The line crawled forward, trays rattling on metal rails, the air heavy with steam-table pasta and coffee burned to bitterness. Harper moved with it, tray balanced in her hands, eyes skimming pale chicken gone dry under the lamps, mashed potatoes slick with a gloss that made her stomach turn. Brock stood ahead, broad shoulders filling the gap, sleeves shoved to his elbows as he spooned vegetables onto his plate without looking back. He was close enough she could count the freckles across his arm, but he might as well have been a mile away. Price lingered behind her, restless fingers drumming the tray's edge, muttering about the food under his breath.
Harper's gaze stuck to the line of Brock's shoulders as he moved ahead, the steady way he stacked his plate making the rest of the line look sloppy. She didn't realize how long she'd been staring until Price bumped her tray with his own, smirk cutting sideways.
"Careful, Harper. You'll burn a hole in him." His voice was pitched low, just for her.
Heat climbed her neck. She dropped her eyes fast, scooping whatever hit her plate before sliding forward. When she looked up again, Brock was already three spots ahead, tray balanced in his hands, the gap between them stretched wider than the space on the floor.
Brock broke off toward a corner table where Nolan, Kier, and Jensen sat in loose sprawl, their presence enough to keep the rest of the room at a distance. He took the chair beside Nolan, shoulder to shoulder, leaving the far end open. Harper slid into it, Price dropping in at her side, the length of the table stretched between her and Brock in that same, practiced way. A choice she knew by now was deliberate.
Nolan's eyes slid her way as she set her tray down, the kind of look that said he'd seen this before and wasn't blind to the distance Brock kept putting between them. The raised brow wasn't there long, but it landed with its own weight—confirmation, not curiosity. Harper held it for a breath before letting her gaze drop to her plate, sliding her fork into food she didn't taste. Around her the table carried on—Kier cracked something about the mess hall coffee tasting like motor oil, Jensen shot back that at least it kept Kier from whining, and Nolan's laugh bounced off the wall. Even Brock's voice joined in, low and rough, the sound folding easy into the crew's rhythm. The noise rolled over her in warm, familiar waves—but none of it touched her. She kept her head down, picking at her plate, the distance across the table a wall louder than silence.
Ever since they came back from the poker job, Brock hadn't been the same. She saw it the second he stepped into their quarters after meeting with Vex—the excuse of "logistics" flat in his mouth, the weight in his eyes too heavy to hide. She hadn't pressed, but she felt the change that night. In bed, he was unrecognizable in his gentleness. He touched her like she might break if he pushed too hard, kissed her slow, moved inside her like he needed to carve the memory into his bones, his forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering against her mouth, desperate to erase the space between them. When it ended, he pulled her in and didn't let go, arms locked like loosening them would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.
By morning, that tenderness was ash. She woke to the mattress lurching, her body flipped like she weighed nothing, her face crushed into the sheets, wrists wrenched behind her spine. Panic spiked through the fog of sleep, the shock of him pinning her before she'd even drawn breath. He took her hard, brutal, every thrust rattling through her ribs, snarls ripping from his throat where whispers had been hours earlier. It was anger, not want—she felt it in every motion, each slam a punishment she couldn't name. Her lungs burned against the sheets, vision sparking when he dragged her upright, one arm cinched at her stomach, the other crushing her throat until her body clawed for air. She didn't know whether to fight or yield, so she endured, teeth gritted against the rawness breaking her open. And when it was over, he let her drop facedown, no word, no touch—only silence and the sight of his back as he turned away.
And then, like nothing had cracked at all, the nights after were normal again. He was Brock the way she knew him—rough, yes, but never cruel. Hands that marked her also soothed her, mouth that bit also kissed her quiet, the edge always threaded with heat instead of fury. He pulled her close when it was over, murmured low in the dark like she was the only thing that mattered. Behind their door, he still joked, still cared, still reached for her in the ways that had once made her certain.
But outside their door, he was someone else entirely. On the floor, he barked harder at her than anyone, his corrections cut deeper, distance carved into every order, making sure everyone saw it. In the cafeteria, in the halls, he passed her like she was no one at all, eyes never staying long enough to catch. And later, when it was just the two of them, when she tried to ask—soft words pressed into the dark, the edge of a question catching in her throat—he smothered it with his mouth. Heat poured into every kiss, every touch, until she couldn't breathe enough to push him back. It felt like apology and deflection tangled together, the harder he pushed her away in public, the harder he clung to her in private.
