Page 36 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

VIVIAN

L ogan’s Penthouse

Monte Carlo, Monaco

One Week Later

The Mediterranean stretches out like a vast sheet of molten gold in the early morning light, the rippling surface catching every spark of the rising sun.

From the wraparound balcony of Logan's penthouse, I watch the sun crawl up over the horizon, igniting the water and slowly burning away the last wisps of night haze until the sky blushes with color.

Behind me, Logan moves about in the kitchen with quiet efficiency—mugs clinking softly against the counter, the muted thud of his footsteps over the polished floor, and the soft hiss of the kettle curling steam into the air.

The rich scent of tea leaves begins to mingle with the faint brine of the sea drifting in from the balcony, a contrast that grounds me in this fragile moment of peace.

A week ago, the air between us crackled with the acrid tang of gunpowder and the metallic bite of blood. Today, it carries the warm steam of tea and the salt-sweet kiss of the Mediterranean, and somehow I can’t decide which edge cuts deeper.

“You’re brooding,” Logan says as he steps out onto the balcony, two mugs in his hand.

His hair is still damp from the shower, beads of water catching the sunlight along his temples, shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal just enough tanned skin to distract me, sleeves rolled up to his forearms in that infuriatingly casual way that somehow looks deliberate.

The man has no business looking that devastating in the daylight, and he knows it.

I take the mug he offers, my fingers brushing his in a slow, deliberate glide that sends a tiny shiver up my arm. “You didn’t want me to make the tea?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to feign innocence, though the corner of my mouth betrays a hint of a smile.

"I'm not drinking anything you hand me again," he murmurs with a wry half-smile, brushing a lingering kiss across my forehead before straightening.

"I'm not brooding. I'm thinking.”

“That’s your version of brooding,” he says, settling into the chair beside mine. “Want to tell me about it?”

I glance at him over the rim of my cup. “Just wondering how long we get before Iron Choir tries to kill us again.”

His mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it. “Long enough for me to memorize the way you breathe beside me, to know the exact weight of you tangled in the sheets, and to get used to waking up with you every morning.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. I should say something sharp, something witty, but instead I reach across the small table, fingers catching his wrist. “You almost didn’t get the chance.”

His eyes hold mine for a long moment, unreadable, before his free hand slides over mine. “And you almost didn’t get the chance to regret drugging me. Now that the world knows about Iron Choir, it’s going to be awhile before they can regroup—by then, Cerberus will have them shut down.”

I grin at his words, the warmth in my chest flaring, but it fades when the phone on the table next to us buzzes—a shrill reminder that our brief sanctuary is fragile. Logan’s gaze flicks to it, then back to me, the moment stretching between us before he reaches for it.

Fitz’s voice bursts across the balcony the second Logan clicks the speakerphone, sharper and more urgent than usual, every word carrying the grit of too little sleep and too much bad news.

“Good morning, lovebirds. Hope you enjoyed your holiday, because it’s over.

We’ve got movement, and I need all hands on deck—every damn one of you.

Even Nick and Cherise are coming in for this, which should tell you how serious it is. ”

Logan leans back, jaw tightening. “Define ‘movement.’”

“Klein,” Fitz fires back. “The bastard’s on the board. Marseille, for now. But if the intel’s right, he won’t stay there long.”

The name slams into me like a shard of ice driven deep between my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.

Klein—the name Adam gasped about before his last breath, the shadow behind so many moves we couldn’t see coming.

The one who shifted the Iron Choir’s pieces across the board while we were still bleeding into the snow, thinking the game was almost over when it has only just begun.

Logan’s eyes meet mine over the table, the silent weight of shared understanding settling between us. His gaze is steady, a silent promise and a question all at once. “When?” he asks, his voice low, already braced for whatever comes next.

“I need you here in two days,” Fitz says. “Pack light. And for God’s sake, this time try not to start without backup.”The line clicks dead.

I drain the rest of my tea, set the mug down with care, and push back from the table. “Guess our quiet morning’s over.”

