Page 8 of Avenging Jessie (Black Swan Division Thrillers #3)

Eight

Spence

The homey scents of vanilla and fresh bread clung to Spence’s clothes as he returned to the apartment. The fight with Jessie had left him on edge.

He stuck the waxy bag of pastries under an arm and balanced a coffee tray as he unlocked the apartment door. At least the safehouse was still clean. No one had come after them here.

Yet.

He used a foot to nudge the door shut behind him. From the back of the small apartment came the faint sound of the shower running.

He paused.

For a split second, the image of Jessie behind that thin bathroom door hit him hard—water cascading down toned curves, hair slicked back, eyes closed, lips parted. He swore under his breath and shook it off, zeroing in on the small kitchenette. Coffee. Food. Act normal.

In the cramped space, Spence lined the pastries on the chipped counter like he was setting out a peace offering. He tried not to imagine what Jessie would look like walking into this scene. What they might look like, sitting across from each other at the table. Sharing breakfast like it was normal.

Like they were normal.

The faucet in the kitchenette dripped once, twice. He yanked it tighter. One cupboard stuck open no matter how many times he slammed it shut. He stared at it for a long second, jaw tight, then turned away.

Every piece of him wanted to knock on the bathroom door. Not for anything reckless—just to hear her voice. Make sure she was still here. Still safe.

He knew she was, but… Too many things were pretending to be okay.

She wasn’t okay. He wasn’t, either.

Not when all he could think about was the woman in the next room, wrapped in steam, and what it would feel like to join her.

Don’t go there.

She was already too deep under his skin.

And damn, he wanted her to bury herself even deeper.

He took a seat at the small table. Checked the time. Got up and grabbed his laptop. It felt too weird, too rude, to eat without her, but he was restless, and if he couldn’t stuff his face, he needed a distraction that would keep his mind off her.

Returning to the table, he resumed his seat. The screen blinked to life. He scanned the feeds—drone chatter, darknet threads, a few flagged updates from Flynn. Lines of code rolled down it like rain, and Spence welcomed the familiar rhythm. Data calmed him. People, not so much.

But it was the notification in his burner inbox that made his pulse skip a beat.

Subject line: Re: Looking for V.

Sender: 609_station

The burner email wasn’t connected to the Agency. It was part of an underground network he’d built himself over the years to locate missing persons. It tracked girls who’d gone missing from foster care systems, shelters, hospitals—girls no one seemed to remember.

Spence’s hands hovered over the keyboard before opening the message. His heart did the thing it always did when he thought maybe—just maybe—this time…

The message was short. A series of letters and numbers: Vic609-bellcov-97firewatch.

Not a phone number. Not an address. Nothing immediately recognizable. It might be a coded file path. Or an old username. Or a place—Bellcov? Firewatch?

He conducted a quick search, but neither name yielded anything significant. He copied the message into a separate doc, encrypted it, and sent a flag to one of his offline drives. It would have to wait.

Just like it always did.

Because right now, his ‘missing’ person wasn’t a stranger from an online thread. She was the woman in the next room, with a bruised face and a heart she’d padlocked shut. A woman he could touch, but never reach.

The shower cut off. A second later, so did Spence’s ability to think clearly.

He shoved the burner account out of view and closed the laptop’s lid. The message would keep. For now.

Footsteps padded down the short hall. He grabbed his coffee and schooled his face like he hadn’t just been obsessing over encrypted ghosts from his past—or Jessie.

She appeared, her hair damp and messy, a loose T-shirt skimming her hips, black leggings clinging to curves that did nothing to help him remain professional. A towel hung around her neck, and she was barefoot, her injured ankle clearly still tender as she walked.

His chest constricted.

She looked…better. Still bruised, but awake, alert, alive. Which should’ve settled something inside him.

It didn’t.

“Smells like heaven in here,” she said, fluffing her hair with the towel.

He covered the hitch in his breath with a smirk. “I figured coffee and carbs might distract you from throwing more pottery at my head.”

Jessie let out a short laugh. “No promises.”

