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MOLLY

Day five in this isolated cabin, and I’m still alive. Although the Borsellini family wants to change that.

Cole sits at the kitchen table, surrounded by documents.

He catalogues risk like other people make grocery lists.

It should put distance between us; instead it makes me feel safe.

His focus is absolute, fingers sorting through papers.

He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know he’s aware of my presence.

“What’s all this?” I ask, pouring coffee from the pot he’s already made.

“Your future.” He holds up a printout. “Intercepted this an hour ago. They’re looking for a brunette federal prosecutor, 5’4, late twenties.” He sets down a box of hair dye beside the identity documents. “Time to become someone else.”

I stare at the box of hair dye, dark brown, almost black.Identity stripped down to something you can buy in aisle six. I used to prosecute men for this kind of erasure.

“You want to dye my hair?”

“It’s not what I want,” Cole says. “It’s what we need to do.”

He slides a document toward me. It’s an FBI communication about two witnesses from my case. Police found both witnesses dead in their homes yesterday.

“Under federal protection?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Cole says. “Alessio has people inside. Three safe houses compromised in the last week. He’s getting desperate. He’s put out ‘find and detain’ orders to every corrupt official on their payroll.”

I set my mug down carefully, afraid my shaking hands might spill it. “And there are a lot of them?” My legal mind automatically calculates the implications. If three safe houses have been compromised, that requires multiple sources, coordination, maybe even someone at the director level.

“More than you realized.” He spreads out several identity documents, passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards. “Standard witness protection won’t work against their connections.”

The documents bear my photograph but different names. Different lives. I pick one up, feeling its weight, surprisingly heavy for something so thin.

“Isabella Gallo,” I read aloud. “Art dealer from Chicago.”

“Your most developed cover.” Cole stands, moving behind me. “You need to prepare for the possibility that Molly Morrone may never surface again.”

“I’ve spent my life upholding the law,” I whisper, “and now I’m about to become someone who exists outside of it.”

Cole’s hands rest on my shoulders, unexpectedly gentle.

“Documents are just paper. Your body tells the actual story.” He shifts his posture, relaxing his shoulders. “You walk like you’re ready to cross-examine hostile witnesses. Isabella would move differently. Softer. Always looking for something beautiful to buy.”

His hands slide down my arms, adjusting my posture. “You stand like a prosecutor, spine straight, shoulders squared, ready to face a jury.” He presses lightly at the small of my back. “Isabella is fluid, artistic. She moves with confidence but not rigidity.”

Cole steps back, studying me. “The posture is good, but we need more than body language.” He moves to the counter where the hair dye sits waiting. “Twenty minutes to process. Perfect timing for the next lesson.”

“You really know how to do this?” I ask as he positions a chair in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I’ve changed appearances before.” His fingers test my hair length as he works the dye through my strands. “Ready to let the prosecutor go?”

I meet his eyes in the mirror. “She wouldn’t survive what’s coming.”

“No,” he agrees, massaging the color through my hair. “But you will.”

A week ago, I would never have imagined sitting in a remote cabin while a dangerous man dyes my hair. He guides me back to the living room, his hands still damp from washing them.

“While we wait, let’s work on who you’re becoming.”

I try to adjust, hyperaware of how my body betrays my training. Cole continues the lesson, demonstrating subtle changes in body language. His touch lingers longer with each correction. His breathing deepens. The lesson becomes something else entirely as his hands frame my waist.

“The first rule of assuming a new identity,” he says, his breath warm against my ear, “is understanding who you truly are beneath all the layers. What you want. What you fear.”

I turn to face him, our bodies inches apart. “And how do I do that?”

His timer goes off in the bathroom. “Time to rinse,” he says, stepping back with obvious reluctance.

Twenty minutes later, Cole rinses the dark dye from my hair. The water runs brown, washing away the last traces of who I used to be. The woman in the mirror has darker hair, which makes my eyes look more intense. Different. Dangerous.

Something darkens in his eyes. “There’s another aspect to identity, control and surrender.” He walks to a cabinet I’ve never seen him open before, unlocking it with a key from his pocket. “When you give up control, you can become someone new, someone free from the constraints of who you were.”

