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"Now," I command.
She breaks. It crashes through her like a storm. Her cry is muffled against her arm, body arching high. I don’t stop. I keep going until she’s sobbing, wrung out and trembling, and then I push her over again.
Only when she collapses fully do I unclip her wrists, pull the blindfold off, and cradle her against my chest.
She doesn’t speak at first. Just breathes. Shaky. Spent. Real. Her hand clutches my shirt.
"That," she whispers, "was not just control."
"No," I say. "It was a promise."
I brush her hair back, press a kiss to her forehead.
"There’s something you need to know… I never stopped thinking of you, either. I never let go of the dream that someday we would find our way back to each other."
She tenses slightly. Not fear. Instinct. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
"Logan got a hit on your old license."
She pulls back just enough to look at me. "My nursing license?"
I nod. “Interpol flagged it. Two days ago. Black file access. Not standard. Not even high-clearance. This was deep ops—off the books, eyes-only. A directive that doesn’t officially exist."
Her eyes widen. "What does that mean?"
"It means someone with serious access authorized a termination protocol."
"You mean…"
"Yes. It was a hit order, Cherise. Signed under a black directive."
“Does Interpol authorize executions?”
“Not so much authorize as obey orders to turn a blind eye.”
She goes still.
"But I’m not in Interpol. I never was."
"You were in their system. The moment you resurfaced, someone tagged you."
Her voice is quiet. "Hector."
"Maybe. Or someone who owes him. Either way, you’re not just a ghost from his past. You’re a threat."
She pulls the blanket tighter around herself, gaze hardening. "Then it’s time we start acting like it."
I wrap my arms around her again and whisper her name like a vow.
Because I know what comes next. We’re not just the hunters anymore. We’re among the hunted. And the kill order has already been signed.
* * *
I watch her sleep like a man marking coordinates—every breath she takes, every shift beneath the sheets, every vulnerable inch of skin that isn’t already mine. Her body’s wrecked from what I did to her, and she needed every second of it. So did I. Not just because I needed to take control, but because I needed to give her something real. Something that stripped both of us down to the bone-deep truth.
The room still smells like us. Sex. Sweat. Submission. Her knees are bruised, thighs trembling even in rest. But she didn’t break. She begged, yes. Whispered my name like prayer and plea. But she held.
And I finally let go.