Page 13

Chapter 12

Seanna

After a hot shower that barely nudges away the lingering tension, I dress quickly, pulling on my standard dark jeans and a form-fitting black top. My badge and gun feel comfortably heavy at my hip as I grab my leather jacket and head out the door, locking it firmly behind me, even though part of me sneers at the futile gesture. Whoever’s sending me those creepy-ass packages sure as hell doesn’t care about locked doors or boundaries. Or even personal fucking space.

Traffic to the DEA is a nightmare—bumper-to-bumper, horns blaring, and my irritation spikes as I sit stuck behind a minivan moving at the speed of molasses. By the time I reach the office, my mood is firmly set to "touch me and lose a finger."

The bullpen today is a swirling cesspool of chaos—agents darting between desks, phones ringing off the hook, and everyone apparently trying to talk over each other like they're auditioning for a role in some shitty cop drama. I cut through it all like a shark, ignoring the sidelong glances and hushed whispers that follow me. Let them talk. I've got bigger problems than office gossip.

Jensen's already at his desk, surrounded by stacks of files and empty coffee cups, his usually immaculate appearance slightly rumpled. Matteo sits nearby, his dark eyes fixed intently on his computer screen, one hand absently tapping a pen against the edge of his desk in a rapid, inconsistent rhythm. But it's Eli who catches my attention—hunched over his keyboard, jaw clenched tight, none of his usual playful energy visible in the hard lines of his face.

"Morning, sunshine," Jensen drawls as I approach, raising an eyebrow at whatever expression is currently plastered across my face. "You look like you're ready to commit a few felonies before lunch."

"Only a few?" I drop into my chair, tossing my phone onto the desk with more force than necessary. "I've already mentally committed at least a dozen on my drive here."

Eli doesn't even look up, just grunts softly in acknowledgment. His fingers move aggressively across the keyboard, the clicking unusually sharp and impatient. This is the Eli few people see—the one beneath the jokes and flirtation, all sharp edges and cold efficiency.

"What's got you so wound up?" I ask him directly, narrowing my eyes at his unusual silence.

He finally glances up, and the intensity in his gaze catches me off guard. Gone is the carefree jokester, replaced by something harder, almost predatory. "Vega's good," he says, voice clipped. "Too good. Every time I think I've got a digital foothold, it slips away. Someone's scrubbing his tracks almost as fast as I can find them."

"Which means he's more than just a courier," Matteo interjects, leaning forward. "Someone's protecting him—someone with resources."

Jensen nods, sliding a folder across the desk to me. "Got the surveillance reports back from PD. They've been shadowing all our targets around the clock." He taps the file meaningfully. "Interesting patterns emerging."

I flip open the folder, scanning quickly through the neatly organized reports. Cruz has been behaving exactly as expected—running his club, meeting with his usual contacts, nothing out of the ordinary beyond our upcoming meeting. Mendoza's been spotted at several high-end restaurants, always with different companions, conversations kept casual but body language screaming business. Navarro's movements have been more erratic—never in one place for too long, constantly checking over his shoulder.

But it's Vega who catches my interest. The surveillance on him is the sketchiest of all—brief glimpses at traffic cameras, a few distant shots from storefronts, but nothing substantial. He moves like someone who knows he's being watched, using blind spots and timing his movements to avoid established patterns. Smart. Methodical. Dangerous.

"He knows exactly what he's doing," I mutter, tapping my finger against Vega's grainy surveillance photo. "This isn't amateur hour. He's been trained."

"That's what I've been saying," Eli says sharply, frustration evident in the tight line of his jaw. "Whoever Vega is, he's not just some errand boy. The digital countermeasures around him are professional-grade, military precision. Every time I think I've found a thread to pull, it vanishes."

Jensen leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "So what's the play here? We're spread thin trying to monitor all four simultaneously, and Cruz is expecting to meet with 'Samantha' tomorrow."

I drum my fingers against the desk, mind racing through possible next steps. "We stick with the plan. Cruz is still our best entry point. Matteo, I want you with me for that meeting—you'll play my silent backup. Jensen, you and Eli keep pushing on Vega. If he's as protected as he seems, he's the closest we've gotten to Reyes' inner circle."

Matteo nods, his dark eyes calculating. "Cruz will try to test you, see if you're legitimate. We should prepare for that."

"Let him try," I reply coldly. "I'm ready to play whatever game he wants."

Eli's phone buzzes, and he glances down, his expression shifting to something even sharper as he reads the message. "Interesting. PD just spotted Vega entering a private gallery downtown. Looks like he's picking up something—a package or artwork, they can't tell from their position."

"Art gallery?" That catches my interest immediately. "Which one?"

"The Obsidian," Eli replies, already typing furiously. "Very exclusive, very private. By appointment only."