From the cabinet, he removes a black leather case. My pulse quickens as he sets it on the table and opens it. Inside lies an array of items I’ve only seen in movies or late-night internet searches I’d never admit to: blindfolds, restraints, objects whose purpose I can only guess.

“What is this?” I ask, though I know exactly what it is.

“Training,” Cole says simply, “but of a different kind. The prosecutor who entered this cabin five days ago is ruled by control. Always calculating, always three steps ahead.” His finger traces the edge of a silk blindfold. “That woman will get caught because she can’t adapt. Can’t surrender.”

I should take offense. Should remind him I’m a federal prosecutor being hunted by killers, not someone looking for sexual experimentation. Instead, I hear myself ask, “And this helps how?”

“Identity is performance. Performance requires vulnerability.” He lifts the blindfold. “Do you trust me, Molly?”

Five days ago, I didn’t know this man existed. Now, he’s the only thing standing between me and death. But this request goes beyond protection.

“Yes,” I say, surprised by my certainty.

“We need to talk about limits first,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “The safe word is ‘courtroom’. Use it, and everything stops immediately. But I also need to know what you absolutely don’t want.”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

“Then we start slow and build. If something feels wrong, you tell me. Your body, your boundaries, your choice.”

“And if I use it?” I ask.

“Everything stops immediately. No questions, no negotiation. We check in, make sure you’re okay.” His expression grows serious. “This only works if you trust that I’ll stop when you need me to.”

He steps behind me, the silk of the blindfold cool against my face as darkness envelops my world.

The soft material caresses my skin, blocking out the cabin’s dim lighting and leaving me in a sea of blackness.

My other senses immediately heighten, the crackle of the fireplace, the scent of pine and leather, the sound of Cole’s steady breathing behind me.

His register lowers, taking on a quality I haven’t heard before, commanding and certain.

“Hands above your head.”

I comply, feeling exposed even though I’m fully clothed. He guides my hands to an exposed ceiling beam. Something soft but unyielding wraps around my wrists, not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough that I can’t easily free myself.

“Control is your safety net,” Cole shifts from instructor to predator as he circles me like prey. “I’m going to teach you to fly without it.”

I feel him moving around me, the rustle of clothing suggesting he’s removing his shirt. His hand brushes my cheek, and I intuitively turn towards his touch.

“Good,” he praises. “Following instinct rather than calculation.”

His fingertips trail down my neck to the buttons of my borrowed flannel shirt. One by one, he undoes them with deliberate slowness. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, or perhaps it’s anticipation. He doesn’t remove the shirt, just lets it hang open.

“Your body is honest even when your mind resists,” he observes as his fingertips trace my collarbone. “The prosecutor hides behind suits and formality. What does Molly hide behind?”

“I don’t—“ I begin.

“Don’t lie,” he interrupts, a hardness entering his tone. “Not to me. Not here.”

The reprimand sends an unexpected thrill through me. I swallow hard. “Control. I hide behind control.”

“Better.” His reward is a caress down my sternum, stopping just above my breasts. “And what happens when you lose that control?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper truthfully.

“We’re going to find out.”

His touch vanishes. I strain to hear where he is, what he’s doing. The anticipation is maddening. Then something warm drizzles onto my stomach, scented oil, heated to just above body temperature. I gasp at the sensation.

“Every nerve ending is enhanced when you can’t see,” Cole explains, his hands spreading the oil across my abdomen in slow circles. “When you surrender one sense, the others compensate.”

His hands are strong, confident as they work the oil into my skin. He avoids my breasts at first, building anticipation. When he finally cups them, the slick glide of his palms against my nipples pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside me.

“Listen to your body,” he instructs. “Not your thoughts.”

Something soft trails up my inner thigh, silk, I realize, probably the tie from the case. The contrast between his firm touch and the feather-light drag of fabric creates conflicting sensations that leave me gasping.

“Please,” I hear myself say, though I’m not sure what I’m asking for.

“Please what?” His voice is close to my ear, his body radiating heat near mine without touching.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“You do.” His hand slides down my stomach, beneath the waistband of my sweatpants. “You just need permission to say it.”