Page 21 of No Words

MOLLY

Cole’s scent clings to my skin when I wake alone. Evidence that last night wasn’t a fantasy stitched together by adrenaline. The body keeps its own record.

Dawn light cuts through the cabin windows, and voices murmur in the main room.

I stretch, wincing at the pleasant soreness in my muscles, my skin still tingling where his hands claimed me hours ago.

Touching my neck, I feel the marks he left, evidence that last night wasn’t a dream.

I slip into Cole’s discarded shirt and pad to the doorway.

The cabin has transformed overnight. Furniture rearranged, windows partially covered, equipment I don’t recognize set up on the kitchen counter.

Cole stands at the center of it all, pointing at coordinates on a map spread across the table.

The three men from last night surround him, faces granite-hard as they absorb his instructions.

He senses me before I speak, his head turning, eyes finding mine like a laser locking onto its target. “Good morning.” His voice carries an intimacy that makes the other men glance away.

“Morning.” I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of my bare legs.

“Molly, these are friends of Killian and mine. Jayce, Jensen, and Owen,” Cole gestures to each of the men. “They brought us some help.”

I nod, not sure what to say to men who look like they stepped out of a special forces recruitment drive. “When do they arrive? Borsellini’s men?”

“Soon.” Cole crosses to me, his hand finding the curve of my back as he guides me toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you ready.”

Inside, he pulls clothes from a duffel I don’t recognize, tactical pants, fitted shirt, a lightweight jacket. Not my style, but definitely not standard FBI issue either.

“These should fit,” he says, helping me dress with a focus that’s somehow both practical and intimate. “Kevlar-reinforced fabric. Slash-proof.” His fingers trace the seam along my ribs with pride. When he kneels to strap a holster to my thigh, his fingers brush my skin with deliberate slowness.

“You’ve done this before,” I observe.

His eyes flick up to mine. “Dressed a woman for combat? No.” His hand lingers. “You’re the first.”

His words send warmth flooding through me. Another first. We seem to be collecting them. The air shifts, not a breeze, not temperature, just something in the way the walls feel closer than they did a minute ago. Cole’s quiet, but it’s the kind that hums under your skin.“Scared?” he asks, standing.

“Yes.” No point in lying. “But not like I should be.”

His lips quirk into a half-smile that makes my stomach flip. “Good.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Fear keeps you sharp. Too much makes you stupid.”

The alarm chirps, one, two, three, then settles into an unbroken tone. It’s the sound of the last calm we’re going to get. Cole’s hand brushes my lower back once, a silent anchor, before he’s moving toward the window.

When we return to the main room, Jayce murmurs coordinates into his radio. Jensen strips and reassembles his rifle. Owen’s eyes track movement across multiple monitors.

“Movement on the approach,” Owen announces. “Three vehicles.”

Cole guides me to the screens. Black SUVs wind slowly up the forest road, stopping half a mile from the cabin. I count eight men exiting, spreading into formation. My breath catches when I recognize the man giving orders.

“Alessio,” I whisper.

Cole’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” The man who executed my witness in the parking garage, whose face has haunted my dreams, is now hunting me through these woods.

The next hour passes in a blur of preparation. Equipment clicks into place. Radios crackle with position reports. Cole’s hands guide mine through weapon checks until muscle memory takes over. Cole’s hand stays at my back while he points out sight lines, escape routes, weapon positions.

‘If I go down, you run here,’ he says, tapping a concealed panel in the floor. The escape tunnel was installed by the previous owner, a paranoid tech millionaire, according to Cole.

“I’m not hiding while you fight my battle.”

His eyes darken, concern warring in his expression. “This isn’t your prosecutor’s office, Molly.”

“And I’m not just a prosecutor anymore.” I hold his gaze. “You made sure of that.”

His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “No,” he agrees softly. “You’re not.”

The perimeter alarm sounds, a soft, insistent beeping that freezes everyone mid-motion. On the monitors, figures move through the trees, approaching from multiple directions.

“They’re here,” Jayce announces.

Cole tugs me into the kitchen, away from the windows. “Last chance to use that tunnel.”

Instead of answering, I grab his shirt and pull his mouth to mine.