She slid into the chair across from him, and for a moment, it almost felt normal. Two agents on a break. Coffee. Pastries. Shared silence.

But the way she devoured the cheese Danish was anything but normal.

He tried not to stare, but her lips were pink from the heat of the shower, and her eyes still held shadows from the night before. She looked like something from one of his better dreams—and he didn’t have many of those.

His own croissant sat untouched.

“You’re not eating,” she said around a bite.

“I’m watching you annihilate a poor, defenseless pastry.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This poor, defenseless pastry is the only reason I haven’t strangled you yet.”

He bit back a smile, but the sharp ache behind it lingered. “What did I do this time?”

She heaved a heavy sigh, sipped her coffee. “Nothing. You’re being nice. Human. I just haven’t had…”

“Normal, human interactions much lately?”

She pointed a finger at him and nodded. “Bingo. Bitch is my default setting these days. I’ll… I’ll do better.”

The smile broke free. Something in his chest loosened. He picked up the croissant and enjoyed its buttery taste. So many things he wanted to say, but he knew this was a good moment to keep those comments to himself.

The silence between them thickened, charged, but not hostile.

Just…close.

She gave him a wry look, as if she knew it was killing him to hold back. To keep his mouth full of pastry so he didn’t insert his foot into it. A crumb stuck to her bottom lip, and he reached out without thinking—then stopped himself.

Bad idea.

He jerked his hand back, grabbed his coffee as if that had been his plan all along. “Flynn wants an update. We’ve got a call with him in less than an hour.”

Jessie wiped her mouth with the towel, then leaned back. “Figures. Can’t let us go rogue for more than six hours without reeling us back in.”

Spence offered a half-smile. “He’s just trying to keep you from assassinating a high-value target without backup.”

She shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

He chuckled. A beat passed. Then another.

Jessie took another bite, then set down the pastry and picked up her coffee again. She didn’t drink it right away. Instead, she let her gaze slide across the table—toward his closed laptop. “He’s probably got eyes on us anyway.” She paused, then added, “Not that I blame him.”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face, but it didn’t last. Her gaze lingered again—this time more deliberate. “I noticed something on your laptop last night.”

He stiffened. “Is that so?”

“Missing persons. Is there someone you’re searching for?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t for a long moment. “It’s a side project. I promise it won’t distract me from this mission.”

Jessie waited. Gave him a moment. When he said nothing, she continued, her voice gentler. “We all have those, don’t we? Side projects?”

Spence’s hand tightened around the last piece of croissant. The flaky bread turned to dust in his mouth. A long beat passed between them—tense, humming with the quiet knowledge that this was not just another offhand question.

He looked up and met her eyes.

She didn’t press, didn’t push. “You don’t have to tell me, but if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

That damn lump clogged in his throat again. He hated it. Hated how easily she could reach the parts of him he buried.

For a second, the words trembled on the edge of his tongue. But if he opened the vault—if he let Victoria’s name out into the room—it wouldn’t just be about his sister anymore.

It would be about his failure.

His past.

All the ways he’d let her down.

He shoved back his chair, the legs screeching against the floor. “I need more coffee,” he muttered, grabbing his cup and heading toward the counter. He’d have to brew a pot.

Jessie’s voice followed him, quiet and calm. “Thanks.”

He paused. Turned just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.

“For what?” he asked.

She joined him and began filling the carafe with water. “For taking care of me.”

The words made him pause. Jessie Mendoza didn’t say thank you for anything. She especially didn’t thank people for caring about her.

She didn’t allow people to care.

And still—she’d said it.

He stared at her long enough that she stopped what she was doing and stared back. “I didn’t…” he started. But his voice cracked.

He abandoned the coffee maker and sat down again, slowly. The chair creaked under his weight. Jessie finished pouring the water in and getting it started. Then she joined him at the table as the smell of ground coffee filled the air.

His hand dipped into his pocket.

The coin was warm from his body heat. He turned it over in his fingers once. Twice.

Then, he looked at her and told her something he’d never told anyone. Not even his adopted brothers, who knew all the dirt, all the ugliness about him. “I’m looking for my baby sister.”