Page 17 of No Words
MOLLY
I watch Cole hunched over the communications equipment, his broad shoulders rigid with tension. His jaw is too tight, his breathing too controlled. He looks like he belongs in crises, which is probably why I want to believe him when he says we’ll survive this.
The first rays of dawn flood through the cabin’s reinforced windows, casting long shadows that seem to reach for us like fingers. This must be bad news.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice still rough with sleep.
He doesn’t turn, just motions me closer with one hand. I pad across the polished hardwood, wrapping the blanket around me. Despite the cabin’s state-of-the-art heating system, the chill of dawn seeps into my bare feet, a reminder that even luxury has its limits.
“FBI comms,” he says, voice flat and clinical. The same tone I have used in court when facts have to be colder than grief. “Someone found Agent Rivers in his car last night. Three bullets to the chest.”
The name hits me. Mike Rivers. We shared an office for two years. He has, or had, twins who just started kindergarten.
“Mike was...” My voice catches, my throat closing around his name. The taste of bile rises in my throat. ‘He was looking for me?”
Cole nods, finally turning to face me, his eyes deep with something beyond simple regret. “Alessio is systematically eliminating everyone associated with your case. It’s a message.”
I sink into the chair beside him, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. “How many others?”
“Three witnesses in protective custody. Two agents. One prosecutor who refused to take a bribe.” Cole’s voice remains steady, but his hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “The FBI officially listed you as missing, presumed dead.”
“What?” My voice sounds strange, distant. I hear myself speak but feel disconnected from the sound.
“Your credentials revoked. Apartment cleared out. Family notified of your death.” Cole keeps it brief, like he’s reading a report.
Each sentence lands like another nail in a coffin.
My coffin. The death of my former life, now official.
I see it all with painful clarity: my desk at the office, my small apartment with the balcony where I drank coffee every morning, my parents receiving the news with devastated faces.
The life I built was tidy on paper, credentials, case law, outcomes.
Nobody warns you how fast paperwork becomes a eulogy.
“There’s no going back, is there?” I whisper, already knowing the answer, tears brimming in my eyes.
Cole meets my gaze, unflinching. “No. Not to that life.” No sugar-coating, no platitudes, just truth.
A fault line fractures inside me, not breaking but shifting. Like a bone resetting after trauma. Painful, but necessary for healing.
“People are dying because of me.” My shoulders slump under the weight, and the tears start to fall. I press my palm against my sternum where the pressure builds, making it hard to breathe.
“No people are dying because of the Borsellini’s,” Cole corrects sharply. “Don’t confuse the two.”
I stand abruptly, pacing the small room, energy crackling through my limbs with nowhere to go. “I should turn myself in. Stop this bloodshed.”
Cole is on his feet in an instant, his hands gripping my shoulders. “And then what? You die, Alessio walks free, and every person he’s already killed dies for nothing.” His eyes bore into mine. “Is that what Mike would want?”
Mike, with his stupid dad jokes and pictures of his kids plastered all over his desk. The same Mike who took a bullet for a witness last year and still made his daughter’s dance recital the next day, arm in a sling and grinning through the pain.
“No,” I admit, the fight draining out of me. “He’d want justice.”
“Then we get justice,” Cole says, his voice softening just slightly. “But first, we keep you alive.”
I look up at him, really look at him, this man who’s risked everything to protect me, who operates in a world of shadows I’m only beginning to understand. The federal prosecutor I was a week ago would have built a case against him without hesitation. That woman feels like a stranger now.
The prosecutor who built cases on rules and evidence, seems na?ve now. Three months of working undercover to infiltrate the Borsellini family changed me. Meeting Cole, the government’s shadowy asset with no official existence, changed me more.
“I can’t go back,” I say slowly, the realization solidifying as I speak it aloud. “But I can go forward.”
Cole’s expression changes, a flicker of surprise quickly masked. He’s always two steps ahead, always in control. But not now. Not completely.
The weight of the dead settles on my shoulders. Mike. The witnesses. Everyone connected to me who ended up with bullets in them. My hands tremble with a mixture of grief and rage.
