Morning leaked slow through the blinds, pale strips painting the room in uneven light. Brock sat propped against the headboard, the weight of the night still heavy in his bones. He hadn't moved for hours. Couldn't—not with Harper curled against him the way she was.
She'd folded on her side, tucked close, her head nestled into the hollow of his lap where thigh met hip. Her cheek pressed warm through the fabric of his sweats, her breath spilling in steady pulses that told him she was still deep under. One arm looped across his legs, fingers slack but hooked as if her body had decided for her—don't let go.
Her hair spilled dark across his stomach and thighs, catching against the cotton of his shirt where it hung loose. More than once in the night he'd brushed it back, smoothing strands from her mouth when they stirred against her lips. Now he left it, watching how it rose and fell with her breathing, every soft shift pulling at him harder than words ever could.
His muscles ached from the stillness, but he refused to shift. This was the first time since she'd come back through that door bloodied that her face looked easy. No tension at her jaw, no flicker in her brow, no shadow of pain—just sleep, unguarded and unbroken. His palm stayed at her shoulder, thumb tracing a slow, unconscious arc, the only indulgence he let himself take.
The quiet filled everything. Not empty, not cold—just weight, thick and steady, the kind that pressed two people close when there was nothing left to say and nothing either of them dared disturb.
Last night clung to him in fragments. After she'd folded in the hall, she hadn't moved from his arms, curled tight like she'd found the only ground left under her. Knuckles had dropped low beside them, steady and silent, a wall at her back while Brock anchored her front. The three of them sat like that, Harper trembling against him, every so often jolting with a shiver that had nothing to do with cold. It took a long time before the words came—broken at first, halting, scattered pieces they pieced together into a story. Through it all, he and Knuckles kept their composure ironclad, voices steady even as their guts roiled. Over her head, they traded looks hard enough to cut, but neither gave it voice. She didn't need their anger piled on top of what she'd already carried through that door. And they sure as hell didn't tell her what Vex had promised. There was no point. Deep down, Brock suspected she knew—he felt it in the way her fists curled in his shirt, how she wouldn't release—and Knuckles had seen it too.
Time bled out on the cold tile, her breath ragged against his chest until the tremors finally eased. The fight drained from her limbs by degrees, leaving only exhaustion, her weight sagging heavier into him. When she finally gave out, Knuckles stood, slow and heavy, his eyes lingering on Brock in a look that said more than words could hold. Then he slipped out, leaving the silence behind.
Brock gathered her up, careful as if she were made of glass, and carried her down the short stretch to their room. Inside, he worked each buckle and strap loose, laying her gear aside piece by piece. Her boots landed soft on the floor, her vest slumped over the chair, her shirt damp and clinging until he eased it away. At the basin he wet a cloth, wrung it out, and brushed blood and grime from her face with patient passes. She stirred only once, lids fluttering half-open, eyes dazed and unfocused, before drifting back down.
By the time he drew back the blankets and lowered her onto the bed, she'd already gone pliant, moving on instinct alone. She turned into him the moment he settled in beside her, curling into his lap like her body had chosen the place without asking her mind. Brock propped against the headboard, one hand steady on her shoulder, and stayed there through the night.
And now, morning held them there, unchanged. Harper slept on, her weight tucked against him, oblivious. Brock stayed rigid under her, his hand at her shoulder as it had been all night, but the ache in his body wasn't what kept him still. It was the thought of moving, of breaking the fragile calm she'd finally found. So he let the light creep across the room and the time drag heavy, holding his silence, holding her, as if doing so could keep the rest of the world from finding its way in.
It was the smallest change that warned him—her breathing, even all night, caught on a faint hitch. A restless shift followed, the kind that dragged pain back to the surface, and a sound slipped out—thin, pained, catching halfway to a whimper before she swallowed it down. Her fingers, slack against his leg, curled tight as though to anchor herself.
Brock's hand stilled at her shoulder, his thumb stroking once in a slow circle. "Easy, baby," he murmured, voice low, roughened with care. "I've got you."
Her lashes fluttered, eyes slitting open to the pale spill of morning. She blinked against it, breath shaky as she tried to orient herself. The first thing she seemed to register was him—the shape of his chest above her, the heat of his body bracketing hers.
Brock eased a breath through his nose, then finally let himself move. Careful, deliberate, he slid lower against the headboard until his back met the mattress, shifting the weight of her with him. His arm stayed firm around her shoulders, guiding her gently until her cheek rested against his chest instead of his lap. He drew her in close, mindful of the bruises that still lined her ribs, his palm steady at her back.
