Page 23 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

VIVIAN

T he Corsican villa is a sun-drenched slice of old money and new secrets.

All carved stone, wisteria-dripped terraces, and security so discreet it might as well be invisible.

But I feel it—the eyes. The pressure. The weight of unseen surveillance tucked behind antique mirrors and ornamental lion heads.

Deep within the villa, a grandfather clock marks the seconds with a hollow, deliberate tick.

It’s too steady to be comfort—it’s a countdown.

Fitz sent us here to meet a man rumored to hold the thread that might unravel Wolfe’s location—if he’s still breathing, if our instincts haven’t led us in circles, if this isn’t just another mirage in a desert of ghosts.

The intel he offers could help crack the encryption buried in the remaining fragments of the dossier I still carry.

Maybe it points to Wolfe. Maybe someone else buried so deep in this conspiracy we haven’t even named them yet.

The only thing I know with any certainty is that I’m ready for this to end.

For the lies, the running, the ghosts trailing every step—I want it done.

I want my life back. I know it won’t look like it did before Prague.

Honestly? I don’t want that life. That version of me lived in half-truths and shadows, trusting people who didn’t deserve it and doubting the ones who did.

I’ve bled for my second chance. And I won’t go backward.

Not for anyone. My nails press into my palm through the silk clutch. The bite of it steadies me.

I wear the dress Logan picked. Black. Fitted.

Silk. It molds to every curve, dipping low in the back with a high slit, just slutty enough to pass as arm candy for the dangerous man at my side.

Logan hasn’t spoken since we crossed the villa’s threshold.

His jaw’s locked, expression granite. But his hand is firm at the small of my back—possessive.

Intentional. We’re here as predator and property.

Two cameras—one disguised as a smoke detector, another behind a gilt sconce—sweep the foyer in lazy arcs.

I keep my gaze soft, but I clock both. Make no mistake, I am not his, or anyone else’s, prey.

I've spent years mastering silence that screams and smiles that kill. It costs more than it looks. But here, in this den of elegant predators, my survival depends on how well I can make the act look effortless.

Our host—Sir Alistair Keene, former MI-6 Deputy Director who’d retired long-before Operation Persephone—is a silver-haired viper in a white linen suit.

He kisses my hand with the polish of a man who’s traded in lives and futures and called it a business.

His accent carries the crisp authority of old Oxford, smoothed by decades of influence.

"Logan," he purrs, shaking Logan’s hand. "And your exquisite guest?"

Logan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

His glance at me is subtle but loaded, a flicker of power and possession that plays perfectly into the roles we’re here to inhabit.

I respond with a sweet, muted smile, tilting my chin in the practiced gesture of submission that looks effortless but costs more than anyone in this room could guess.

Alistair doesn’t know who I am—just another accessory on the arm of a dangerous man.

But I know exactly who he is. And that’s the advantage I carry like a blade beneath silk.

“She doesn’t speak unless I permit it,” Logan says, his tone flat but lined with something darker—something meant to land like a collar around my throat.

It works. The room stills. Eyes shift toward me, gauging my reaction.

I lower my gaze as trained, but inside I brace.

Every syllable is a weapon, every pause a test. And Logan?

He delivers the line like it’s not just a role—but a truth he’s daring them to question.

Heat licks the back of my neck. It’s not shame—it’s the deliberate burn of being marked as his in front of predators.

Alistair arches an eyebrow, his lips curling with amusement.

"Ah. One of those arrangements." He doesn’t look disgusted or surprised—instead, he looks intrigued. Pleased, even. Like we’ve confirmed something he hoped was true.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, as if reappraising my worth now that he’s slotted me into a familiar, palatable box.

It almost makes my skin crawl, but I don’t flinch.

I just breathe through it. Let him see what he expects to see, not the weapon that I am.

"The only kind that works," Logan replies.

My stomach knots, but my face stays smooth—serene, even.

This role? It’s armor forged in necessity and pain.

I’ve worn far worse masks in far darker rooms. But this one.

.. this one fits too well, and that unnerves me more than I’ll ever admit.

I don’t have the luxury of unpacking what that means—not here, not now.

So I let the stillness settle over me, let the illusion become truth, and wear it like a second skin.