The kiss tastes of coffee and gunmetal, desperate and hungry, like we’re stealing something before the world burns down around us.

His body responds instantly, pressing me against the counter, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.

“We should stop,” he murmurs against my lips, even as his hands contradict his words, sliding beneath my shirt. The hardness of his cock pressing into my thigh betrays him.

“I know,” I whisper, but my body betrays me, pressing closer. My heart pounds with a mixture of fear and desire that clouds rational thought. “But I need to feel something real before...”

The unspoken possibility of what is about to happen. Before we die, before we kill, before everything changes again.

He presses his forehead to mine, his breath ragged. “Later,” he promises, voice rough with restraint. “When this is over, I’m going to take my time with you.”

The first gunshot shatters our bubble. Cole reacts instantly, covering me with his body as glass explodes somewhere in the living room as more shots follow, a chaotic percussion underscoring our ragged breathing.

The sound is sharp enough to rattle my teeth.

Every breath tastes of dust and metal. Heavy boots pound the porch, each step slamming onto the concrete.

Cole shifts just enough to return fire, the crack of his shots steady against the chaos.

“Stay here,” Cole orders, drawing his weapon. He presses a smaller gun into my hand. “Safety’s off. Anyone who comes through that door who isn’t me, shoot them.”

Then he’s gone, moving like a predator stalking its prey toward the sound of gunfire.

I slide off the counter on shaky legs, adjusting my clothes with trembling fingers.

The gun’s weight feels both foreign and familiar, metal cold against my palm, grip textured against my fingers.

Cole made sure I knew how to use it during our “training” sessions.

But I’ve never been in a position where I might have to actually use one.

A blast sounds from the heart of the cabin, and it draws me forward despite Cole’s orders.

I set the gun on the counter, just for a second, and tentatively make my way to the sound.

Through the doorway, I see Jayce pinned down behind an overturned table, Jensen returning fire from behind the couch. Cole is nowhere in sight.

Glass shatters behind me. I spin to find a man climbing through the kitchen window, weapon raised. Time slows as training kicks in, Cole’s voice in my head walking through the movements.

Keep your center of gravity low. Use their momentum against them.

The man’s eyes widen briefly when he sees me, recognition flashing across his face.

“The witness,” he says, a smile spreading that makes my skin crawl.

“Borsellini is looking forward to meeting you.” That split-second of satisfaction gives me the edge I need.

He’s big, at least twice my size, a mountain of muscle in tactical gear.

I can’t reach my gun in time. Three days ago, I would have frozen.

Today, I calculate angles, distances, vulnerabilities.

“Where’s your protector?” he taunts, weapon lowering slightly. “Bennett can’t save you now.”

I don’t answer; words waste precious seconds. Instead, I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, exactly how Cole showed me during our sessions that inevitably ended with us tangled together on the mats.

The man lunges forward, expecting me to cower.

I sidestep left, dropping my weight as I hook my right leg behind his ankle.

The motion flows like water, Cole’s endless repetitions taking over my body without conscious thought.

He falls hard, a surprised grunt escaping him as he hits the floor.

His gun skitters across the hardwood, spinning beneath the kitchen table.

I dive for it, his fingertips scraping my ankle as I twist away. Then, success, I grip his weapon in my hand. But before I can turn, searing pain shoots up my leg as his hand finds my other ankle, twisting viciously. A scream builds in my throat, but I push it down. Cole’s voice again:

Pain is information. Use it. Don’t let it use you.

I twist my body despite the agony, kick out with my free foot, aiming for his face.

My boot drives into his face with the wet crack of cartilage breaking.

Blood sprays across the white kitchen tiles in a crimson arc, warm droplets hitting my cheek.

The grip on my ankle loosens as he howls, hands flying to his shattered face.

I scramble backward on hands and knees, my fingernails clawing for purchase on the smooth hardwood. The gun settles into my grip with familiar weight, metal still warm from his hands, my training taking over. I rise to a crouch, weapon aimed center mass like Cole taught me.

When I turn fully, the man is already charging again, blood streaming down his face, eyes wild with rage. I plant my feet, steady my hands, exhale slowly, and pull the trigger without hesitation.