Her breath hitched at the motion, a faint wince pulling across her face before she settled again, tucked into the safe press of him. His chest rose under her cheek, heartbeat strong and steady, offered like something she could hold onto until hers matched it.
He tightened his hold by degrees, nose brushing into her hair, breathing her in like it steadied him as much as it did her. His hand traced the line of her spine in slow, absent passes, stopping only to press at her side when he felt her flinch, then shifting to safer ground.
"You're here." His mouth brushed her crown, the words breaking soft into her hair. "That's all that matters."
─•────
The line shuffled forward, trays clattering against steel, the steam of pasta and overcooked vegetables rising into the hum of voices. Harper kept her eyes on the food in front of her, the mindless rhythm of spoon and ladle. Brock moved steady just ahead, his broad shoulders taking up her view, the tray in his hands already weighted down. Behind, Knuckles lingered close enough that she felt the heat of him at her back, the kind of quiet guard that didn't need to be spoken aloud. Between them, she could almost pretend she wasn't bone-tired, almost pretend the ache in her ribs wasn't digging deeper with every breath.
She hadn't come down here because she was hungry. She'd woken hours earlier curled into his lap like a cat, his stillness holding her until her stirring made him shift, easing her gently against his chest instead. She'd stayed folded into him through the quiet morning until the restlessness pressed too close, until she finally told him she needed to move. Now, standing in line, she felt the throb of her face beneath the layer of makeup she'd brushed on; the bruising still shadowed her cheekbone, and her right eye carried a faint bloodshot haze from the punch she'd taken.
She slid the last scoop onto her tray without caring what it was, the smell turning her stomach more than it tempted it. Brock moved ahead through the press of tables, shoulders cutting space without effort, the tray in his hands steady as a weapon. She trailed in his wake, Knuckles at her back, the three of them a formation that made the room part just enough to let them through.
At the table Brock chose, Harper set her tray down, half-expecting him to angle across from her the way he had before. Distance—safe, measured, the line he'd been drawing since his meeting with Vex. She didn't know what had been said behind that door, but yesterday had made the shape of it clear. The solo job, the junk he'd sent her out with—Vex had his eye on her. Brock's sudden distance hadn't been rejection; it had been protection. It hurt, but she understood.
Instead, he dropped into the chair beside her, the move simple but absolute. His arm brushed hers when he settled, his body heat seeping through the thin sleeve of her shirt, and she felt the decision in it—deliberate, unflinching.
Her breath caught. He wasn't hiding it anymore. Whatever careful space he'd been carving out for Vex's benefit, he'd just erased the moment he sat beside her. A quiet fuck you laid on the table without a word. Her pulse thudded high in her throat, not just from the bruise or the exhaustion, but from the certainty that he was daring Vex himself to call him on it.
Knuckles slid into the seat on her other side, his bulk a shield at her flank. For once, she didn't feel exposed sitting in the open cafeteria. Boxed in between the two of them, she felt the weight of their choice: solidarity, unapologetic, right where everyone could see.
With both of them braced at her sides, the tension in her chest loosened, a fragile thread of normalcy tugging its way back in. She didn't trust her voice, so she stayed quiet, lowering her head and picking up her fork. The first bite went down stiff, but it was something.
The scrape of chairs sounded across from her, and Price and Cole moved into the open seats, trays landing with an easy clatter that folded into the rhythm of the table.
"About time you two showed up," Knuckles muttered, though there wasn't much bite to it.
Price's mouth tipped, dry amusement threading his reply. "Some of us don't sprint for the line like it's the last meal we'll ever see."
Cole let out a low laugh, then glanced across the table. His eyes lingered a moment on Harper—long enough to notice, not long enough to make it obvious. She felt the weight of it anyway, like he'd seen past the layer of makeup she'd brushed on that morning. Her fork shifted in her hand, a small clatter against the tray, and she forced herself to steady it.
"You doing all right?" Cole asked, quiet, like he wasn't sure whether to say anything at all.
"Mhmm." The sound came with a sweet smile, light enough to pass as reassurance.
Cole gave a small nod and dropped his eyes back to his plate. He didn't press, just started eating, and the moment folded back into the ordinary rhythm of the cafeteria—the scrape of utensils, the low hum of conversation around them.