The cycle left her hollow. She didn't know what had shifted, or what sin she'd committed to turn him this way—only that something had, and it clung like something she couldn't shake. Each day she tried to read him, tried to trace the line back to where it started, but the answers stayed locked behind his silence. Every deflection, every hard edge in public pressed deeper, until the doubt was no longer a thought but a tide dragging her under. She couldn't stop it, couldn't slow it—only feel herself sinking, pulled toward a depth she couldn't name.
"You feeling okay?"
Kier's voice cut through the haze. Harper jolted, blinking toward him like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. He sat across from her, chair angled just enough that he could study her without making it obvious. His tray was already half-empty, fork idle in his hand as his eyes flicked from her untouched food to her face.
"Not really," she murmured, voice low, unguarded for once.
Her gaze slid past him, across the table to where Brock sat with his shoulders squared, leaning close to Nolan as if the rest of the room didn't exist. He didn't look up.
Kier followed the glance, then brought his eyes back to her. His mouth pressed thin, but his voice stayed even. "Then don't force it. Eat what you can, get out of here. You've been running hard."
Heat climbed her neck. She ducked her head, nudging at the food with her fork. "Yeah. I will."
He didn't push, but he didn't look away right away either. For a moment his eyes held hers, steady, almost protective—the kind of look that said he saw deeper than she wanted him to. Then he leaned back, fork scraping against his tray as if nothing had passed between them.
Harper stayed rooted a few moments longer, the voices around her blurring into a hum she couldn't break into. Her fork rested idle against the tray, food untouched, her throat too tight to force anything down. Finally, she slid the tray forward with a quiet scrape, the sound cutting through her nerves, louder in her head than it was in the room.
"Excuse me," she murmured, barely above the clatter of the room.
She rose, chair legs whispering against the floor, and gathered the tray in both hands. Crossing to the garbage felt exposed—every step measured, every sound amplified, the scrape of plastic hitting the bin ringing in her ears. She set the tray down, careful, almost delicate, afraid that breaking it would betray something she couldn't afford to show.
She didn't look back. Couldn't. The thought of catching Brock's eyes—or worse, finding no one's on her at all—tightened something in her chest. Her arms folded across her midsection as if she could hold herself together, trayless hands clutched close. Harper pushed through the cafeteria doors, the rush of cooler air from the corridor washing over her as the noise behind her dulled to a hum. Her steps quickened, heels striking soft against the tile, carrying her farther from the press of voices, away from the weight of wondering if anyone cared she'd gone.
"Voss."
The sound cut from her right. Harper jerked to a stop, pulse thudding as Vex stepped out from a side corridor, slotting himself into her path like he'd been waiting for the exact moment she passed. His hands were loose at his sides, his posture unhurried, but his eyes locked on her with a weight that made the hallway shrink.
She forced her back straight, tamped the jolt down, and turned to face him. Her voice came even. "Sir."
Vex's hand lifted, a small motion toward the elevator. "A moment, if you will."
The hair prickled at the back of Harper's neck, but she dipped her chin in a short nod. She fell in behind him, heels soft against the tile, the corridor stretching too long before the elevator doors parted. He stepped in first, and she followed, the air closing tight as the doors slid shut. Neither spoke as the car climbed, the silence stretched, her reflection pale beside his in the steel.
The bell chimed soft at the fifth floor. Vex stepped out without pause, and she followed, the hall running long and hushed ahead of them. He pushed through the door to his office, held it just long enough for her to enter, then moved to his desk. His hand gestured once toward the chair opposite.
Harper sat, spine rigid, palms pressing flat against her jeans to hide the dampness there as Vex lowered himself behind the desk. The quiet settled between them, heavy as stone.
She hadn't been in this office since that day all those months ago—since he'd torn her from this very chair by the hair, fists and boots driving her into the carpet until her ribs screamed and her mouth filled with blood. She could still feel the rough weave scraping her cheek, the muzzle steady at her skull, the click of the safety cutting through the blur in her head.
Now she sat rigid, hands clamped to her thighs as if pressure alone could hold her still. The desk was the same. The carpet was the same. Her face gave nothing away, but her body remembered, every nerve thrumming under the silence.
