The alias was already logged at the desk, her presence just another name on paper. She cut straight to the private lift, the concierge barely glancing up as it admitted her without question. The doors slid shut, sealing her in mirrored steel.
Her reflection stared back from every angle, pale under the downlight, collarbone aching where the strap dug in. Her face looked composed, almost calm, but her eyes betrayed the coil wound too tight beneath.
The car hummed upward. Numbers blinked past one by one, each floor falling away, the silence stretching until it pressed against her ribs. Machinery blended with the thrum in her veins, steady but too loud in the confined space. By the time the bell chimed and the doors parted on the top floor, her chest was cinched hard enough to ache.
Harper stepped out. The quiet hit first, thick and smothering. Pale stone stretched ahead, broken by dark trim, polished surfaces catching what little light the sconces gave off.
Her boots struck sharp at first, each step ricocheting down the corridor until the carpet runner dulled it to a muffled thud. The hush closed tighter with every pace, her own breath rasping in her ears. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the hall narrowed her forward until it ended at a set of double doors paneled heavy in wood, brass handles gleaming faintly under the glow.
She hitched the bag higher, flexed her hand against the strap, and knocked. The sound landed flat against the wood and was swallowed quick by the hall.
Silence stretched, long enough for her nerves to rasp raw. Then the locks turned—one, then another, bolts clicking back in sequence. The door cracked an inch, a pair of eyes sliding over her, cold and deliberate, before a chain rattled loose.
The man who filled the frame was broad, shoulders pressing the suit tight at the seams, weight carried like a threat. His gaze raked her once, then flicked past to sweep the hall. Finding it empty, he stepped forward instead of aside, one hand lifted in a stop that brooked no argument.
"Arms out." The words came low, clipped.
Harper set the duffel down and lifted her arms. Her jaw locked as his hands closed on her sides, moving with practiced pressure over her ribs, down the seam of her jacket, along her legs. He crouched to check her ankles, fingers pressing against the leather of her boots, then rose again, palms skimming sleeves and shoulders with the same impersonal rhythm.
At her collar, his fingers swept the line of fabric close to her throat, knuckles grazing skin before dropping away. The contact was clinical, detached, but it pulled a live wire of discomfort through her all the same. She held still, eyes forward, refusing to give him even a flicker of reaction.
Satisfied she carried nothing, he straightened and jerked his chin at the duffel. "Inside." Only then did he step back, door swinging wider in a flat, unquestioning gesture.
She bent, caught the strap, and swung the duffel back to her shoulder. The weight settled hard, grounding more than steadying. Then she stepped forward, crossing the threshold as the man drew the door wider.
A corridor stretched ahead, narrow, walls paneled in pale stone broken with dark trim. Light ran low along the ceiling, more glow than brightness, leaving the corners heavy. The stillness deepened here, swallowing every sound until even the scrape of her breath felt exposed.
Behind her, the door thudded shut, locks sliding home in quick succession. The finality landed hard, and something flickered in her chest—tight, reflexive—before she forced it still. The bulk of the man at her back sealed the way she'd come, his presence filling the space even in silence.
Farther down the hall, another figure waited. He stood planted at the mouth of the passage, posture rigid, gaze cutting over her without hesitation. He didn't come forward. Just lifted one hand, a curt beckon.
"This way."
The carpet swallowed her steps, boots dulled to a hush as she moved forward, the strap gnawing at her collarbone. The stone gave way to polished wood, dark panels running the walls, framed prints breaking up the surface—expensive, hollow, bought to impress and nothing more.
The brute at the door didn't follow. That left her alone under the eyes of the man ahead. He was leaner, but the danger in him carried just as clear—the way his suit sat clean across his frame, the way stillness clung to him like discipline. He didn't shift, didn't speak, only watched her come on, gaze steady as if every step she took was being tallied.
When she drew near, he lifted his hand again, the silent command pulling her the last stretch. Then, and only then, he shifted aside, granting her the space to pass into the next room.
The suite opened wide. Gauze curtains veiled the windows, muting the city beyond until the glass was nothing but a blurred wall of light. The air smelled faintly of polish and old smoke, scrubbed too clean to be natural. A long glass table stretched under the dim glow, empty but for a single crystal tumbler, untouched, and a phone facedown beside it.