My mind clicks pieces together rapidly. "Get me everything on that gallery—ownership, clientele, recent acquisitions. Art's a classic way to move money."

Jensen's already reaching for his phone. "I'll have PD maintain visual as long as they can without being spotted."

"Good," I nod, standing abruptly. I'm about to turn away to head to the break room when my phone vibrates against my desk. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but some instinct makes me pick it up and open the message.

UNKNOWN

Did you enjoy the roses? Black suits you better than red, darling. Though, the other black gift would suit you even better.

My heart stutters violently, heat flashing across my skin before being replaced by ice. I keep my expression neutral even as my pulse thunders in my ears. My eyes flick up, scanning the bullpen carefully, looking for anyone paying too much attention, anyone who doesn't belong.

Nothing. Just the usual chaos of agents hustling about their day.

With deliberate casualness, I type a response with steady fingers despite the rage boiling beneath my skin.

Cute. Real fucking cute. Next time you break into my bedroom, at least have the balls to wake me up. I'd love to show you what I do to people who invade my personal space.

I hit send, watching the message deliver with vicious satisfaction. Let this creepy bastard know exactly who they're dealing with. I'm not some fragile victim that can be easily terrorized–I'm the nightmare that haunts other monsters.

My phone buzzes again, almost immediately.

UNKNOWN

Promises, promises. You're magnificent when you're angry. Almost as beautiful as when you come.

I glance around at my team, all of them absorbed in their work, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm being digitally stalked by someone who was in my goddamn bedroom last night. And now they're texting me like we're fucking pen pals.

I force my expression to remain neutral, not wanting to draw questions from my team, but my fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles go white. With considerable control, I type back:

Hope you enjoyed the show because when I find you—and I will—you'll wish you'd never laid eyes on me.

I hit send, picturing the message landing like a slap across their smug, invisible face. Let them chew on that. Let them wonder if their little game has pushed too far.

My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

UNKNOWN

We both know you loved every second of it. The danger excites you. Why else would you put on such a performance on your deck? You wanted to be watched. You wanted to be seen. And you were. Beautifully.

My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. The worst part is, they're not entirely wrong—and that knowledge burns like acid in my veins. I don't bother responding this time, shoving my phone roughly into my pocket as I stand abruptly, nearly knocking my chair over.

"I need coffee before I murder someone," I announce flatly, voice cold as ice. "Anyone else want some, or am I drinking alone?"

Jensen glances up, his expression shifting from concentration to mild concern at whatever he sees on my face. "You okay?"

"Peachy," I snap, already halfway toward the break room. "Coffee? Yes or no?"

"I'll take some," Eli calls out, finally looking up from his screen. "And for the love of God, get the real stuff, not that pond sludge Wilson made earlier."

"Pond sludge it is," I shoot back over my shoulder, the familiar banter helping to ground me despite the rage still churning in my gut. "Extra sludgy, just for you."

After a brief internal debate—pond sludge masquerading as coffee from the break room versus something drinkable—I abruptly pivot toward the elevators.

"Actually," I toss over my shoulder, "I'm stepping out. There's no way I'm drinking whatever crime against humanity Wilson brewed today. Text me your orders if you want anything decent."

Jensen nods absently, already back to frowning at surveillance data, and Matteo murmurs a quiet acknowledgment without even looking up. Eli waves me off with a vague grunt, attention glued to his screen, his face still set in that hard-edged intensity that means he's barely tolerating the world around him. He might need the caffeine more than me right now.

I stride toward the elevator, ignoring curious glances from other agents. By the time the doors slide shut, my jaw aches from how tightly I'm clenching my teeth. My reflection in the polished metal surface is sharp, unforgiving—the dark circles beneath my eyes are more pronounced than I'd like. The stress and twisted games have been piling up, and I don’t fucking like the evidence staring back at me.

In the quiet solitude of the descending elevator, my mind drifts back to that goddamn text message. Sneaking into my bedroom was a declaration of war. As much as the invasion rattled me, a twisted part of my mind buzzes quietly with anticipation of the chase—knowing someone dangerous has their eyes fixed solely on me.

And fuck if it doesn't piss me off that a part of me likes the thrill, gets off on the danger just a little too much. Maybe that's my biggest problem—I'm wired for chaos. Normal has never been in my vocabulary. Growing up a Darling saw to that. Raised by parents who walk a knife’s edge between justice and vengeance, between the system and their own brand of morality, there's no chance I'd come out normal. Hell, Hydessa is the closest thing to normalcy in the Darling family, and even she thrives in the shadows, chasing down monsters in her own meticulous way.

Still, there's a difference between danger I choose and danger imposed on me without permission. Whoever this stalker is, they're crossing lines at breakneck speed. Lines I'm going to make them regret stepping over.

