Page 7 of No Words

MOLLY

I wake to the rhythmic sound of typing. The soft blanket covering me wasn’t here when I fell asleep on Cole’s leather sofa.

He must have covered me during the night, which means he’s been watching me even while I slept.

For someone who seems to keep people at arm’s length, he’s infuriatingly good at these small, quiet kindnesses, the kind that slip under your defenses before you can shore them up.

The tapping continues, drawing me toward the small alcove near the kitchen.

I find him there, his broad shoulders hunched over a laptop, headphones covering one ear while the other remains free, always alert, always listening for threats.

Three empty coffee mugs surround him, suggesting he hasn’t slept at all.

I wonder if he even knows what it feels like to stand still inside.

“Morning.” It comes out more of a squeak, my voice still rough with sleep.

Cole doesn’t startle. Nothing seems to surprise him, but his shoulders tense slightly before he turns. His eyes, normally the color of a storm-tossed sea, look darker today, shadowed with something that makes my stomach uneasy.

“How long have you been up?” I ask, moving closer.

“All night,” he exhales, pulling off his headphones and pointing to the screen. “FBI channels, police bands, some unofficial channels.”

Tension rolls off him in waves. I lean over his shoulder, careful not to touch him despite the magnetic pull I feel toward his body. The screen flickers with encrypted text, symbols, and numbers that might as well be hieroglyphics, but his expression tells me everything I need to know.

“Something’s wrong,” I say. Not a question.

“Alessio is getting desperate.” He pulls up a news site on a second monitor. “Someone found two more witnesses from your case dead last night.”

He clicks through the restricted crime scene photos, making me gasp. A man and a woman slumped in their dining room chairs, execution style. The Franklins. They were going to testify about the money laundering.

“These are confidential FBI files.” I keep my voice steady. “How did you access them?”

“That’s not the important question.” Cole scrolls to another image that turns my stomach. They put an ace of spades in each victim’s mouth. “This is Borsellini’s signature. He’s tying up loose ends before the trial.”

“And I’m the biggest loose end of all.”

Cole nods once, his expression grim. “There’s more. I’ve been monitoring internal FBI communications. At least two agents assigned to witness protection have been jeopardized.”

My colleagues, the system I’ve dedicated my life to, can’t protect me. They may even hunt me.

“Show me,” I demand, needing to see proof.

He hesitates, then types a command that brings up an encrypted message thread.

The timestamps are from three hours ago; the participants are identified only by code names.

But the content is unmistakable. My location passed to an external contact, discussion of “retrieval fee,” coordinates that would have led directly to the FBI safe house where I would have been staying.

“Jesus,” I breathe, sinking into the chair beside him. “They were going to hand me over.”

“Not all of them, but enough.” He closes the screen. “Official protection is worthless now.”

I run my hands through my tangled hair, trying to process this betrayal. “How deep does Borsellini’s reach go?”

“Deep enough that you weren’t safe in federal custody.” Cole’s eyes lock with mine. “Your case files. Tell me exactly what they contain.”

The abrupt change of subject takes me by surprise, but I understand his need to assess the threat.

“Everything. Eighteen months of investigation. Financial records that link the Borsellini family to operations in twelve countries. Witness testimonies against Giovanni, Alessio, and forty-seven associates.”

“And your testimony?”

“I can place Alessio at the murder scene. Front-row seat to him executing an informant and two civilian witnesses.” I swallow hard, remembering the cold brutality with which he’d pulled the trigger. “Without me, the case against him weakens significantly.”

Cole nods, processing this information. “So they need you eliminated before trial.”

“Yes.”

He stands suddenly, six-foot-six of coiled tension, and walks to the window. “This cabin is owned by a shell corporation linked to another shell corporation. Untraceable.”

“Unless they followed us here,” I point out.

“They didn’t.” His certainty should be comforting, but it only highlights how completely my safety depends on this man I barely know. “The security system is as good as it gets. Motion sensors, thermal imaging, perimeter alerts. Nothing gets within half a mile without my knowing.”

I look around the rustic cabin with new eyes, seeing beyond the log walls and the homey furnishings to the fortress it actually is. “And if they find us?”