Vex leaned back in his chair, hands folding loosely on the desk. His voice came smooth, almost cordial. "How are you finding it? Life under this roof. Life in the Syndicate."
Harper held his eyes a moment too long, then let them drift to the edge of the desk, as if measuring distance. "It's…structured," she said evenly. "Clear lines. Clear orders. I know what's expected."
Vex's mouth edged faint, not quite a smile. "And you prefer it that way?"
Her shoulders stayed square, but her fingers pressed against her thighs until the fabric creased. "It keeps me useful," she answered.
The pause stretched a half-second before she added, quieter, "That's good. Being useful is important."
Vex shifted, one elbow sliding to the arm of his chair, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the leather. His tone stayed level, almost conversational. "And useful you have been. Impressive. The runs, the fieldwork—you've shown talent I didn't quite expect." His gaze pinned her like a specimen. "Truth is, I didn't think you'd keep going after the Maw had you. Most don't crawl back from that kind of treatment, let alone stand where you're standing now." He tipped his chin once, a nod dressed as approval. "But you did."
Harper kept her eyes on him, face neutral, but her chest pulled tight. Compliments weren't his currency. Every line felt too even, too deliberate, and she searched his expression for the catch—for the trap strung quiet in the calm. Her palms flattened harder against her thighs until the fabric creased under them. She let the silence stretch a moment, drew in a measured breath, then released the words as though testing their weight. "Thank you, sir." Polite. Careful. A phrase set down like glass that might shatter if it slipped.
Vex inclined his head, gaze steady over steepled fingers. "You've earned your way out of the shadows. It's time you take something of your own. A solo job." The words carried as if he were granting freedom, a door opening instead of a chain tightening. "You go alone. The line is yours to hold. A mark of trust, Harper. You get to show me you can stand on your own feet."
Harper blinked once, the offer catching harder than she let show. Her spine stayed straight, shoulders locked, but something knotted low in her chest. Freedom was never free in his hands. She fixed her eyes on him, steady, waiting—measured stillness the only answer she trusted him with.
Vex shifted in his chair, voice still mild, as though he were offering her a gift. "It's a simple run, on the surface. A package, light enough to carry, nothing that will weigh you down. You'll cross the river, deliver it to a contact who'll be waiting in a quiet spot—neutral ground, easy to reach if you keep your head. Hand it off, take their acknowledgment, and walk away. No gunfire, no chase, not unless you make it one. If you do it right, no one even remembers you were there. Clean work."
He let the pause stretch, his gaze holding hers. "And it will be yours alone. No leash. No shadow at your back. Just you, Harper. Let's see what you do with that kind of freedom."
** ** **
Brock's boots landed quiet against the residential hall, the low hum of the compound steady around him. After lunch he'd dropped down to the range with Nolan, hours burned on drills until the powder stink clung to his shirt and his shoulders throbbed from recoil. Hunger gnawed low, the pull of near-dinnertime twisting his gut, but it wasn't just food dragging him forward. He caught himself lengthening his stride, the thought of Harper waiting in his quarters pulling past the ache in his stomach. He hated the way he'd left her adrift in his silences, hated more that he still couldn't stop. Even so, he wanted her. Every step home felt like gravity.
Brock pushed through the door, the latch snapping shut behind him. He took one step inside—and froze.
Harper sat on the couch's edge, bent over her boots, yanking the laces tight. Cargo pants tucked neat, long sleeves stretched close to her wrists, and a ballistics vest strapped firm across her chest. The plates hugged against her ribs, edges stark against the fabric. She rose in one fluid motion, tugging a jacket over her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back clean, her face set in focus that left no space for softness. A duffel waited at her feet, heavy and zipped, ready to be lifted.
His eyes locked on hers, breath locking in his chest. For a moment the silence pressed thick between them, until his voice broke it—low, flat. "What are you doing?"
Harper met his stare without flinching. "I've got a job." She tipped her chin toward the kitchen, calm, almost domestic against the gear on her shoulders. "Your dinner's in the fridge."
She dragged the zipper up her jacket, the vest vanishing beneath the fabric. Brock's gut twisted. She'd never gone out on a job without him—never. That was theirs. His to cover, hers to lean into. Watching her seal the armor away felt wrong in a way he didn't have a name for, like she was stepping somewhere he couldn't follow.
"With who?" The words came rough, edged. "Onyx? Cole?"
Harper's smile curved faint, almost casual, as she shook her head. "Nope. Just me."