The client sat at the table's center. Silver threaded through dark hair combed back from a lined face—not weariness but certainty, the kind carved from decades of never being told no. His suit was immaculate, fabric rich without flash, the weight of money without the need to flaunt it. One leg crossed, back leaning into the chair as if this were his own living room.
His gaze fixed on her, steady, assessing, with the patience of a man used to control. It wasn't welcome or warmth—it was inventory, as though she were a figure entered in his ledger. His eyes dropped to the duffel, then returned to hers. "Set it there," he said. The voice was smooth but clipped, carrying the kind of certainty that didn't leave space for hesitation.
Harper slid the strap from her shoulder, the rasp of canvas against her jacket loud in the hush, and carried the bag forward. Careful, she eased it down, weight settling soft against the polished surface, as if even the sound might be judged.
Behind her, the second man lingered just inside the doorway, posture easy but watchful, eyes fixed on her back until she stepped clear.
At the table, the client's gaze lingered on the duffel, then slid back to her. The pause stretched until the air itself felt heavier.
"Open it," he said at last. Smooth, clipped, no rise in tone. Not a request—an instruction meant to measure what she'd do with it. He didn't shift in his chair, didn't so much as uncross his leg. He simply watched her, steady and patient, as if the real weight sat not in the bag but in how she handled the moment.
Harper set her hand on the table's edge, fingers closing on the zipper. The rasp of metal teeth tore loud in the hush, each inch dragged open under his eyes. She folded the flap back with deliberate care, palms steady though her chest was tight, and let the contents sit exposed between them. She didn't look down at the bag once—it was him she watched, waiting to see what mattered more: the delivery, or the way she carried it out.
The client's gaze lingered on her first, patient, unblinking. Then it dropped to the duffel. A silence stretched—and then his face changed, lines tightening, eyes hardening.
"What the fuck is this?" His voice snapped through the room, fury edged in disbelief. A hand cut toward the bag, dismissive. "You walk into my suite with garbage? You think I don't know the difference?"
The words dragged her eyes down. Not cash. Not weapons. Just manuals warped with age, coils of stripped wire, busted hardware wrapped in plastic—junk dressed up to fill the space. The sight slammed the truth into her: Vex hadn't sent her to deliver. He'd sent her to burn.
Harper forced her throat tightness down, shoulders set, jaw locked. "It's not mine to know," she said evenly. "I was told to deliver it. That's all."
Her tone was steady, but inside every nerve screamed. She hadn't seen the contents before, hadn't been given so much as a word beyond deliver. That truth was the only ground she had left to stand on.
The chair scraped back as he rose, sudden and violent. His stride carried him down the length of the table, each step landing heavy in the hush.
When he reached the bag, his hand clamped the strap and ripped it across the glass, the duffel skidding before he let it crash to the floor, canvas thudding like refuse.
In the same motion, he caught her arm. His grip locked hard around her jacket sleeve, dragging her a fraction closer, weight and heat biting through the fabric. Harper's breath stuttered once in her chest before she forced it level, jaw tight enough to ache. Her hand twitched against her thigh, the urge to pull back buried under the need to stand steady.
His eyes bored into hers, fury unflinching. "You expect me to believe you didn't know? You haul garbage into my suite and think hiding behind orders makes it different?" His grip tightened, jerking her arm just enough to unbalance her. "I don't give a damn who packed it. You carried it in. That makes it yours."
A flick of his eyes, and the second man moved. He was on her in two strides, hand locking around her other arm, weight crowding her space until both grips pinned her in place. Harper's shoulders drew tight, the jacket biting at her ribs. She kept her chin high, mask steady, though her pulse hammered like it wanted out.
The client leaned close, breath hot against her cheek. "If this is some kind of joke, you're the punchline. And if it's a test—" his hand gave her arm a brutal shake, "—you just failed."
Harper's teeth knocked hard with the jolt, boots skidding across the carpet until the second man's grip wrenched her back in place. Pain sparked down her arm where the client's fingers ground bone through fabric. Her lungs clenched against the instinct to flinch, to fold, to react.