Logan rises with me, closing the small distance between us, his presence radiating a steady heat against the cool morning breeze.

“Quiet’s overrated,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over my face as if memorizing it all over again.

“Besides, we’ve got a little time yet—time enough for us before we walk back into the fire. ”

"To do what, Mr. Radcliffe?" I ask, letting the words curl off my tongue in a slow, teasing drawl that wraps around his name like silk.

"Oh, there’s still the small matter of punishing you for drugging me and running off without backup," he says, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes and a faint lilt threading through his voice.

"That was a necessary evil, and I've apologized, many, many times, for that little bit of misbehavior." I smile as I stretch up on my toes to kiss him. Clearly trying to get out of whatever punishment he may have for me.

His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin cotton of my shirt, and I know there’s no part of me that will ever walk away from this—not the danger, not the man, not the fight, and definitely not the submission. that's where I've found peace.

His smile is slow, deliberate, and lethal. “Not enough, baby. Never enough.”

NOCTURNE

The villa perched above Monte Carlo sparkles with quiet opulence, all glass, marble, and the distant shimmer of city lights below.

The air carries the crisp bite of sea breeze and the faint citrus of something expensive left uncorked.

I don’t turn on the light. Shadows are safer.

They keep the truth blurred at the edges, keep me half-phantom.

The flash drive in my palm is warm in my grip, its weight far heavier than it should be. One sliver of data—names, coordinates, transactions—enough to pull the mask off the Iron Choir. Enough to make them bleed.

If I live long enough to use it.

I move to the window, peeking between the warped wooden slats.

Monaco’s lights glitter in the distance, all glamour and lies.

Somewhere out there, Cerberus is still piecing together the mess I left in the abandoned monastery in the Swiss Alps.

They’ll see the pattern, eventually. They’ll know the Iron Choir isn’t just moving product—they’re buying governments, silencing agencies, and using every assassin, operative, and ghost they can lay their claws on.

And someone inside their precious circle is already working for the Choir.

A low hum cuts through the quiet—a secure comm link coming online. The laptop on the table blinks awake, bathing the room in cold blue light. A single line of encrypted text scrolls across the screen:

You’re running out of time. Archer Hayes is coming for you. He won’t be alone.

My pulse doesn’t quicken. Not much, anyway. Archer. I know his reputation. Precision, patience, the man who can smile while he’s dismantling you piece by piece. He was at the monastery—too late to catch me, but close enough to smell the fire I lit on my way out. And he’s never missed his mark.

The irony makes me smile. Let him come.

I type back a single line: Tell him the game’s already in play.

The reply is instantaneous. You’re not in control here, Nocturne.

That's where they're wrong. I close the laptop, slide the flash drive into its hidden pocket, and drape a tailored jacket over my shoulders. My reflection in the gold-framed mirror above the marble console is nearly unrecognizable—hair darkened, cheekbones sharper, eyes colder than they used to be.

Control isn’t the point... survival is.

And if Archer thinks he’s hunting me, he hasn’t yet realized… the snare has already been baited, and he’s headed straight for it.

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He was sent to eliminate me. He may be my only way out.

They call me Nocturne, female assassin, traitor, ghost. But I’m also Interpol’s last shot at taking down the Iron Choir, a shadow empire poised to ignite global chaos. One child is the key to their endgame, and if I don’t save her, the world burns.

My mission was simple: protect the child and destroy the empire from within.

But then he shows up.

Archer Kingsley. Cerberus’s blade in the dark. He doesn’t miss. He doesn’t hesitate.

His mission is simple: kill Nocturne. Kill me.

He should have killed me the moment we crossed paths in the abandoned monastery in the Swiss Alps. Instead, he hesitated.

Now we’re stuck together in a deadly alliance, forced to trust each other as we dodge assassins, betrayals, and the sparks neither of us can control.

The closer we get to the truth, the more dangerous this game becomes.

And when the knife of betrayal slips too close, we’ll both have to decide: trust the mission, or each other.

One choice will save the world. The other could set it on fire.