The elevator doors open, and I step out into the bustling ground-floor lobby. Sunlight streams through expansive glass windows, temporarily blinding after the artificial gloom of the bullpen. I cross swiftly to the coffee shop across the street, a trendy little place with more plants than furniture and baristas who look like they're auditioning for a fashion shoot. It's ridiculous and overpriced, but they know how to brew coffee that actually tastes like coffee, and today that’s good enough for me.

I step inside, instantly assaulted by the aroma of roasting beans and freshly baked pastries. The line is short, thankfully, and I place orders for myself and the guys, reading their last-minute texts filled with increasingly complicated coffee requests.

“Long day already?” the barista asks with practiced cheerfulness, setting out paper cups and marking them with rapid, neat handwriting.

"Long fucking lifetime," I mutter dryly, handing over cash with a forced smile.

He chuckles nervously, obviously unsure if I'm joking. Good. Let him wonder. I’m not here to be friendly—I’m here because caffeine is the only legal substance keeping me sane today.

After placing our coffee orders, I move aside, impatiently tapping my fingers against the counter. My phone buzzes insistently from my pocket, and the irritation sharpening my features only deepens as I glance down at another message from yet another unknown number.

UNKNOWN

Careful, darling. That scowl might scare off your poor barista. Such a fierce look for someone simply ordering coffee.

Ice trickles through my veins, body rigid, a sense of exposure prickling sharply at the base of my spine. My eyes snap up, scanning the bustling coffee shop instinctively, heart kicking into overdrive as I seek out anyone out of place, anyone lingering too long with their gaze fixed on me.

Another message follows immediately, as though timed perfectly with my searching glare:

UNKNOWN

Don’t bother looking, Seanna. You won’t see us until we want you to.

Not the first time they've said ‘us’, subtly reminding me that this twisted game might have multiple players. Anger and unease swirl hotly together, punctuated by an unwelcome curl of excitement at the sheer fucking nerve.

My finger hovers briefly over Uncle Max’s contact, the urge to call him for help fighting against stubborn pride and dark curiosity. But the thought quickly dissolves; even Max can’t trace ghosts who hide behind burners and encrypted lines. Besides, something deeply possessive within me refuses to share this twisted dance, this secret chase, with anyone else.

Fuck this. With a surge of ruthless determination, I type back:

Who the hell are you? At least give me a name to add to my hit list alongside Reyes. It's only fair I know who I'm going to destroy once I find you.

I scan the coffee shop again, eyeing every customer with fresh suspicion. The young couple in the corner, the businessman scrolling through his phone, the woman with her laptop—any of them could be watching me. The vibration of my phone startles me because it comes faster than I expect. Almost like he’d been waiting. Like he wanted me to ask.

UNKNOWN

You can call me Ruin.

Because that’s what I’ll do to you, Seanna.

Body. Mind. Soul.

And when I’m done, you’ll beg me to do it again.

I shouldn't be turned on. I should be furious—not standing in a fucking coffee shop with heat pooling between my thighs and my pulse hammering for all the wrong reasons. But there's something about the audacity, the sheer commanding confidence in those messages that hits a primal chord inside me.

Ruin. Even the name he's chosen drips with arrogance and dark promise.

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. This fucker actually gave himself a supervillain name. As if we're characters in some twisted cat-and-mouse thriller instead of real people playing an increasingly dangerous game.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, outwardly smoothing my expression into bored disinterest, though adrenaline still drums a steady rhythm beneath my skin. The barista calls my name, voice cheerful, and I collect the tray of coffee cups with forced calm, heading back toward the DEA bullpen.

But as I push through the door, stepping into the cool air outside, the sense of being watched follows closely, as tangible as a lover’s breath against my neck. Let them watch, let them think they’ve got the upper hand. Because sooner or later, these shadowy assholes will make a mistake.

And when they do, I’ll be ready—waiting in the dark, exactly where I belong.

Pausing on the sidewalk, I pull out my phone again, typing one handed and with deliberate venom:

Cute attempt at intimidation. But you’re going to have to try a lot harder than creepy messages and cheap theatrics. Reyes will rot in a federal prison, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.

I send it off with a savage grin and continue walking, picturing their face—whoever they are—tightening with irritation at my defiance. But their reply is immediate, and the words hit me harder than I expect:

UNKNOWN

Oh, darling, you misunderstand us. No, we don’t want Reyes locked away safely in some federal cage. We want him in the fucking ground.

I pause mid-step, rereading the message carefully as confusion and intrigue wind together in a tight, uncomfortable knot in my chest. They’re claiming they’re not protecting Reyes—they want him dead. If that's true, the entire game might have just shifted, and I’m suddenly not sure whether that thought thrills or unsettles me more.

Who the hell am I really dealing with here?