She forced her jaw tight, muscles straining until her molars ached. When she spoke, the words came low and even, steadier than she felt. "I was told to deliver. That's all I know."
The client's eyes narrowed, weighing every syllable. Then his hand snapped, shoving her deeper into the second man's hold. Fingers twisted her bicep until fire shot down her arm. The second man shifted, one hand locking both her wrists tight while the other seized her ponytail, wrenching her head back at a brutal angle. Her throat stretched bare, eyes yanked up to meet the man looming over her. Harper's chest strained against her jacket, breath clipping shallow, every nerve screaming as she forced herself not to break.
The client came in close, his breath hot, fury pressed right against her skin. "Orders don't shield you. You carry trash into my suite, you answer for it."
She clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the sound he wanted.
His fist slammed into her cheekbone with brutal force, snapping her head to the side. Bone rang under the impact, her teeth clacking together hard enough to taste copper at the back of her tongue. The room lurched with her, vision swimming as if the walls had shifted on their frame.
Before breath returned, his next strike buried itself in her ribs. The punch landed deep, a crushing blow that folded pain through her chest and ripped the air from her lungs in a raw convulsion. Heat seared through muscle and bone, her diaphragm locking, body screaming for air that wouldn't come.
Her knees buckled, her balance stripped away, but the second man's hold kept her from crumpling, ponytail twisted viciously in his fist. A raw sound caught in her throat before she swallowed it down. She forced her body upright again, spine pulled taut against agony. Her gaze fixed forward, unblinking, though her breath rattled with every drag.
The client stepped back at last, composure snapping into place as though the blows had cost him nothing. His tone came calm again, colder than the strike. "Next time I see you, courier, you come with weight. Or you don't walk out at all."
He let the words hang, then snapped over her shoulder without a glance. "Get her the fuck out of my sight."
The second man dropped her ponytail at once, seizing both wrists tighter behind her back. He wrenched them high until her spine bowed, forcing her forward. Each step jarred her ribs, breath tearing short, boots dragging against the carpet as he marched her down the corridor she'd walked so carefully before.
At the doors, the first man was waiting. He undid the locks without a word, swung the way open, and stood aside. The second man shoved her through, sending her staggering into the hall. Harper caught herself on the wall, lungs burning, vision blurred.
Behind her, the door shut with a heavy thud, locks sliding home one after another, sealing her out as though she'd never been allowed inside.
She pushed off the wall, but the strength bled from her legs as soon as she moved. Her boots dragged a half-step before catching rhythm, uneven but forward. Her hands shook when she dragged them across her jacket, smearing blood from her nose without thinking. Every breath tore fire through her ribs, shallow and raw.
Alone in the corridor, she let the mask slip for the space of a few strides—jaw slackening, shoulders sagging, her eyes burning as the tremor ran through her. Just long enough to feel the damage. Then she forced air into her lungs, forced her spine to straighten, and kept walking.
─•────
The wait dragged heavy. Brock sat forward on the couch, elbows braced to his knees, eyes fixed on the floor as if it might give him an answer. Knuckles hadn't settled once—first pacing the narrow length of the room, then leaning on the wall, then prowling back again. The silence pressed thick, broken only by the hum of the vent and the scuff of boots on tile. Brock stayed rigid, forcing himself still; Knuckles carried the same weight in motion, restless and raw. Both ways only made the minutes stretch, each one another reminder she hadn't come back yet.
Bootsteps stirred in the hall, faint at first, then steady, each one dragging the air tighter in the room. Both men stilled, heads angling toward the door. Brock's chest locked against a breath he didn't take, the sound sparking a jolt of hope that hit too fast, too raw. Knuckles straightened off the wall, every line of him braced as the tread drew closer.
The latch turned, and both men froze. The door swung inward, and Harper stepped through.
Her boots scuffed the threshold, and she caught them both at once—Brock on the couch, Knuckles braced by the wall. The sight hit like a wall she wasn't ready to face. Her gaze dropped fast, shoulders tight, as if not looking could make her invisible.