Conversation drifted in and out, low chatter folding into the wider noise of the cafeteria. Knuckles grumbled about the coffee, Price gave him a dry retort, and Cole shook his head, still chewing. Brock ate in silence, his movements steady, unhurried, eyes flicking over the room even as his arm brushed close against Harper's. She stayed quiet too, but with the table humming around her she found a rhythm—fork to mouth, chew, swallow—each motion a little less forced than the one before. The scrape of utensils, the thud of trays, the low rise and fall of voices—all of it blurred together, steady enough that she felt herself ease by degrees, the tension loosening into something almost comfortable.
The comfort didn't last. Harper felt it slipping the moment the cafeteria noise thinned, voices tapering off in a ripple that moved through the room. She caught Price glance up toward the entrance, his fork stilled halfway to his mouth. She didn't follow his eyes—she didn't need to. Her body already knew. Beside her, Brock went rigid in the smallest way, the kind of stiffness only she would notice, just before a voice carried clean across the room.
"Morning, boys," Vex's voice rang out, bright and booming, pitched to carry. "Look at this—every table filled, every crew accounted for. That's how the Syndicate stays strong. Doesn't matter the job, doesn't matter the hour—you show up, you put in the work, you hold the line. That's why this city bends to us."
Harper didn't turn. Vex's voice carried from behind, filling the cafeteria with that easy confidence that made people stop and listen. Her fork stilled in her hand, food blurring in front of her as the sound slid down her spine. Beside her, Brock went rigid, every line of him pulled taut though he kept his gaze forward. Knuckles leaned back in his chair, head tipping just enough to catch the room's shift without a word. They stayed that way—backs presented, silence held—while the rest of the cafeteria turned toward the voice.
Murmurs stirred across the cafeteria, low and uneven, like the room itself was bracing. Then Vex's voice cut clean through them, smooth and carrying.
"Speaking of putting in the work—Miss Voss, could you stand, please?"
Harper froze, her fork halfway to the tray. Under the table, Brock's knee knocked against hers, a small jolt of warning or reassurance—she couldn't tell which. Her breath caught, but she pushed it down, hesitating only a moment before rising. The scrape of her chair against the floor sounded too loud in her ears as she turned toward the entrance.
Vex stood several feet away, framed by the doorway like it was a stage built for him. His eyes locked on hers across the room, steady and unblinking, and then his mouth curved into a smile that didn't reach them.
When he spoke, his voice rolled on smooth, as if he were delivering praise at a banquet instead of in a mess hall full of killers.
"I want to take a moment to congratulate Miss Voss on her first successful solo mission. Quite an accomplishment."
A ripple of sound stirred the cafeteria—chairs creaked, voices muttered low, a few men letting out short laughs of surprise. Harper felt every eye pull toward her though she kept hers fixed forward, her pulse beating at the base of her throat.
Vex's gaze swept the room, table by table, deliberate, making sure every man in the hall carried his words with them. "For those who don't know—Voss is the daughter of Silas, an old arms dealer some of you will remember. She didn't walk in here as family. She was brought in months back by Lawson's crew as an enemy combatant. And instead of a bullet, she was given a choice. Retrained, repurposed—made into something useful."
The murmurs rose again, heavier this time, the sound of men trading glances, measuring her against the words. Harper's stomach turned. She kept her chin level, fingers tight around the edge of her tray, but the reminder of what she'd been—what she almost hadn't survived—felt like standing naked in front of them.
Vex let the noise roll a moment before tipping his head, almost indulgent. "I'll admit, I had my doubts. But in the months since, she's managed to impress even me."
His eyes cut then, cold and deliberate, fixing on the table where Harper stood. "Lawson," he said, voice pitched to carry. "Please stand."
Beside her, Brock pushed back his chair. The sound scraped through the silence, steady, unhurried. He rose with the same controlled calm he carried into every fight, shoulders squared, posture unbending. He turned and stayed at Harper's side, close enough their arms almost brushed, the two of them bracketed together under the weight of dozens of eyes.
Vex's smile deepened, thin and knowing. "Congratulations to you as well, Lawson—for your work in retraining a Crimson Viper into a Syndicate enforcer." His tone carried the weight of praise, but Harper heard what lay beneath, the sting meant only for them.
He let the room murmur before continuing, eyes never leaving their table. "Not everyone could've managed it. Taking an enemy—someone raised to hate us, fight us—and breaking her down to build her back up. That takes discipline. That takes control." He spread his hands, the gesture wide, indulgent, meant for his audience. "That takes a handler who knows exactly how to keep a weapon in line."
