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Chapter 15

Seanna

I wake with a start, heart pounding and adrenaline surging, the memory of last night's twisted encounter still vivid in my mind. Soft early morning sunlight streams through the windows, a jarring contrast to the darkness that had enveloped me just hours before. I sit up slowly, half expecting to find some trace of Rule's presence—a lingering scent, a disturbed object, anything to confirm he wasn't just a fucked-up figment of my imagination.

But there's nothing. The room is undisturbed, exactly as I left it. If it weren't for the phantom sensations still ghosting across my skin—the bruising grip on my wrists, the press of leather-clad fingers against my most intimate places—I might be tempted to write it off as a bizarre, unsettling dream.

Except I know better. Rule was here, in my room, on top of me, his fingers inside me. And despite the violation, the fury at his audacity, some traitorous part of my body hums with remembered pleasure, craving his touch even as my mind screams in defiance.

Fuck. I'm so screwed up.

I drag myself out of bed, every muscle protesting the movement. Whatever he drugged me with has left me groggy and sluggish, like I'm moving through water. But as I stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, a steely resolve settles in my chest.

Rule and Ruin may think they can control me, dictate my actions through creepy mind games and twisted seduction. But they've got another thing coming. I'm Seanna fucking Darling—I don't bend to anyone's will, no matter how darkly tempting their tactics may be.

And that meeting with Cruz? It's sure as hell still happening, mysterious stalkers be damned.

I shower quickly, washing away the lingering traces of last night, the phantom sensation of leather on skin. The hot water pounds against my shoulders, grounding me in the present, sharpening my focus to a lethal point. By the time I step out, I feel more like myself—razor-edged and ready for war.

I dress with deliberate care, each piece of clothing another layer of armor. Black jeans, tight enough to showcase every dangerous curve. A dark red top that dips low, hinting at the tantalizing swell of my breasts. Knee-high boots with a wicked heel, perfect for stomping on anyone who gets in my way. And of course, my leather jacket, the buttery-soft material like a second skin.

I look at myself in the mirror, taking in the woman staring back at me. She looks like sin and vengeance wrapped in one deadly package, eyes glittering with dark promise. Good. That's exactly what I need to be today.

I almost forget the dress for the meet, but detour to grab it from where I threw it over the back of my couch and find that's where they left their mark—the dress is ruined, torn and slashed in several places, intentionally destroyed. There's no way I can use this dress now. I curse under my breath, frustrated but not entirely surprised at just how devious they chose to play this.

Moving to the bedroom, I fling open my closet, searching for something else suitable to wear. That's when I notice the empty spaces on the racks, where all the dresses I keep specifically for nights when I want to prowl the clubs, looking for leads or a good time, are gone. I rifle through the hangers frantically, but no matter how thoroughly I look, those dresses do not reappear. That bastard Rule must have taken or destroyed them when he broke in last night, after knocking me out with that drug.

My phone rings, the shrill tone making me jump. I snatch it up, barely glancing at the caller ID before answering brusquely. "Yeah?"

It's Jensen on the other end. "Everything okay? You’re on your way for the pre-meet briefing, right?"

Shit. In my anger over the ruined dress situation, I had lost track of time. "Sorry, I'm running a few minutes late. There's been a...complication. I'll be there in twenty."

"Everything secure on your end?" There's an edge of concern in his voice that I don't have time to address right now.

"It's fine. Just...have to make a stop first." I don't elaborate further, ending the call abruptly.

Fuming, I grab my keys and head for the door. If Rule and Ruin think destroying my clothes will be enough to derail me, they're gravely mistaken.

I'm fuming as I climb into my car and peel out of the driveway, tires spitting gravel. The drive to the Organization's headquarters is thankfully short, but my knuckles are still white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

I pull up to the nondescript office building and barely acknowledge the security as I make my way inside, brushing past the other operatives who quickly move out of my way. My boots strike the polished floors with sharp clicks, echoing my fury. How dare those bastards sabotage me like this? Breaking into my home, drugging me, destroying my clothes - it's a blatant challenge, one I have no choice but to meet head-on.

When I reach the wardrobe room door, I try shoving it open with unnecessary force, only to be met with unyielding resistance. Locked. I let out a frustrated growl between clenched teeth. This room is never locked - we're meant to have unrestricted access to gear and equipment at all times.

Stepping back, I glare at the keypad next to the door like it has personally offended me. We so rarely need to use these codes that I have to pause and actually think about the sequence of numbers. My fingers hover over the buttons as I mentally rifle through the memorized passcodes, finally punching one in with perhaps more vehemence than necessary.

The light blinks red. Denied.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I snarl, resisting the urge to slam my palm against the unyielding metal. This is getting ridiculous. First my home is violated, now I'm being locked out of Organization resources? Just how far are Rule and Ruin willing to take this twisted game?

"You okay?" comes a voice from behind me and I turn to see Jaxon there with a frown on his face.

"Does it look like I'm fucking okay?" I snap, gesturing angrily at the locked door. "I can't get into the goddamn wardrobe room."

Jaxon arches an eyebrow at my outburst but doesn't look surprised. He's been on the receiving end of my temper more times than I can count. "Did you try your code?"

I shoot him a withering glare. "Obviously. It's not working."

He moves closer, tapping in a sequence on the keypad. The light blinks green and the lock disengages with an audible thunk.