"Harper." Brock's voice cracked low, relief pulling it out of him before he could leash it. He pushed up from the couch—then stopped cold when the light hit her face. Blood streaked across her cheekbone, already drying, with darker smears ground into her collar and sleeve. His breath jammed in his chest. "What the hell happened?" The words tore out raw, sharper than he meant, fear dressed as fury.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly, already angling toward the hall. Her hand brushed the zipper of her jacket like she could straighten it, hide the stains, erase the damage. "Just need a shower."
Brock surged up, closing the distance in two strides. His hand caught her arm, heat burning through the fabric, stopping her short.
She wrenched free, the motion hard enough to sting. Shoulders locked, chin tipped down. "I said I'm fine." The words came low, clipped, meant to end it. She didn't look at him, didn't slow, stride set toward the hall.
Knuckles was already moving. He pushed off the wall and cut across her path, planting himself broad in the narrow space, leaving her nowhere to slip by. His eyes raked over the blood she hadn't managed to hide, and his jaw tightened. "The hell you are," he muttered, voice rough with heat.
Harper stopped short, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the floorboards between them. She angled to slip around him, but his arm came up, barring the way. The air pressed in—Brock at her back, Knuckles in front—the walls of the room closing with every breath.
Her hands shot up, shoving hard at his chest. "Move." The word cracked out raw, more fight than strength, but full of edge.
Knuckles didn't budge. He caught her wrists in a single motion, holding her fast with ease, his grip unyielding. "Don't pull that shit with me," he snapped, anger rough in his throat. "You come back bleeding, and you think you're walking past like nothing happened?"
Something split in her then. Raw from the blows, scraped hollow by the silence in that penthouse and now pressed between them, the last thread holding her together gave way.
"Why do you care?" The words tore out ragged, louder than she meant, shaking the air between them. She ripped against his hold, eyes blazing up to his. "Neither of you care out there. Not when it counts. You look right through me until I'm bleeding, and now suddenly I'm worth stopping?"
Her chest heaved, ribs stabbing with every breath, but she couldn't choke it back. "You think this was my choice? You think I wanted this?" Her voice cracked, raw, but she forced it louder. "I did what I was told. That's all I've ever done. And now you're both standing here like I owe you an explanation for surviving it?"
Brock flinched at the words, as if she'd struck him harder than any fist could. He stepped in close, hand hovering, then settling heavy on her shoulder from behind.
Knuckles' grip clamped harder, the fight in her wrists jolting through him. His jaw locked, breath grinding out between his teeth. Then he gave her a hard shake, dragging her up against his fury. "Don't you throw that at me," he bit out, eyes boring into hers. "You think I don't care? You think I haven't been watching you walk into fire every time, praying you come back?"
Her whole body seized between them. Knuckles shaking her forward, Brock's weight holding her back—their hands on her locked her in place, trapped, helpless. For a split second the room broke apart, the present ripping into memory: chains biting her wrists, fists driving into her, voices spitting questions she wouldn't answer while they struck her again and again. The terror surged so real her throat clenched shut, lungs refusing air.
Both men felt it at once. Knuckles' fury guttered, his grip falling open as if burned. Brock's hand dropped away too, relief swallowed by the sick twist in his chest at the way she froze.
Harper crumpled to her knees, hitting the floor hard enough to jar her ribs. Her palms pressed flat against the tile as if she needed the ground to steady her, shoulders heaving, breath breaking ragged past her clenched teeth. Blood smeared fresh across her sleeve as she dragged a hand up, trying to cover her face.
Brock sank down behind her, no hesitation. His arms came around her shoulders, dragging her back into him, his chest braced solid against her spine. She tensed at the pull, every muscle rigid, breath locked tight like she might shatter if he pressed harder.
Then something gave. Her body twisted, curling into him, her face burying against his chest. Her teeth clenched, bared in silent defiance even as her shoulders shook, the fight in her turned inward, tearing her apart. Brock folded around her, one hand at her back, the other cradling her head, holding her like he could absorb the damage himself.
Knuckles lowered with them, settling on one knee at her side. His hand came down on her shoulder, firm but steady, the weight of it grounding her without force. He didn't say a word.
Over her bowed head, Brock's eyes met his. Relief, fury, guilt—too many things tangled in one look. Knuckles held it, jaw tight, both men bound silent by the same truth: whatever Harper had walked into had broken her raw, and neither of them had been there to stop it.