Page 19 of No Words

COLE

The phone vibrates against my thigh. Killian’s signal, time’s up. I slip away from Molly’s warmth and pad to the kitchen, keeping my footsteps silent. She needs whatever sleep she can get. After tonight, there won’t be much chance for rest.

“Bennett,” I keep my voice low.

“We’re here. Three of us, like you asked.” Jayce’s voice carries through the phone.

Backup should feel like relief. Instead, possessiveness burns through me, sharp and unwelcome. Through the window, I watch three shadows detach from the dark pines, boots silent on pine needles. They move like predators, confident and lethal.

“Transport, clean papers, three safe houses north of the border. Everything you need to vanish. We can have her across the Canadian border before sunrise.”

Her . Not us. Not you both. Just her.

I open the door before they knock. Jayce enters first, lean build, blonde hair, eyes that catalogue everything. Jensen follows with his military-short hair and the gear I requested, while Owen immediately sets up a laptop on the kitchen counter.

Jayce drops a duffel at my feet and hands me a tablet. “Trail cams caught these two hours ago.”

I look at images of black SUVs on the forest access road, men with guns moving between trees. My stomach knots.

“Borsellini himself?” I ask.

“Alessio’s leading the hunt,” Owen says without looking up from his computer. “Must want her pretty bad to get his fancy shoes muddy.”

I push down the flare of rage. “How long?”

“Two, maybe three hours before they get here,” Jayce says. “They’re checking every property along the way. Taking their time to be thorough.”

“And the escape plan?” I ask, though I already know what I’m going to do. Running means she’s never truly free. Never truly mine.

Jensen spreads a map on the table. “There are three routes out. The forest road north, the river to the east, or helicopter extraction from the clearing two miles west. All doable. All ready now.”

I study the escape routes, each one viable, each one leading away from here. Away from her. The thought grates against every instinct I have.

“No,” I say simply.

Three pairs of eyes turn to me.

“No?” Jayce’s eyebrow lifts.

“We’re not running.” I trace my finger along the property line. “Even if we get away clean, Borsellini keeps hunting. As long as he’s breathing, Molly’s never safe. Never free.”

“Our job is to extract and protect,” Jensen says carefully. “Not to engage.”

“Your job,” I correct him. “Not mine. Not anymore.”

They exchange glances. These men know me. Know what I can do.

“So what are you thinking?” Jayce finally asks.

“We end this. Permanently.” I tap the satellite image showing Borsellini’s vehicles. “Eight men, including Alessio himself. We take him out, and this whole thing collapses.”

Owen looks up from his screen. “You’re talking about crossing a line here.”

“I crossed it the moment I brought her here,” I meet each of their gazes. “This isn’t just an assignment anymore.”

Jayce watches me for a long beat, then nods once. “Killian figured you’d say that. Why he sent us specifically.”

Of course, he did. Killian always sees further ahead than anyone else.

“You in?” I ask.

“We’re in,” Jensen says, already unpacking gear. “But the witness?—”

“Molly,” I cut him off sharply.

“Molly,” he corrects himself. “She stays safe during this.”

“Agreed.” I glance toward the bedroom. “I need to talk to her.”

“We’ll get started,” Jayce says. “Thirty minutes enough?”

I nod and head back to the bedroom. The floor creaks under my weight, and I find Molly already sitting up, eyes finding mine in the dim light.

“Someone’s here,” she says, not really a question.

“Killian sent people. Three of them.” I sit beside her, close but not touching. “Borsellini’s found us, Molly. They’re on their way.”

“When do we leave?”

“We don’t.” I take her hand, feeling the tremor she’s trying to hide. Her face remains composed, but her pulse hammers against her throat. “Running means looking over our shoulder forever. It means never being free.”

Her eyes widen. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we finish this. Here. Now.” I hold her gaze, letting her see the certainty in mine. “Borsellini’s the problem. We remove him, we solve the problem.”

“We,” she repeats, testing the word. “What are we, Cole?”

“We’re whatever you want us to be.” I move closer, her face fitting perfectly in my palms. “But I know what I want. This stopped being just about protection the moment I realized I’d rather die than let anyone hurt you.”

Something flares in her eyes, fear, desire, or some mix of both. “And what am I to you?”

