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We haven’t talked about what’s next. Not in detail. But we don’t need to. For the first time in years, I’m not being hunted or hunting. No orders. No enemies lurking in dark corners. Just the soft rhythm of the sea, the warmth of her body wrapped in the memory of our last kiss, and the knowledge that—for now—this peace is ours. She’s below deck, skin still warm from mine, the scent of salt and sex lingering in the linens. Her moans still echo in my head, low and reverent, and I carry them like a prayer. For the first time in a very long time, I’m not waiting for the next mission. I’m just here—alive, sated, and with her.
I hear the soft creak of the cabin hatch and then the whisper of bare feet across the teak deck, a sound I’d recognize in any storm or silence. She’s wearing one of my shirts—too big, the fabric clinging to her curves in the warm sea breeze, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs. Her skin is kissed by moonlight, flushed from sleep and something more primal, and her hair is loose, a wild halo of dark waves catching the wind. She looks like temptation incarnate—freedom, firelight, and every fucking thing I’ve fought for wrapped into one devastating silhouette. She doesn’t speak at first. Just moves toward me like she belongs in the space between my heartbeat and my next breath—and God help me, she does.
She steps behind me, the heat of her body a slow burn against my back, and in that instant, something in me loosens. The ache I’ve carried for years—the icy edges honed by war, loss, betrayal—softens under her touch. It’s not just lust that coils low in my gut; it’s the weight of knowing she’s real, here, with me. Her presence settles into my bones, into the places the ghosts used to haunt, and I feel not just aroused—but anchored, whole, deeply and dangerously alive.
As her arms slide around my waist. Her cheek presses against my spine, and I can feel the curve of her smile, the soft brush of her breath through the fabric of my shirt. I cover her hands with mine, not just to anchor her—but to keep from coming undone. Her palms fit perfectly against me, warm and certain, and I lean into her, needing the press of her body, the weight of her affection like gravity. She doesn’t just ground me—she claims me, in that quiet, sensual way that unravels every defense I’ve ever built. And I let her.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmurs against my spine.
"Comes with the job," I say. But my voice is softer now. Calmer.
She walks around, slides onto the bench beside me, and leans her head against my shoulder. The sea stretches out in front of us, endless and unknowable, but for the first time, I’m not trying to read it. I’m just here, with her.
Her fingers slide under my shirt, trailing the faint scars along my ribs, mapping me like territory she already owns. I tilt my head and brush my lips across her temple, slow and deliberate, until she turns her face to mine and captures my mouth in a kiss that starts soft… and deepens with every breath.
She climbs into my lap with a slow, sultry grace that steals the breath from my lungs, straddling me, hips pressing into mine. Her mouth trails across my jaw, my throat, every touch a question she already knows the answer to. I curl one hand into her hair and the other onto the back of her thigh, gripping tight as I pull her closer.
"Promise me something," she whispers, voice a husky tremor against my skin. "When we’ve had enough of the shadows, we’ll sail off into the sunset. Just us. No missions. No enemies. No ghosts. Just peace."
I tip her chin up, look into her eyes, and say the only words that matter.
"That’s a promise I intend to keep."
We sit like that for a long time, her body pressed into mine, her warmth sinking through skin and bone until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. The boat rocks gently beneath us, a cradle of teak and sailcloth swaying in rhythm with the slow tide and our slower breaths. The sea doesn’t just hum—it breathes, a sensual whisper that curls around us like a silk sheet, cool and infinite. Her fingers trace lazy patterns over my chest, each touch an invocation, a reminder that I’m not just alive—I’m wanted. Desired. Loved. And for once, there are no shadows at our backs. No danger sharpening the edges of our silhouettes. Only stars above us. Only her sighs melting into mine. Only this: the stillness of her heart beside mine, and the quiet, aching promise that we’ve made it through the fire... together.
And I swear to whatever gods are still listening—I’ll keep that promise.
22
LOGAN
Monte Carlo is a liar.
All glitter, no gold. Every inch of this place sells the fantasy: high stakes, high society, high heels that click like gunfire on marble. But beneath the tuxedos and silk gowns, behind the champagne flutes and poker chips, this city hums with something darker. Secrets. Leverage. Blood money dressed in a tux. I’ve walked these halls too long to be fooled by the surface anymore.
Cerberus has eyes everywhere. Even here, in the gilded rot of the casino, Crown & Scepter, where the chandelier sparkles like a crown and every man thinks he’s king. And me? I’m the blade waiting just out of sight.
"Logan, the target’s moving," comes the voice in my ear.
I shake my head. I'm the second-in-command of Cerberus here in Monaco. Nick is off grid, sailing with Cherise in the Mediterranean, finally breathing clean air. But here in Monte Carlo, the ghosts never sleep. And tonight, I'm not just chasing betrayal—I'm following whispers that feel more like warnings. There's a signature in the static, a pulse in the shadows. A name I haven’t heard in years, embedded in a dead drop meant for no one, but me. Someone long thought buried. Someone with unfinished business. A ghost... with teeth. And this time, it's biting back.
Someone inside Cerberus intercepted a ripple across three black channels. A coded transmission, a signature embedded so deep in the data stream it took two hours and a sophisticated AI program to decrypt it. The signature matches someone who was supposed to be dead. Vivian.
At least that's what all reports—official and not-so-official—say. Could it be someone else? Someone worse? And if that file is right, then what we're dealing with isn't just betrayal. It's resurrection.
Not just of the woman long thought dead in Prague, but everything we buried with her. The truth. The lies. The blood on our hands. Whatever this is, whatever game someone is playing now, it started the night she vanished—and tonight, it begins again.
I adjust the cuff of my black suit jacket and pivot toward the baccarat table where a man in a thousand-dollar waistcoat is losing ten grand like it's pocket change. He's not my concern. But the brunette who just slipped into the booth behind him?
She is. For a moment my breath catches and I swear my heart stops. Vivian.
The name tastes like smoke and ash in my mouth. Vivian Black—former MI-6 asset, ghost operative, and the only woman who ever got under my skin without shedding a drop of blood. She was an expert in infiltration, seduction, and disinformation—deadly with a whisper and lethal with a lie. Officially, she’s dead. Unofficially? She’s sitting fifteen feet from me in a backless black dress, legs crossed like a queen and sipping scotch like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored to this reality.
Her presence doesn’t just stir memory—it ignites something deeper. My pulse hitches. My spine locks. That old injury she left behind—Prague, a bridge, a betrayal stitched with a kiss—starts aching like it never healed. She’s a phantom I thought we’d buried alongside Adam. But now she’s back, not just alive, but charged with intent. And the dossier in her purse? It doesn’t just have the power to burn those high up in the government and intelligence fields. It could fracture alliances across borders, pit agencies against their own, ignite the kind of war that doesn’t make headlines—just casualties.
Somehow, she’s at the center of it all again. Just like last time. Only this time, I’m not unarmed.
She shouldn’t be here, but she is. Alive. Dangerous. And looking straight at me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes—a smile that feels like a cipher, hiding something jagged beneath the surface. Her eyes scan the room behind me, as if tracking more than threats. A message, maybe. A warning. Or bait for a trap I haven’t seen yet.