The door hadn't finished catching the latch before Harper was toeing her heels off by the mat and reaching back for the zipper, lungs still tight from the cold and the night.
The dress had other ideas—lining catching on skin, the metal tab shy under her fingers—so she muttered something unladylike and rolled her shoulders once to loosen the fabric.
She bent at the waist to fish for the pull, hair slipping forward in a dark fall while the room filled with the soft sounds of home: the bowl pinging empty, the hum of the fridge, Brock's low laugh as he stepped in behind her and set a steadying palm at her back.
"Hold still," he said, voice rough from the laugh. His eyes traced the line of the dress before he found the zipper; it slid under his fingers with the sound of a good decision. "For the record, I hate that Nolan got to be your date."
She glanced back over her shoulder, hair falling to one side, mouth turning into the smile she only spent at home. "For the record," she said, "I came home with you."
His palm flattened low at her back, heat and claim in one gesture. "That's the part I care about," he said.
She tipped her chin at him, daring. "You going to keep being jealous or be useful?"
He huffed, right on the edge of refusing, slid the fabric down another inch, and said, quieter, "Useful."
"I needed you on the back hall in case it went sideways," she said, working the last inch of zipper while his hand stayed warm against her. "Couldn't have my 'date' abandoning the table to tackle a manager."
The dress sighed as it dropped and pooled at her feet; she stepped free in one clean shift—nothing under it.
Brock lost a breath and half a step. His heel clipped the keys that had slipped from his pocket, sending them skittering across the floor as his jacket slid half off his shoulder before his brain caught up. His gaze snapped back to her face in a full-body jolt.
She laughed, pleased with herself, tugged his lapel straight with two fingers, and pressed her palm to his chest just enough to keep him exactly where he was. "Useful. Remember." She turned away, leaving him with words he couldn't quite line up and the dress still pooled at his feet.
He hooked the keys with his foot and went after her quick, shoulder clipping the jamb as he caught her at the bedroom door and drove her back hard enough that her squeak jumped high in her throat. She barely had time to brace before the mattress caught her knees and dropped her onto it, hair spilling wild, laugh tangled with the breath he'd chased out of her.
Brock followed down over her, jacket dragging wide, forearms braced to pen her in, weight heat-heavy against the cool sheets. His mouth took hers once—hungry, claiming—then again with teeth in it, a scrape that pulled a rough sound out of her. His hands locked high on her ribs, clamps more than anchors now, keeping her where he wanted until the adrenaline in both of them burned down to something rougher, hotter, impossible to mistake.
"You scared me," he breathed into her mouth.
"You were there," she returned, and that settled it. He mapped his way down: a kiss at the hinge of her jaw, another at the hollow of her throat, a slow pass along the bright line of collarbone—counting pulse with his mouth—until he found the black line that split the viper's ink along her side where her waist dipped.
He bowed and kissed it like a prayer, slow and sure, again, again, each press a promise he didn't know how to say any other way. Her fingers slid into his hair, less to stop him than to keep him there, breath catching for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
"Mine to guard," he said against the ink, the words thrumming there before he lifted his head and came back up to her, sure as an answer he'd been carrying since the moment the door shut.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, then stilled. "Wait," she murmured, voice still uneven. "I need to brush my teeth. Wash my face."
He froze, lifted his head, and looked at her like she'd lost her mind, then let out a noise that was half laugh, half protest before he rolled off her in defeat. She slipped out from under him in one smooth slide, bare and unhurried, opened a dresser drawer, and snatched something small he didn't catch before padding naked into the hall. He watched her go, hungry in silence, every step she took away leaving the room a little hollower.
The door clicked shut and he stared at it, willing it to change its mind, heat still buzzing under his skin from the sight of her walking out. A sigh broke loose; he shoved up, shrugged out of the jacket and shirt, toed off his jeans, and dragged on a pair of sweats with more force than they deserved. The mattress dipped under his weight as he flopped back, shoulders to the headboard, phone in hand. Screen glow lit his face while his thumb started its idle scroll, the quiet of the room pressing in where her laughter had been.
Harper stood at the sink with the mirror throwing a slim bar of light across her, toothbrush working slow, mint cooling her tongue while the compound settled into hush. She spat, rinsed, dabbed the corner of her lip with a fingertip, and set the brush down.
The nightgown she'd snatched from the dresser on her way out of the bedroom waited on the counter; she lifted it now, the little piece she'd dared herself into earlier in the week. It had come off a clearance hook on a sanctioned supply loop after she convinced Nolan to take her out while Brock was stuck in a meeting with Vex. He'd parked himself outside a corner boutique like a surly usher, tapped his watch, and muttered, "One morale item. Not tactical," while she slipped this thing over her shoulders in a mirror that smelled of perfume and dust. She'd paid cash, bagged it herself, and he'd carried it back without comment except, "Do not let Lawson blame me."