Alistair leads us through the villa with the casual arrogance of a man who thinks he can’t bleed. Logan keeps close, his fingers grazing my waist as we enter the salon. Crystal decanters. Velvet settees. A tray of amuse-bouches too pretty to eat. Everything screams curated excess.

There are others here—three men, two women.

All beautiful. All watching. Some smile with curiosity.

Others with hunger. A man near the drinks cart rests his hand too casually on the curve of his jacket, where the faint bulge of a shoulder rig distorts the linen.

But one man, sitting near the fireplace, wears a look I recognize.

Detached. Clinical. As if he’s categorizing us like assets.

I've seen it in the mirror—watching potential assets. It's part of the job.

Logan takes a seat on the edge of a chaise and pulls me into his lap. Not beside him—on him. One strong arm wraps around my waist like a leash. His mouth brushes my ear. "Stay soft. Breathe."

I do. Barely.

Alistair pours something amber into delicate crystal. Offers it to Logan, who takes it without blinking, but I'm offered nothing. I'm just a pawn to him. "To mutually beneficial alliances," Alistair toasts.

"To clean exits," Logan replies.

Laughter ripples through the room. I lower my eyes playing the obedient pet. But my pulse hammers. I track every movement—who glances where, whose hand strays too close to a concealed holster. It’s a dance. Power disguised as leisure. And Logan? He plays his part too well; it's almost unnerving.

When Alistair asks about our travels, Logan strokes my thigh in lazy circles and lies like a man born to it. "Geneva. Naples. Monaco before that. We don’t stay in one place long. She prefers discretion."

"Of course," Alistair says, stepping closer, his smile too smooth. "Such beauty is a rare currency. Best not to devalue it with overexposure."

His hand rises, slowly and deliberately; the backs of his fingers brushing against my cheek.

It’s a caress meant to degrade, to assert power under the guise of flattery.

My skin crawls. Every instinct screams to break the offending fingers, to grind bone against bone until something snaps.

But I don’t. The scent of his cologne—leather and bitter orange—wraps around me like a trap I refuse to spring. I hold still. I smile. I play the role.

I don’t flinch, but it takes everything I have. I catalog the pressure points in his hand, the angles of his wrist—quiet calculations tucked beneath the illusion of stillness. I can break him in three seconds. But not yet.

Logan’s arm tightens like a vice around my waist. Not theatrically. Not gently. Possessively. His jaw ticks. He doesn’t speak, but his grip speaks volumes—and Alistair notices. The bastard looks pleased.

I smile, all dimples and silence. But inside, I’m cataloging every word, cataloging faces, exits, threat levels. I’ve got it all under control—until I see him. Or rather, the ghost of him.

Across the room, in the hallway just beyond the archway, a man slips past. It’s only a glimpse—a flicker of dark hair, broad shoulders, a profile blurred by motion and distance. But it’s enough to freeze the air in my lungs. Because on his right hand—a ring.

Silver. Ornate. Engraved with the same symbol Wolfe wore—the same crest burned into memory with unforgiving precision.

I recognize it instantly. The one I traced with my fingers years ago, pressed against his chest while he swore loyalty and lies in the same breath.

The same ring I saw flashing on the hand of an attacker at Villa Tenebrae.

My breath catches—sharp, involuntary, a jolt beneath my ribs. Not enough to draw attention. But enough to crack something inside me. Just for a second. Just enough.

Logan’s fingers tighten on my hip. His breath shifts against my temple, sharp and shallow. I feel the subtle change in his grip—not pain, not warning. Just presence. He doesn’t speak, but his entire body angles toward mine like a shield. He felt the tremor. He knows something's wrong.

It's not just a warning this time—but an anchor, a tether to the now as my thoughts careen into memory and fear. A silent question thrums beneath his grip, but I don’t move.

Don’t speak. My breath is caught in my throat, brittle and thin.

My heel shifts against the parquet, searching for balance that isn’t there.

It couldn’t be Wolfe. Not here. Not now.

He’s dead. I buried him—in thought, in grief, in anger.

And yet—some primal part of me reacts like it knows better.

Like it never truly believed he was gone.

The ring we saw was too real. That stride too familiar.