The words hit Harper like a shove, the smirk curling his mouth telling her everything the others wouldn't hear. Around the room, men nodded, some offering short, approving laughs. To them, it was praise for Brock's skill. To her, it was a reminder of every threat Vex had leveled, every wire he'd strung tight between her life and Brock's choices.
Beside her, Brock inclined his head once, the movement measured. "Thank you, sir," he said, his voice steady and professional, pitched just right to carry. The words landed clean, no hesitation, no edge for anyone to catch. His face stayed unreadable, calm carved into stone, but Harper felt the tension running through him, the restraint it took to stand there and accept the performance.
Across the room, something in Vex's expression shifted—subtle, gone as quickly as it came. Most wouldn't have noticed, but Harper did, and she knew Brock did too. Then his smile widened, showman's polish snapping back into place as he spread his arms.
"Let's hear it for Lawson," Vex called, voice booming. "Takes a rare hand to turn an enemy into an asset, and that's exactly the kind of work that keeps this Syndicate untouchable."
Applause scattered through the cafeteria—claps, shouts, laughter breaking loose—more for Brock than for her. Harper stood in it, the noise crashing over her, not as humiliation but as proof of the strings Vex was pulling, the weight of yesterday's setup still hanging between them. Brock inclined his head once more before guiding her back down. The applause faded, the cafeteria sliding back toward its rhythm, but Harper felt the echo in her chest long after. Knuckles reached over, dragging a rough hand through her hair in a mock-ruffle that looked casual to anyone watching. But when she glanced up, his jaw was tight, his eyes hard, the mask cracked just enough to show he hated the theater as much as she did.
Price leaned forward, a grin cutting across his face. "Solo job, huh? Didn't think they'd throw you in that quick."
Cole shook his head, almost laughing. "Hell of a thing, Harper. What was it? Smash and grab? Run and gun?"
Their voices carried easy, genuine, not catching the edge beneath Vex's theater. To them, it was a win, a rookie proving herself.
Harper tilted her head, letting a smile slip, sweet enough to mask the churn in her chest. "If I told you, you'd just get jealous," she teased, nudging at her food with her fork. "Nothing glamorous anyway."
Price chuckled, shaking his head. "Doesn't have to be glamorous. You came back breathing, that's what counts."
She hummed in agreement, keeping the smile in place, letting their laughter cover the silence she couldn't quite fill. Better to leave it there—an easy joke, a scrap of banter—than let them glimpse what the job had really been.
─•────
The quarters were quiet, washed in the low amber glow of the lamp. Brock sat sunk back into the couch, broad frame heavy against the cushions, one arm draped along the back. Harper stretched out beside him, her head pillowed in his lap, legs curled to the side, body tucked close like she'd claimed the space. His hand moved slowly through her hair, combing strands back from her temple, fingertips grazing her scalp in languid passes. Every sweep lingered, twining and releasing, as though the rhythm steadied him as much as it soothed her.
She let her eyes close, breathing in the warmth of him, the faint trace of soap clinging to his shirt. The steady weight of his thigh beneath her cheek, the slow drag of his fingers in her hair, the muted hum of the television—all of it wrapped around her until the world outside felt distant, blurred. She stayed like that, silent, letting the rhythm hold her while the thought pressed closer, heavier, until it was impossible to keep down.
"Brock?" Her voice slipped out low, almost cautious, breaking the hush they'd let stretch between them.
His hand paused for the briefest moment before resuming, slower now, fingers combing gently through her hair. He glanced down at her, the lamplight catching in his eyes, steady but unreadable. "Yeah?" His voice was quiet, roughened at the edges, like he already knew whatever was coming would cost them both.
She rolled onto her back, head still pillowed in his lap, tilting until her gaze found his. The angle left her staring up at him, the set of his jaw shadowed against the glow. She lay there a moment, breath tight, before the words pressed out.
"What did Vex say to you," she asked quietly, "when he pulled you into his office?"
Brock's gaze fixed on hers, his hand stilling in her hair again. "Harper…" The word came low, rough, like it carried more than he knew how to give.
She pushed herself up before he could say more, a pull in her ribs making her wince. Settling beside him, she drew in a breath and turned toward him, her eyes locked on his. "I think I already know what he said," she murmured, voice unsteady, "but I need to hear it from you."
Her fingers twisted together in her lap, restless. "I'm scared, Brock. Last night—he sent me out there with nothing. I don't think I was supposed to come back. And then today, standing there while he paraded me in front of everyone…" Her throat tightened, forcing her to swallow hard. "It made me sick."
Brock watched her for a long moment, his silence heavier than the TV's hum. His thumb dragged once across his palm before he finally spoke.