She lifted the nightgown from the counter and slipped it over her head, the fabric cool as it slid down her arms and whispered across her skin. Black satin, cut so thin it almost gleamed blue under the bathroom light, clung to her like poured ink. The straps were narrow as ribbon, loose enough that one slid instantly, slipping off her shoulder and baring the upper curve of her breast until she tugged it back with a thumb. The plunge of the neckline left little to the imagination, gaping just enough that any wrong move might turn suggestion into exposure, and the hem didn't help—cropped high, skimming the tops of her thighs, scandalous in how shamelessly it refused to cover.
Her bare feet shifted on the tile, hair unbraided and loose over one shoulder, the silk settling against her body, pure sin in black. She caught herself in the mirror, a flash of pale skin under black sheen, and the thought of Brock seeing her in it put heat high on her cheekbones, the kind that no cold water could rinse away.
Harper killed the bathroom light and let the hallway frame her for a moment before she moved. The nightgown shifted scandalous over her hips, hem skating high with each slow step. By the time she crossed into the bedroom's softer dark, Brock was slouched against the headboard in sweats, phone glow under his jaw—until his thumb stopped dead. The screen went face-down without him looking. His jaw locked as his gaze dragged helplessly up her legs, her hips, the plunge of silk over skin. "That standard issue?" The words came low and rough, torn out of him.
"Morale item," she said, mouth curving as one strap slipped to the notch of her shoulder. She caught it with a fingertip, slow, dragged it back into place, a secret meant only for him. She stopped just shy of the bed, tilted a hip, pinched the hem as if she might bare more—and didn't, the denial deliberate, a dare hanging in the air.
He sat forward an inch, then another, one hand braced, the other knotting in the quilt; the mattress dipped, barely holding him steady. His eyes dragged up her thighs, caught on the thin fall of silk, then higher. "I need to inspect that," he said, voice hoarse with the cost.
Her smile was small, merciless. She let one strap slip until it hovered at her arm, traced the bedpost with a knuckle, and kept her eyes on him.
He reached; she slid half a step aside, still standing, still making him wait. "Ask," she murmured.
His throat worked. "Please."
"Lay back," she commanded. He did—spine to the headboard first, then down to the pillows like gravity had finally gotten a vote.
She took the long way to the foot of the bed, lifted the hem with two fingers, giving it weight, and set a knee to the mattress. The springs gave a quiet word as she crawled up the line of him—palms bracketing his ribs, hair slipping forward, the nightgown brushing his stomach as it skimmed—until her knees found either side of his hips and she settled there with slow, deliberate weight. His hands hovered off the quilt, knuckles whitening, before landing tentative at her waist.
She leaned in and kissed him—slow, mint-cool from the sink, hair tickling his cheek until he made a helpless sound into her mouth. "You may inspect," she murmured.
The words unlocked him, and he moved. Palms mapped the nightgown where it draped her, sliding silk from hips to waist, thumbs circling, intent on memorizing it. Fingers caught the hem, dragged higher, flattened along her ribs. His breathing roughened, chest lifting hard under her, and when she deepened the kiss he answered with a grip that turned careful into firm, anchoring her to him, unwilling to let her shift away.
She sat up slow, hair sliding back over her shoulders, and looked down at him with that teasing officer's calm. "Commander—does it pass inspection?"
His eyes swept once, exact as a verdict. "No." He let the silence hang. "It failed."
Her mouth tipped, unimpressed.
"Means you can't keep it," he said, the smirk finally breaking through as his fingers found the hem. She lifted her arms—unhurried, sure—and he drew the nightgown up and over, fabric shivering past her ribs and throat before he let it fall to the chair. She was bare in the spill from the hall; his hands closed at her waist, holding there a moment, heat pressing into heat while he decided whether to move or savor.
She shifted in his lap and the sound he made was low, helpless, his hand catching at her thigh before he even knew it. She tipped forward to his throat, speaking into warm skin between kisses. "Then this doesn't pass either." A gentle bite at the hinge of his neck, a smile against it, and she rose on her knees just enough to hook her thumbs in his waistband. He stilled, then lifted to meet her when she tugged; she drew the sweats down slow, cotton giving under her hands, his breath breaking rough as the fabric cleared his hips and slid away.
She pressed her palms to his chest and rose, hips hovering above him before she sank in one long, unbroken slide. The stretch stole her breath, forced a moan up her throat; his sound came rougher, raw, as she took him to the hilt, thighs closing tight, the heat of him filling every inch. The mattress cupped and shuddered; the headboard knocked once, unable to keep their secret.
His hands clamped at her waist, grip too tight for a second before he forced it looser, fighting the urge to drive up into her. Her hair slipped forward across his jaw as she bent and kissed where his pulse thundered, whispering his name into the skin between her lips. She rocked slow, savoring the drag, and his hips jolted helplessly under her. The groan that broke from him shook through her chest, deep and unguarded.
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, smile curling with wicked patience. "Mine now." Her hands pinned his to the mattress, her thighs tightening around his hips as she set the rhythm—slow, merciless, every movement hers to give or deny. His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bared, breath gone ragged while she rode him at her own pace, owning every shudder that ran through him.