“They won’t.” Cole turns from the window. “But we need to establish some ground rules.”

His tone sends a shiver through me, and it isn’t fear. The way he says “rules” carries weight, authority. My legal training rebels against this shift in power, but another part of me, a part I’ve never fully acknowledged, responds to it.

“I’m listening.” And I wait to hear the terms of my protection.

Twenty minutes later, the weight of Cole’s revelations presses down on me as he outlines the security protocols, when I can move around the cabin, which windows to avoid, and emergency response plans.

His words drove home the complete destruction of my former life.

My colleagues compromised. My witnesses are dead. My case is in jeopardy.

“I need a shower,” I say abruptly, cutting him off mid-sentence. His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t protest when I stand.

“Bathroom’s through there.” He gestures toward a door off the main living area. “Towels in the cabinet.”

I nod and retreat, desperate for privacy, for hot water to wash away the crawling sensation of being hunted. Anything to escape the weight of what I’ve learned.

The bathroom is spacious, stone-tiled floor, a walk-in shower with glass walls, deep soaking tub in the corner. Like everything else in this place, it’s luxurious, but designed with sight lines in mind. I strip and step into the shower. Glass walls everywhere. No hiding.

I turn the rainfall showerhead to its hottest setting and step under the spray, letting out an involuntary moan as the water cascades over my tight shoulders.

For several minutes, I focus only on this sensory respite: the steam rising around me, the pounding of water against my skin, the gradual relaxation of muscles wound tight with lingering soreness from our first encounter.

I massage shampoo into my hair, eyes closed, momentarily forgetting where I am and why.

Until a shift in the air alerts me to his presence.

When I hear him enter, I don’t turn around.

After last night’s intensity, the lack of privacy feels almost irrelevant.

I don’t open my eyes immediately. Something in me already knows it’s Cole standing in the doorway watching.

I should rush to cover myself. Instead, a different kind of heat blooms low in my belly, spreading outward until my skin tingles with awareness.

Slowly, I open my eyes and turn toward the door. Cole leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. He makes no attempt to hide his gaze as it travels deliberately over my body and back up, noting every inch of exposed skin.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out huskier than intended.

“Checking on you,” he answers, but the intensity in his eyes suggests more. “You’ve been in here for twenty minutes.”

Has it been that long? “I needed to think.”

“Thinking is dangerous right now.” He pushes off from the doorframe and steps fully into the bathroom. “Thinking leads to second-guessing. Second-guessing gets you killed.”

The glass between us suddenly seems insubstantial, more suggestion than barrier. Water continues to stream down my body, and I make no move to shield myself from his gaze. This should feel like a violation. Every rule I’ve lived by obliterated. Instead, it feels inevitable.

He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of his torso, carved muscle and old scars mapping a history of violence, steals my breath. He is stunning in every way possible. He kicks off his boots, unfastens his jeans, maintaining eye contact.

The shower door slides open, and steam billows around us as he enters my space, his massive frame making the generous shower feel claustrophobic. He’s so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

My back touches the cool tile as I instinctively retreat, but there’s nowhere to go. He places his palms flat against the wall on either side of my head, caging me without touching me.

“New rules, starting now,” he declares, voice dropping to a low register I haven’t heard before. “Rule one: I have to know everything. Your fears, your pain, what makes you wet. If you hide from me, I can’t protect you.”

“That’s not a rule,” I challenge, though my voice trembles a little. “That’s a demand for access to my thoughts.”

A shadow of a smile touches his lips. “All rules are demands, Molly. The difference is whether you choose to follow them. And I have to know your mental state to keep you alive.”

Hot water streams between us, tracing rivulets down his chest, disappearing into the grooves of muscle at his abdomen. I drag my eyes back to his face.

“Rule two,” he continues, leaning closer until his lips nearly brush my ear. “When you’re scared, you come to me. When you’re turned on, you come to me. No hiding either.”

His proximity sends goosebumps skittering across my skin. “And if I’m both?” The words escape before I can stop them.

Cole’s hand moves from the wall to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with surprising gentleness. “Then especially you come to me.”