"He pulled me in because he suspected us," he said, voice low.
Harper blinked, her breath catching. "And?" She searched his face, her voice barely steady. "Did you say yes?"
He shook his head once. "Didn't admit it. Didn't have to. He knows." His jaw flexed in the dim light. "Before that raid, I was given orders—no prisoners. But I brought you in anyway. Then after the den, when he decided you were done, I stopped him. Forced the choice to retrain you instead of execute you." His stare held hers, steady but weighted. "He only agreed because he didn't think you'd make it. Didn't think you'd last, let alone excel. And now… now he knows that after all this, we're together."
Her chest rose with a tight breath, words faltering before she found them.
"He's scrambling," Brock went on, voice flat with certainty. "Because I'm one of his top commanders, and I'm sleeping with someone who was never supposed to make it this far."
Harper worked to keep her face composed, but the thought pushed in hard, crowding out her composure. He'd already been trying to keep distance in public—maybe it needed to be more than that. Maybe it needed to be everywhere.
The words stumbled out before she could stop them. "Maybe I should… move into the barracks. Maybe we should sto—"
"No." Brock's voice cut across hers, cold and final. His hand came up, cupping her face—not rough, not forcing, but steady, anchoring her. "No. We're not doing that."
She tried to protest, the words stammering at the edge of her lips, but he didn't give her the chance. His gaze bore down on hers, unflinching.
"Listen to me. Vex thinks this makes me weak. He thinks being with you softens me." His voice was low, certain. "He's wrong. I'm not weak, and I don't plan to be. I'm not sending you to the barracks where I can't protect you. I want you here. In this room. In my bed. Every night."
Her chest tightened, his grip warm at her cheeks, steady as his words pressed in.
"We're not giving him this," Brock went on, his voice steel. "We keep working. We keep taking jobs. We keep excelling. And we show him the truth—that you don't make me weaker. You make me stronger. I've seen what we can do together. And I'm not bowing down to let him strip that away."
Harper felt the sting building at the corners of her eyes, hot enough to blur her vision. "Brock… yesterday, he sent me out there to die. He gave me nothing, and he knew it. What if he keeps doing that? What if next time he doesn't bother with the setup and just tries to kill me himself?"
Brock's jaw tightened, the weight of Vex's words flashing through his head, but he buried it deep where she couldn't see. He steadied his hand against her cheek, thumb brushing once under her eye as if he could wipe away what hadn't fallen yet.
"Then we make sure he doesn't get the chance," he said, voice firm, grounded. "Wherever you go, I go. Or Knuckles. No exceptions. If it's a solo job, fine—we'll find a way. One of us will be in the shadows, watching your back. You'll never be out there alone. Not again. Not ever."
His touch stayed firm against her face, anchoring her. "And today, in that cafeteria? That was Vex realizing he fucked up. He set you up last night expecting you wouldn't walk back through that door. But you did. Intact. Strong." His gaze never wavered. "Now he knows it didn't work. And worse—he knows I know what he did. That whole show he put on? It wasn't praise. It was a test. A power play. He wanted to see if either of us would fold in front of the Syndicate. And we didn't."
Harper shook her head, the protest breaking loose before she could stop it. "You don't get it—he's not going to stop. If that didn't work, he'll just try again. He'll keep coming until—"
"Harper." Brock's tone cut clean through hers, firm but not unkind. His palm stayed cupped at her cheek, holding her steady. "You've got nothing to worry about. Not while I'm here. Not while Knuckles is here. You stick close to one of us, always. Keep your head up. And keep doing what you've been doing—kicking ass and proving him wrong every step of the way."
His thumb brushed over her skin, slow and deliberate. "That's all you need to focus on. The rest? Leave it to me."
Her throat worked as she tried to hold the line, but the tears slipped anyway, hot at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them. She drew in a shaky breath, meeting his gaze even as her vision blurred.
"Then I will," she whispered, voice tight but certain. "I'll stick close. I'll keep my head up. And I'll prove him wrong—same as you."
The corner of her mouth trembled, caught between breaking and hardening, but her eyes didn't leave his. Whatever weight pressed down on her chest, she forced it into resolve, matching the steel in his with her own.
Brock's hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair. "Good girl," he murmured, the words low, rough with something more than command. He pulled her in against him, arms locking tight around her. The hold pressed into her ribs, drawing a wince she swallowed down, because she wanted the closeness more than the relief. She buried herself against him instead, clinging back as his lips found the crown of her head, his breath warm in her hair.