Page 8 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

VIVIAN

O pus Noir is darker than I expected—not just in lighting, but in intent.

Velvet carpet and leather furniture soak up secrets, the air faintly perfumed with candle wax, polished wood, and a trace of expensive cigars that lingers like an afterthought.

The air itself feels charged, like it knows what’s coming.

Or maybe it’s just me—wired and on high-alert.

Something about tonight feels off. Not just suspense. An omen.

This scene—the club, the corridors, the tension in the air—belongs at the start of something tactical. Tradecraft sharpens in places like this. So let it start here.

The walls seem to hum tonight, as if they know what’s about to unfold.

I walk like I own the damn floor in four-inch heels and a silk blouse I hate but wear like armor.

I’m not here to beg. I’m here to remind them why I was always the one to watch.

I don’t bluff. I survive. I endure. If you back me into a corner, I don’t just push back—I bury you.

Tonight, I hold every card that matters.

That used to be enough. Confidence. Control.

A wicked smile and a faster lie. But Logan always saw through it.

And tonight, I’m not sure my armor will hold.

I’ve walked halls like this with blood on my heels and secrets in my pocket. But I’ve never walked into one where I might leave with nothing but truth.

If Fitz is pulling strings, there’s always another layer. And if Logan’s in the loop, then the file I sent has already started a conversation in rooms I’ll never see—ones that remember every digital footprint, even the ones I buried.

Fitz set the meeting. Which means it’s not a request. If I want my life back, then I damn well show up.

That alone shifts the stakes. I don’t know if he’ll be there or if this is some red herring ploy to bait me out.

But if Logan is involved, the equation changes.

That’s a complication I can’t afford tonight.

Not when I need clean extraction and zero emotional drag.

Save the history for after the job. Right now, I need to stay sharp. Focused. Ruthless.

I walk past the main lounge where submissives kneel in quiet worship at the feet of their chosen gods, where power shifts with a look and entire stories are told through demands.

Velvet and steel, obedience and control—this club wears them all like perfume.

And tonight, it wraps me in a shiver I can’t quite shake, and I don't have time to absorb.

A woman nods, guiding me down the corridor to the private rooms. Her eyes flick over me like a scan, lingering a beat too long—not in judgment, but in quiet appraisal.

No words. Just expectation. The corridor feels longer than it should, each step echoing with decisions I haven’t made yet.

I adjust the fall of my blouse, a reflexive move to settle my stance as if I’m walking into an op, not a reckoning.

Then we stop. Room Seven. The number brands itself in my mind—unfinished business, sharp edges, and history soaked in silence lie behind this door.

My hand hovers for a beat. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or memory that makes my fingers curl.

This door doesn’t just hold a meeting—it holds a reckoning I might not be ready for.

Logan always demanded the truth. And tonight, I don’t know if I can survive giving it.

As it clicks open. I half expect to see Fitz lounging inside with one of his damned predatory smiles, ready to pull strings from the dark.

But it’s not him. It’s candlelight, shadows.

.. and Logan. Just Logan. And yet, that changes everything.

Logan Radcliffe never just stands in a room.

He claims it. Commands it. Like he’s already counted the exits and chosen which ones I’ll beg for by the end.

He stands with his back to me at first watching the city below.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and a tumbler of something dark is in one hand.

When he turns, I nearly lose my breath. Not because he’s handsome.

That’s a given. It’s the restraint. The command.

The absolute stillness in his body that radiates ownership.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like—if he ever turned all that intensity on me.

If he stripped me bare without touching me, peeled back my layers with just a look.

Now I know. And God help me, I want more.

"You came," he says simply.

I lift my chin in defiance. "Did I have a choice?"

There’s a flash of teeth as the corners of his lips curl up. "You always have a choice. Just be sure the one you pick is one you can live with."

There’s a lilt to the way he says it, something too smooth to be casual.

Like he’s not just talking about choices—I hear the implication beneath it, the suggestion that maybe I’ve always had options, just haven’t had the courage to take the ones that would’ve led me to him.

