Page 19 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Arrow

Juno walks into the loft like she owns the place—which, in a way, she does.

The room changes shape around her; screens feel brighter, cables fall into line.

It’s the same space as it’s always been—ink-and-metal air, router lights pulsing like fireflies—but her energy is…

different. Calmer, but sharpened. Cat-slow, not jittery.

There’s a new current under her movements that I can’t read.

I log it and pretend not to. We’ve both had no sleep, and I chalk it up to an adrenaline hangover from the Delphine.

“Morning, Ghost,” she says, and there’s a playful shade in Ghost that prickles the back of my neck. She drops her bag on the desk, slides into the chair beside mine. “Ready to make some billionaires cry?”

I settle back in my chair, her knee brushing mine, and say, “Let’s do it.”

Her mouth tips like she’s hiding a secret. “Thought you’d say that.”

We get to work. I throw Valentino and Gray on the left monitor—stills Render ripped from rooftop footage, time stamps burned in the corners.

On the center screen, I’ve spelled out a clean timeline: five equal crypto payouts on Arby’s death night.

Shell accounts tied to Gracewood’s side ventures.

The new formula launch meant to wash the brand.

On the right, Ozzy’s scrape of Valentino’s public calendar: 7:30 a.m. Marina Club – Breakfast with Gray and a noon block labeled Gracewood – Compliance Prep .

“Breakfast meeting in two hours,” I say. “Marina Club does private rooms. If we can plant ears in the ceiling grid…”

“Or we sit at the next table and pretend to be a couple breaking up quietly,” she says, too fast, eyes flicking to the mask and away. “I mean, if you’d take the mask off.”

I shake my head. “We’ll scout. No contact.”

We slide into a rhythm. She scans sponsorship contracts for breach language, and I drill into HOLO-BURST’s vendor map and find three LLCs with the same Wyoming address. Every once in a while I spot her studying me, and I chalk it up to the way we left things unsaid between us.

I mean, I got her off, and then it’s like we’re right back to business. Should I bring it up? No, I don’t think I should.

On mute, my phone buzzes with team texts.

Ozzy: Knight’s Surge Reserve is basically sugar jet fuel. Also my tongue is blue.

Knight: Rooftop bartender says Valentino stiffed tip. Classic.

Render: I’ve got a line on Gracewood’s travel desk. Gray loves a 6 a.m. tee time; Pilates on Thursdays. Human, not monster.

Gage drops two more stills of Valentino—one with a phone to his ear, one mid-laugh that makes my fists ache.

Juno leans back, head tipped against the chair, watching me type. “How many people are in your little ghost army? Or are there more I haven’t met yet?” she asks, light, like she’s asking how many playlists I’ve made for coding.

“You’ve met all of them,” I say.

“How much do they know?” Her tone is careful. “About me. About this.”

“They know what they need to know,” I answer. I’m lying through my teeth. Juno knows my friends. Very well.

She considers me for a long beat, eyes dark. “You always this…controlled?”

“Only when chaos stands in front of me,” I say, and watch heat bloom along her cheekbones.

Silence pools. She twists a pen between her fingers, then sets it down and shifts her chair closer, knees touching mine fully now. The mask turns the world into tunnel vision. All I see is her mouth.

“Hoover,” she says, barely above a whisper, “touch me.”

Every nerve in my body draws taut.

She doesn’t look away. “Kiss me. Anything. I’m done pretending I’m not…here.”

I should say no. I should remind her we’re working, that lines exist for reasons, that masks protect because they hide.

Instead I reach—slow, sure—and take her face in my hands.

Latex squeaks against her skin. Her lashes flutter; her breath stutters once.

I tilt the mask, angle it so the lower rim grazes her cheek and the edge of her mouth, a hushed drag of cold rubber over warm skin.

My thumb finds the spot beneath her ear, presses gently; she shivers like I flipped a switch.

“Closer,” she breathes.

I slide a gloved hand down her throat, feel her pulse hammer against my thumb, then lower, finding the notch of her collarbone.

She tips her chin, exposing the line of her neck, trusting and wild.

I press the mask’s useless mouth to the corner of her lips—a phantom kiss—and she makes a sound that unspools me.

“Take it off,” she whispers, eyes blown. “Just for a second.”

It’s like there’s a knife between my ribs. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” No accusation… just curiosity. But her fingers are on the edge of the hood now, testing. “I want to see you.”

I catch her wrist, gentle but unyielding. “Not yet.”

A flicker crosses her face—disappointment, then that new, feline calm. She inhales, gathers herself, nods. “Okay,” she says, and the word is velvet over steel. “Then kiss me like this.”

I do. Mask angled, thumb on her jaw, the barest press of rubber and heat and breath until we’re both shaking with what we’re not doing. When I pull back, it’s an act of mercy and self-preservation in equal measure. She swallows, licks her lower lip like she’s trying to keep the feeling.

I tug her onto my lap, wanting to watch her get off again. I keep both hands planted on her hips, and grind her against my hardening cock. “Keep your head down, and ride me through my jeans. Make yourself come for me. I want to watch you get off.”

