Page 7 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

Fitz’s expression sharpens. “She used one of his tactics against you. Damn, I should have hired that girl a long time ago."

I roll my shoulders, shaking off the memory. "She baited me, and I took it." And that’s what this feels like now—a setup so clean I can’t see the trigger, but I know it’s there. “She used Wolfe’s move to teach me a lesson. Left me flat-footed, and I knew it the second I saw that shell casing."

Fitzwallace is still watching me like he’s deciding which part of me to weaponize. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile—just absorbs. Like he’s filing away my tells for later use.

“She’s dangerous,” I say flatly. “Brilliant, yes. But she doesn’t follow the rules. She doesn’t answer to anyone but herself.”

“She followed Wolfe,” he counters, without looking up.

My jaw clenches. “And look where that got us. Wolfe’s dead… so was she. Until today.”

That earns me a mischievous grin—a grinning Fitzwallace is a dangerous Fitzwallace. The bastard is enjoying himself. “So, what’s your recommendation, Logan? We ignore her?”

“We can’t. If the data she dropped came from the dossier, and I think it did, it might be the only active copy left. I think it's real. I think she's been holding onto it until she thought she could use it to her best advantage.”

“You have reservations.” He says it as a statement, not a question.

I nod. “Vivian’s unpredictable. She can be an asset, but also a liability.”

Fitz closes the folder with a soft thwap, then stands. “Then control her.”

The words hit like a trigger pull—sharp and unmistakable.

I step forward. “You think she’ll just take orders after all this time? You think she’ll fall in line?”

“No,” he says calmly. “But I think you're a good enough operative and a good enough Dom to make her do both. I think you’re the only one who’s ever gotten close enough to make her choose something other than herself.”

That lands harder than I care to admit, but it wasn't me she cared enough about. That was Wolfe, and now he's dead. What if controlling her burns her to the ground?

But Fitzwallace isn't wrong. I was in love with her once. Not just the way a man loves a woman. The way a Dominant falls—for someone who sees the truth under the command and still kneels. Except she never did. And maybe that’s why I never got over it.

Not the convenient kind—the raw, choking kind that never quite lets go.

And maybe that was my problem all along.

I thought I could compartmentalize it, keep the man separate from the mission.

But when it came to her, there were no clean lines—just blurred intentions and the echo of what could’ve been.

I thought I could bury it when she picked Wolfe.

Thought I could put duty before desire. But when I saw her sitting at the Crown & Scepter, eyes sharp and haunted, still wearing secrets like perfume—I knew damn well I never stopped wanting her.

It’s not just lust. It’s gravity. The kind that drags you under while convincing you you’re flying.

“You said it yourself,” Fitz says, his tone unreadable, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something just shy of a challenge. "She’s brilliant. Unpredictable. Wild. You can’t stop her,” he says slowly and deliberate. “But maybe you can collar her. Set the rules. Make her yours—on your terms.”

My pulse kicks. The words land somewhere behind my sternum, where control and temptation collide. There's heat under the surface—memories I’d rather forget, fantasies I never let myself fully unpack. I don’t flinch, but something in me tightens. Not fear. Not revulsion. Something darker.

He’s seen too many operatives fall in love with a ghost and call it loyalty. I wonder if he sees himself in the ruin I’m about to become.

I don’t answer right away. I’m thinking about her mouth, about the way she used to stare at nothing at all when she was calculating an outcome and pretending not to care. About the look she gave me at that table tonight—eyes sharp, but her mouth soft, like she was daring me to try to read her.

He’s not wrong. But he’s not completely right either. It’s not about domination. Not exactly. It’s about control—and the razor-thin edge between desire and duty. And I’m already bleeding on that blade.

“And if I can’t?”

“Then we bury her. Along with whatever truth she’s carrying.” He waves at the illuminated screen of data.

The words hang there, cold and final. I flinch—but just barely. It's not the threat that hits—it’s the ease with which it could be carried out. The practiced steel in his tone. As if she's not a woman, not a warning, but just another variable to eliminate at his will.

I don’t breathe for a second. Just feel the old heat rise under my collar, the one that says this isn’t just a war—it’s personal.

I stare at the screen again. Names. Blood.

Shadows. The blueprint of corruption we’ve all been swimming in for years.

Layers of it. Like sediment in a poisoned well—each deposit another buried deal, another body no one claimed.

I can feel it in my gut, the way old instincts twitch when the truth surfaces too cleanly.

Every name here means something. Every thread is a noose.

And she didn’t just hand us a bomb—she set the timer, chose the detonation point, and dared us to watch it tick down.

“Logan.” I turn. Fitz doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

It's at that moment, I make the decision I already know is going to ruin me. “I’ll...” I don’t finish the sentence. I just nod, jaw tight. The decision’s still there, coiled in my chest. But for now, it stays unsaid.

His eyes narrow. “You sure?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “But what other choice do I have?”

He nods once, the faintest motion, like a general sending a soldier to war with a silent salute. That’s all the approval I’ll ever get—and all I need. There’s no handshake, no final warning. Just that single, steel-threaded gesture that says: You’re in. Now don’t fuck it up.

I turn back to the screen, but my mind lingers on Fitzwallace’s expression—that fractional pause, the flicker of something darker in his gaze.

Approval, maybe. Or a warning. He knows what this means, what I’ve just committed to.

And he’s going to let me walk straight into the fire, because that’s what we do—we walk into flames and call it duty.

The screen glows in the low light. Names scroll like epitaphs—slow and unforgiving, each a whispered indictment in glowing text—each one a nail in the coffin of plausible deniability, each a loose end I might have to hunt or bury.

The glow isn’t just digital—it’s judgmental.

Watching. Accusing. And suddenly I feel it crawling up the back of my neck like static.

Like memory sharpening into obsession. Vivian’s dossier is still flickering in front of me, coded and deadly.

Just like her. And I know the next time we meet, it won’t be as a shadow and a threat.

It’ll be as a weapon and a fuse. I just have to figure out which one of us is which.

And when that fuse burns down, I’m not convinced either of us will be left standing.

If she thinks she’s the one writing the story, she’s about to find out who’s holding the pen. And this time, I’m not just doing the editing—I’m authoring the whole goddamn ending.