** ** **
Harper jogged up as Doyle worked the outer gate, his coffee steaming in one hand, the other hooked on the chain-link, owning the morning. She'd pulled on a black tank and short running shorts, bare legs catching the chill, the viper head on her shoulder and the tail on her thigh uncovered in the gray light. "Back in twenty," she called, pace already warming her shoulders.
He kept the gate only a crack open, brow creasing. "You don't usually head out solo."
"Short loop to the bend and back," she said, drawing up in front of him. "I'm fine."
He watched her for a breath, then shook his head once. "Closer to fifteen. Stay on the road." His eyes didn't leave her. "Say it."
"Yes, sir," she answered, easy, not mocking it.
Only then did he swing the gate wider. "Go on, then."
She slipped past, the lock clanging shut behind her, the compound shrinking to fences and steel at her back as the road opened up ahead.
The road stretched empty in front—cracked asphalt edged with frost and weeds, pale sun dragging itself over the horizon. Her breath steadied into rhythm, four in, four out, gravel snapping under her soles. For the first quarter mile it was nothing but air, lungs, the thrum of blood in her ears.
They'd left her to her own devices that morning—Brock and Nolan heading to the other side of the city to pick up the two Tahoes finally back from bodywork almost a month after the ambush at the drayage yard. She'd had no interest in tagging along, crawled back into bed instead, and only later rolled out with the restless urge to run. The road outside the gate was clear, the air cool, and she figured she could loop the bend and back—maybe stretch it as far as the corner café if it still felt quiet—and be home before Brock was done smelling like motor oil.
The city carried its morning on a low hum—delivery vans nosing along the curb, shutters rolling up on corner shops, the hiss of a bus brake bleeding into open air. Coffee drifted from a bakery she passed, warm and yeasty, sweet under the bitter tang of exhaust. Her shoes kept tempo on the pavement, steady, weaving her along streets that still felt half-asleep.
A boy on a bike cut across the intersection in front of her, backpack bouncing, and an old man swept the stoop of his barbershop, pausing to glance up as she went by. Harper let herself take it in—the simple quiet of a city not yet awake.
The streets bent toward the river, where the asphalt gave way to a path pressed flat by years of runners and strollers. Trees leaned over in places, their leaves shivering in the thin wind, and the water carried light in restless ripples. She wasn't alone—an older couple walked hand in hand, their small dog nosing the grass, and a runner in a red windbreaker passed with earbuds in and a quick nod. Up ahead, a fisherman leaned against the railing, line dropped lazy into the current, a thermos at his feet. Nothing in it caught at her nerves; just the easy clutter of a city morning.
She slowed at the bend where the path climbed back toward the street, lungs drawing deep before she took the incline. Pavement replaced gravel, car tires hissed over wet asphalt, and the smell of bread came stronger, warm enough to make her mouth water. A block on, the café's striped awning came into view, windows fogged from ovens working overtime, door propped to let the air out.
Harper smiled as she cut across the crosswalk, already picturing Brock's face when she dropped a bag of still-hot pastries on the table between them.
The bell over the café door gave a cheerful ring as Harper slipped inside, warmth and butter-sugar scent wrapping around her. The glass case was crowded with choices—rows of croissants stacked like golden shells, sugared knots dusted white, turnovers so glossy they caught the light.
"Morning," she said, soft and polite, as the barista glanced up. She leaned close, eyes running over the trays, intent on getting it right. Brock would want simple, she knew—one croissant, warm enough to flake in his hands, just pastry and heat, the sweetness kept in check. He'd bite into it, hum low in his throat, and she'd feel smug for knowing. For herself, she liked the raspberry turnover—tart edge, sticky glaze, something indulgent to balance the run.
"I'll take a croissant and a raspberry turnover, please," she said, voice easy. "How's your morning?"
"Busy already," the barista said, but their mouth twitched toward a smile.
Harper's expression softened. She dug exact change from her pocket, slid it over the counter, and added coins to the tip jar. "Hope it treats you easy," she said. "Thank you—these look amazing."
The bag came folded neat, warm in her hands, paper almost damp with butter. Harper's mouth tipped up, the bag a small treasure in her hand, already hearing the low sound he'd make when she set it down in front of him.
She stepped back onto the street with the bag in her hand, the paper warm against her palm. She didn't pick up her jog again, just let herself walk, shoes tapping easy on the pavement. The air carried yeast and coffee, sweet enough to put a lightness in her chest, and she breathed it in slow without thinking.
Her arms swung loose, body settling after the run. The city moved around her in small, ordinary ways—an engine turning over, a door shutting somewhere down the block, a burst of radio from a passing car—as she drifted to the corner, warm pastry bag soft in her hand.
She waited at the light, cars rolling past in lazy succession, sunlight flashing on their roofs. She shifted her weight, thumb brushing the fold of the bag, already half-smiling at the thought of Brock.
"Hey, Voss!"
Of course Doyle had sent someone to drag her—
She started to turn, annoyance just breaking the surface—then white heat punched the back of her skull. The bag jumped in her hand and slipped away. The world went black before it hit the ground.