I step closer, eliminating the space between us. “I need to forget who I was,” I whisper, my hands finding the solid warmth of his chest. “Even if it’s just for today.”
His eyes darken, but he doesn’t move. “Molly?—”
“No more half-measures,” I interrupt. “If this is my life now, I want all of it. I want to understand your world. I want to understand you.”
He studies me for a long moment, searching my face. Whatever he sees there makes him nod once, decisively.
“Wait here,” he demands, voice dropping to that low register that sends heat spiraling through me.
He crosses to the bedroom and kneels beside the bed, pulling up a loose floorboard I hadn’t noticed before. From the hidden compartment, he extracts a black case.
“You just happened to have this?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
A shadow of a smile touches his lips. “I’m always prepared.”
The case opens to reveal things I’ve never seen outside of specialized evidence documentation. Restraints of various materials. A silk blindfold. Implements I can only guess the purpose of, all designed for a delicate balance of pleasure and pain.
“Last chance to back out,” Cole says in a neutral voice, giving nothing away.
Instead of answering, I release the blanket. It slides down my body and pools at my feet, leaving me naked before him. His pupils dilate, eyes tracking from my throat to my hips, heat flaring in their depths.
“I trust you,” I say simply.
Those three words seem to change everything between us. Not “I love you” or “I want you,” but “I trust you.” For a man like Cole, trust is the rarest currency, and I’ve just given him everything.
Cole positions me on my knees in the center of the room, the polished hardwood firm beneath me as he slides the silk blindfold over my eyes, plunging me into darkness.
“Arms behind your back,” he commands, his voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it.
I comply without hesitation, still kneeling on the hard floor, feeling the smooth leather cuffs encircle my wrists, connecting in the middle.
The restraints are tight enough to remind me of their presence with every movement, but not cruel.
A second set goes around my ankles, spreading my knees wider than is comfortable, leaving me feeling vulnerable.
“You look perfect like this,” Cole murmurs, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine. “Completely at my mercy.”
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cabin’s chill. His touch disappears, and I strain to hear his movements around the room. The anticipation is its own form of torture.
“Open,” he says, suddenly directly in front of me.
Before my brain processes the command, his thumb presses against the corner of my mouth. I part my lips instinctively, and he rewards me with a low, appreciative rumble that sends heat between my thighs.
“I’m going to use your mouth,” he states matter-of-factly. “And you’re going to take everything. Tap my leg three times if you need to stop.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. In my former life, I would never have allowed anyone this level of control. But here now, I crave it with an intensity that should frighten me.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back. ‘Yes, what?’
The question carries significance. He draws a line. Sets a threshold I can choose to cross.
“Yes, sir,” I respond, the words falling from my lips more naturally than I ever would have imagined.
The grip on my hair tightens in approval. “Good girl.”
Cole’s control is absolute as he guides his solid length between my lips, the warm, velvet-skinned hardness filling my mouth. He starts with shallow thrusts, allowing me to adjust to the invasion.
“Look at you taking my cock so perfectly,” he murmurs, his voice strained with restraint. “Such a good girl for me.”
His praise catches me off guard. I’m wet, aching, my body is betraying how much I need this control stripped away.
I hollow my cheeks, drawing him in deeply before pulling my head back, then swirling my tongue around his sensitive tip. He rewards with a deep groan that vibrates through his body.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his grip tightening in my hair. “Now take more.”
He holds my head in place, and his pace increases, each thrust slightly pushing deeper until he meets resistance at the back of my throat. I gag reflexively, struggling to accommodate him.
“Relax,” he commands, not withdrawing but holding still. “Swallow around me.”
I follow his instructions, fighting against my body’s natural resistance. When he pushes forward again, he slides deeper than before, triggering another gag that makes my eyes water.
“Perfect,” he growls. “Again.”
The pattern continues: push, resist, relax, surrender, as he systematically trains my throat to accept him.
My jaw aches from the stretch, my knees burn against the hard floor, but these physical discomforts fade beneath the overwhelming psychological surrender.
My world narrows to the task of pleasing him, of accepting more than I thought possible.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs as I struggle to accommodate him. “Relax your throat. That’s it.”