“Ahh,” she moans as she thrusts herself against me.

I hate all the clothing between us, but this isn’t about that right now. This is about making her forget. About making her happy. And, I’m being a bit selfish… I like getting her to come.

She rides my lap, her hands sitting atop my shoulders. She closes her eyes, leans her head back, her black hair tumbling down her back in waves.

I imagine fucking her like this. Her riding my cock as she comes all over it. Fuck, I need to get inside her. “Use me,” I tell her. “Ride me.”

She speeds up, her hips bucking as she rides me. Sure, I’d love to be doing this for real. No clothing. My cock in her cunt, but I’ll take what I can get. For now.

She rocks against me, and then her hold on me tightens. She wraps her arms around my neck, her mouth close to my ear. “I’m coming,” she whispers a second before her orgasm slams completely through her.

I watch as she rides out the last tremors of her release, and relish that I’m the man making her feel this way.

Even though she doesn’t know it’s me. That thought deflates me, and as her breathing returns to normal, I watch her, wishing I could tell her who I really am.

What would she think? I picture her slapping me. Good thing she doesn’t know.

Her aftershocks of her orgasm diminish and she smiles up at me, lifting off my lap. “We should go ruin breakfast,” she says, voice husky.

I make myself breathe. “We should.”

She lingers a second, searching the blank eyes of Ghostface like the answer is hiding behind them.

Then she pivots to the monitors again, all business.

The whiplash is dizzying, but the control is intoxicating.

Something is up with her and I don’t know if it’s that she’s finally surrendered to this strange gravity between us—or that she’s holding some card I can’t see.

I bank the question. We don’t have time to peel back layers.

I pull up the Marina Club’s floor plan and mark likely rooms. “We can ghost a reservation. Front desk will think she’s seating you for a client pitch.” I hand Juno a tiny bone-conduction earpiece. “Tap once to transmit, twice to mute. If I say out , you stand and walk—don’t argue.”

She tucks the earpiece behind her ear, fingers brushing my gloved knuckles like it’s an accident and absolutely not. “Your friends,” she says casually, “are you sure they’re cool with this?”

“Absolutely.” I holster the laptop, making sure my mask is set in place. Before we go, she catches my sleeve.

“Last question,” she says. “How much will you tell them about this next step?”

“Enough to keep you alive,” I say, and that’s the only answer I trust.

She studies me, like she’s comparing my voice to something she’s heard somewhere else. For a beat I think she’ll push. Instead she rises on her toes and presses a quick, fierce kiss to the blank white mouth of Ghostface.

“Let’s go, Ghost,” she murmurs. “We’ve got men in suits to haunt.”

We tail breakfast from a block away, making ourselves invisible with posture and silence.

Render gets her seated in the Marina Club’s annex behind a silk screen.

Render floats outside with a telephoto, making sure he never gets seen by Juno.

Ozzy and I hide in the HVAC air ducts. It’s hot and stuffy, but we make do so nobody sees us in our ridiculous masks.

Knight, in the Hayes mask, positions himself in a service corridor between pantry and private rooms. We can’t see Valentino and Gray, but our mics in the HVAC carry their words like confessed sins.

“ …bundle the transfers… Q2 runway… creators who won’t comply… ”

Juno’s breath hitches at the word creators . I tense, and tell her to breathe. She does.

When Gray mentions “the cemetery mess” and Valentino replies, “Not ours, not my problem,” I feel Juno exhale and I press down.

She exhales, long and controlled. She is changing in front of me—still fire, but banked and aimed.

I don’t know if I’m watching her harden or finally learn how to carry the heat.

After, in the alley behind the club, we debrief in low voices while the team filters updates across comms. Gage snagged a copy of the receipt—Gray’s membership ID, Valentino’s last name and an email domain we haven’t seen.

Render got faces. Knight picked up chatter about a “compliance packet” going to a third party on Monday.

“Third party,” Juno repeats. “Who?”

“Gracewood legal or a fixer,” I say. “Either way, a weak seam. We pull there.”

She steps close—public street, private electricity—and for a second I think she’s going to kiss the mask again in broad daylight. Instead she reaches up, thumb grazing the edge of the hood, and smiles a smile that is both invitation and dare.

“Tonight,” she says. “Same time.”

I nod. “Tonight.”

She turns to go, then glances back over her shoulder. “Tell Polk and Hayes they did good.”

“Will do.”

“And, Ghost?” Her eyes spark. “Don’t be late.”

She leaves in a drift of leather and resolve. I stand there a beat longer, the mask suddenly too warm, the air too thin. Something is up with Juno. I can feel it like the weather rolling in. Either she’s closer than ever to letting me in…or closer than ever to pulling my mask clean off.

I head for the car and tell myself I’ll be ready for either.

Because there’s one thing I know to my bones: whether she’s cutting me open or letting me in, I’ll take it. I’ll take the truth like a blade and make sure the men who say funeral choke on it.

And if she asks me to touch her again, to kiss her, to be the wall the world can’t break, I’ll be there—mask on, mask off, whatever keeps her breathing.