“Everything,” I say without hesitation. “Everything I never knew I wanted. Everything I’m not willing to give up.”

Her lips part slightly. “And if we fail? If Borsellini?—”

“We won’t.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “But I need to know you’re with me. That you understand what I’m offering.”

“Which is?”

“A future. No more running. No more hiding.” I lean closer, voice dropping to almost a whisper.

“Just you, with me. Building something I never thought I could have. Something real, something permanent. The kind of life I’ve spent years watching other people live while I moved from one job to the next, one identity to another. ”

I swallow hard; the confession costs me more than any mission ever has.

“I know we’ve barely known each other. It shouldn’t be possible to be this certain, this fast.” My hand finds her face, fingers tracing her cheekbone.

“But I recognize what this is between us. In all my years, I’ve never felt it before, and I know with absolute certainty I’ll never find it again.

Whatever this connection is, it’s once in a lifetime. ”

My voice drops even lower. “I want that life. With you. When this is over.”

She searches my face, looking for doubt, finding none. Slowly, she leans forward until her forehead rests against mine.

“I’m with you,” she whispers. “Whatever comes next.”

Heat surges through me, overbearing and possessive. I pull her against me, my mouth claiming hers with an intensity that surprises us both. She yields immediately, melting into me, her surrender as complete as my claim.

I press her back against the mattress, my weight pinning her beneath me.

Her legs part instinctively, wrapping around my hips as I hover above her.

The heat of her core against me is almost unbearable, even through my clothes.

I growl low in my throat and capture her mouth again, teeth grazing her lower lip.

“Say it,” I demand, voice barely recognizable. “I need to hear you say it.”

She holds my gaze, fiercely determined. “I choose this,” she tells me. “I choose you.”

Those words snap the last thread of my restraint.

I strip away what remains of her clothing, then my own, movements urgent and almost harsh.

When I eventually feel her skin against mine, the contact is electric.

Soft curves against hard angles. Lightning shoots through me in perfect contrast to our bodies.

I force myself to slow down despite the urge to claim her immediately. This might be our last night. I want to memorize her.

My hands map her body with deliberate pressure, the delicate slope of her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts, the surprising strength in her arms. I learn what makes her gasp, what makes her arch toward me.

When my mouth finds her breast, I alternate between gentle and rough, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before soothing with my tongue, then sucking hard enough to leave a bruise.

The sound that escapes her throat is half pleasure, half plea.

The vibration travels straight through me.

Her hands aren’t idle, exploring me with equal hunger, trailing down my chest, nails scraping lightly over my abdomen, fingers wrapping around my length with surprising boldness. I hiss at the contact, fighting for control.

“Not yet,” I murmur, capturing her wrists and pinning them above her head with one hand. “My turn first.”

My free hand traces down her stomach, feeling the muscles jump beneath my touch.

Lower still until I find her wet and needy.

The evidence of her hunger for me is intoxicating.

I explore her with careful attention, circling, stroking, finding the rhythm and pressure that makes her breath catch and her hips rise to meet my touch.

“Cole,” she gasps, straining against my grip on her wrists.

I increase the pressure, the pace, watching her as pleasure builds.

Her eyes half-closed but still locked on mine, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

When I slip one finger inside her, then another, she arches off the bed, a wordless plea for more.

I oblige, curling my fingers to find the spot that makes her thighs tremble, my thumb continuing its relentless rhythm against her clit.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, fingers digging into my shoulders.

She whimpers when I withdraw my fingers.

Instead, I take my cock and slide it up and down her slit, gathering her wetness.

I lean forward and spit onto her center, spreading it along the length of my cock.

I line up at her entrance. When I finally push inside her, we both freeze for a moment at the intensity.

Her body yields to mine perfectly, as if made for this connection.

Then I move, setting a rhythm that has her clutching at my back, nails leaving crescents in my skin that I’ll wear proudly tomorrow.

I grip her hips hard, angling her body to take me deeper. Each thrust is a claim, each mark I leave on her skin a declaration. Mine. My teeth find the sensitive juncture where her neck meets her shoulder, biting hard enough to leave a mark that will linger for days.

“Eyes on me,” I command, my voice low but unmistakably authoritative. “I want to see you when you come for me.”