The thought twists something low in my stomach, dangerous and intimate all at once.

"What is this, Logan? An interrogation with mood lighting?" I quip.

He crosses the space between us in three slow steps, stopping just close enough that I feel the heat of him, but not touching me.

"No," he murmurs. "Just another choice you need to make."

My breath catches. I don't let it show—not in my stance, not in my voice. My heart’s racing, a nervous flutter I refuse to name, but my chin stays high. He thinks he has me cornered. Maybe he does. But I won’t let him see it.

"Is Cerberus going to help me or not?" I ask, keeping my tone cool. "Or is this just about you getting off on some power trip?"

"Fitz has agreed to help you," he says, his voice a quiet strike in the dim room, "but only if I’m the one running the op."

I catalogue the room automatically—exits, sightlines, placing the single candle that would blind a camera for exactly three seconds if I tipped it over. Even here, part of me is still planning a way out, and knowing there isn’t one. At least not one that will allow me to reclaim my life.

He sips his whiskey, eyes locked on mine over the rim of the glass. The heat in his gaze isn’t just about dominance—it’s a warning. A promise. And somewhere beneath it, a challenge: are you ready to pay the price for asking Cerberus to back you? Are you ready to pay it to me?

"What do you mean by running the op?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend, trying to mask the sudden flicker of nerves twisting in my gut. This could go wrong for me in a million ways.

I’ve played every angle, survived every betrayal in my mind—but reality feels a whole lot different.

The way he watches me, the quiet certainty in his tone.

It rattles something inside I didn’t expect.

Still, I don’t flinch. I square my shoulders.

"I have the dossier. I’m willing to give it up—all of it.

Everything. In exchange for my life back.

So, tell me, Logan—what exactly are your terms?

Because I'm done playing polite. You want leverage? I am the leverage. But if you think you’re the only one who can twist the knife, think again. "

"You gave Wolfe the parts of you that you could afford to lose," he continues, voice low, rough. "You played his game, but on your terms. The charm. The lies. The seduction. But a part of me always believed you chose Wolfe not because it was him you really wanted, but because he was easier. With me, you knew I wouldn’t accept half measures. You knew I’d want it all. "

He’s not wrong. I kept Wolfe at arm’s length—smiling, seducing, but never surrendering. I thought I could control Wolfe, but I don’t know that it was true. As for Logan? He was always the one who made me want to set fire to the armor and step into the blaze.

“And you think that makes you different?"

"I don’t think." He leans in, voice curling around the edges of my composure like a silk noose.

"I know. Cerberus protocol is for operatives to be tested routinely for any nasty bugs we might pick up, including STDs. I’m clean.

You?" The words settle deep, a double strike—both a conviction and a dare.

A truth spoken not for argument, but for surrender.

And it lands harder than I want to admit.

“Same.”

The air between us crackles.

"Take off your blouse." He demands. The words aren’t barked. They don’t have to be.

They slide under my skin like silk laced with steel.

And that’s what terrifies me most—that I want to obey, not because I should, but because it feels inevitable.

Like I’ve been waiting to surrender to this command from this man my entire life.

My heart knocks hard against my ribs. The words hit me like a slap—sharp, shocking, and impossible to misinterpret.

For a second, I can’t even breathe. My pulse spikes, ears ring, brain scrambles to catch up with what I just heard.

Surely, I misheard him. Surely he didn’t just say that.

My mouth goes dry. “Excuse me?” The words come out brittle, not sharp like I intended, more defense than defiance, wrapped in disbelief.

Because there’s no way Logan Radcliffe just looked me dead in the eye and gave that kind of order. .. is there?

"You came here expecting to control the night. Expecting to decide how this goes. You don't get that tonight. You want trust? Then give it. Take off your blouse."

It shouldn’t feel like danger. But it does. Not because he’ll hurt me—but because I might not want to stop him. I should say no. I should turn around, walk out, and burn this place to the ground, but instead, I unbutton the silk. Slowly. His eyes never leave mine, and my hands do his bidding.