"There, now stop raging before you give yourself an aneurysm," Jaxon says dryly, pulling the door open.

I brush past Jaxon without a word, stepping into the wardrobe room and scanning the racks with narrowed eyes. After a few moments, I spot what I need—a slinky black dress with a plunging neckline and thigh-high slit up the side. Skimpy but classy enough to pass for business wear if I accessorize right. Perfect for gaining Cruz's attention without being too obvious about it.

I grab the dress off the rack along with a pair of wicked stilettos and a slim jacket to complete the look. As I turn to leave, Jaxon is watching me with a bemused expression.

"You know, most people say 'thank you' when someone holds a door for them," he comments dryly.

I pause, reining in my anger with an effort. He doesn't deserve to be on the receiving end of my fury—not this time, at least.

"Thank you, Jaxon," I say evenly, meeting his gaze. "I appreciate you keying me in."

He smirks, clearly recognizing my restraint. "Anytime, darling."

The endearment makes me hesitate, a flicker of memory from last night—Rule's mocking tone as he pinned me down, calling me 'darling' over and over. I push it away, refusing to let my mind linger on the twisted encounter.

"Don't call me that," I say curtly, clutching my newly acquired outfit.

Jaxon arches an eyebrow, amusement playing across his features. "But it's your name," he points out with maddening logic.

For a moment, I freeze, wondering if the reason Rule called me 'darling' so mockingly was simply because it's my name. Jesus fucking christ, what the hell is wrong with me that I'm even analyzing this? Why do I care why that psychotic asshole used a particular term of endearment while he was fingering me?

I grit my teeth, struggling to regain my composure as unbidden flashes of last night flicker through my mind. The weight of Rule's body pinning me down. The rasp of his modulated voice against my skin. The exquisite torment as he worked me to the edge of release, only to cruelly deny me.

Heat blooms low in my belly at the memories, and I ruthlessly shove them away, appalled at my own body's traitorous response. I can't afford to lose focus, not now. Not with so much at stake.

"Thanks for the assist," I force out, the words clipped and terse as I brush past Jaxon toward the door.

He says something else, but I don't catch it, my mind already shifting gears, strategizing for the meeting with Cruz. Rule and Ruin may think they've rattled me, but they're about to learn just how unshakable I can be when properly motivated. Cruz is the key, and nothing—not deranged stalkers or twisted mind games—is going to keep me from exploiting that lead.

By the time I reach the briefing room, I've regained my focus. Jensen, Matteo, and Eli are already gathered around the central table, poring over intel files and surveillance stills. They look up as I enter, and the brief flicker of concern on Jensen's face tells me my chaotic energy is more obvious than I'd like.

"Everything good?" he asks carefully, holding my gaze in that way of his that says he won't accept any bullshit excuses.

I meet his stare levelly, daring him to push further. "Everything's fine. Just ran into a minor delay." My tone makes it clear the topic is closed for discussion.

Eli, ever the one to poke the bear, opens his mouth—no doubt to unleash some wisecrack about my mood. But Matteo cuts him off with a sharp look, his dark eyes assessing me.

"We should go over the plan one more time," he says evenly, dragging our focus back to the mission at hand.

Jensen moves things along before tensions can escalate further. "Right. Cruz is expecting to meet 'Samantha' at his club in"—he glances at his watch—"two hours. The place will be closed, just him and a few of his inner circle."

"Roger that," I confirm briskly, scanning the room to ensure everyone is dialed in. "Jensen, Eli—you two will be stationed nearby providing overwatch and backup in case things go sideways. Keep eyes and ears on Cruz's crew at all times. If anything feels off, you call it."

Jensen nods sharply. "We've got your back."

Eli shoots me a cocky grin, already looking a little too eager at the prospect of potential chaos. "Don't worry, boss. We'll be ready to blow this whole op sky high if your charms don't work their magic on Cruz."

I level a flat stare at him, unamused. "My 'charms' will be more than enough to keep Cruz occupied. But just in case, the PD narcotics team will be on standby two blocks out for rapid deployment if needed."

Matteo remains stoically silent, hands resting on the table as he studies the building schematics with intense focus.

"We go in tight but icy," I continue, tracing my finger along the blueprint. "Cruz is expecting an independent supplier looking to broker a deal, so that's the cover we sell. Hard, dismissive - make him work for any scrap of attention or validation."

I glance up to find Jensen watching me carefully. "Don't overplay it," he cautions in that low, even tone of his. "Cruz is too savvy to fall for over-the-top bravado. Walk the line—enough disinterest to stroke his ego, but not so much that you insult him. That's a very narrow target."

My lips quirk slightly at the hint of concern in his voice. The team knows how easily I can get carried away by the thrill of the game. Sometimes it's like there are two versions of me—the consummate professional DEA agent, and the adrenaline-fueled wild card who loves tempting fate a little too much.

"I know the drill," I assure him evenly. "Play hard to get, make him chase me. It's not my first time using my feminine wiles to reel in an arrogant prick."

Matteo huffs a laugh, muttering something about that being the understatement of the century. I shoot him a look that could cut glass, but there's no real heat behind it. My team know me—the good, the bad, and the recklessly impulsiveness that makes me such a nightmare to handle sometimes.

"All right, let's get this shitshow on the road," I announce, scooping up the slim folder containing my cover identity. "Cruz wants to tango? We'll give him one hell of a dance."