The bottom dropped out. Brock froze, fury and dread crashing together until one word roared through him: Vex. Of course it was Vex. The thought burned as he closed the distance, each step heavy, relentless. His hand clamped onto her arm, the jacket's fabric stiff under his palm, but her warmth bled through—hers, alive, his, too close to lose. She lifted her eyes to his, searching, and the look carved deeper than any plate of armor could shield.
"Why are you doing this?" Her voice was quiet, but it landed with a force no shout could match.
His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"
"All of it." The words caught, ragged with frustration. "You shut me out the second we step into the field, like I'm weight you don't want to carry. And then in here you act like nothing's wrong, pretend we're fine." Her breath hitched, unsteady in her chest. "What did I do to deserve that?"
Brock's mouth parted, the excuse already on his tongue. "It's not—"
"Forget it." The words came fast, but they wavered, frayed at the edge. It was enough to stop him cold. Her eyes flicked away, then back, hurt written clear in the shine there. "Don't bother. You won't give me a straight answer anyway."
The words went straight through him, no armor to stop them. For a moment he couldn't mask it—the hitch in his chest, the flicker of something giving way behind his eyes. Vex's voice slid in behind hers, cold as steel: If she falters, I end it myself. His grip on her arm faltered, tightened once in reflex, then fell useless to his side. She saw it, and the sight cracked something in her, softening just enough to let him see that, too.
"I don't know what happened between you and Vex." Her voice caught on the name, breaking low before she steadied it. "But I'm sorry anyway. For whatever it was. For whatever I did."
Her hand closed around the duffel strap before he could answer. She hauled it up, the weight settling against her shoulder. "I need to go. I'm going to be late."
She brushed past him, his hand twitching to stop her, but he didn't. The scent of her hair lingered, her shoulder grazing his chest without a kiss, without even a glance back.
Brock didn't move. He just stood there, watching the door swing shut in her wake. The latch clicked, small and final, and the silence after pressed in heavy, sealing him off. Her words lingered in his chest, not fading, just settling deeper with every breath he tried to take. His hands hung useless at his sides, jaw locked, the weight of her absence pulling harder than his own anger.
Time stretched. Long enough for him to shift a half-step toward the door, hand twitching to reach for it—then stop again, anchored in place.
The handle turned. Brock's spine snapped straight, breath catching hard. For a beat he was certain—she'd come back, she'd walk through, the look in her eyes undone. Hope hit raw, unguarded, before the door even opened.
But it wasn't Harper. Nolan stepped in, cap low, his gaze flicking once over Brock, taking in the room's stillness, the charge in the air. The door shut behind him with a solid thud, the sound too heavy for the hope Brock had let rise.
"I just passed Harper downstairs—boots laced, jacket on, bag over her shoulder. She was moving like she had somewhere to be. And she was alone. Where's she going dressed like that, when you're up here?"
Brock met Nolan's stare. "She's going on a job," he said, the flatness costing him. The next word came slower, rougher, as if it hurt to force out. "Alone."
Nolan went still, rocking back hard onto his heels. "What?" The word landed low, disbelieving, like he couldn't have heard right. His jaw tightened as the silence stretched, then his voice came rougher, cutting through the room. "Why the fuck would she be going out alone?"
Brock's opened his mouth, but no words followed. The silence carried his guilt clearer than anything he could have said.
Nolan stepped in, glare locked on him. "What the hell's going on between you two? You've been cold to her for days, like she's nothing. And now you're letting her go out on jobs alone? Did you forget the last time she left this compound by herself, and what happened? Did you forget what people out there see when they look at her?"
"I didn't send her," he ground out. "Vex did."
Nolan's glare faltered, shock flashing in its place. "Vex?" His voice pitched harsh. "The fuck do you mean, Vex?"
Brock's eyes stayed locked, flat and heavy. "Vex knows."
Nolan blinked hard, like the words didn't fit. "What? How? The rest of us know, sure—anyone with eyes can see it. But nobody would take that to him. None of us would ever sell—"
"No." The word snapped out, cutting him off. Brock's voice scraped raw, the hurt bleeding through. "I fucked up. After the poker job—I pulled her out of the car myself, hand on her like it was nothing. Didn't even see him there. He was watching."
Nolan went rigid, shoulders locked, as if the air itself had turned on him.
Brock's stare lifted to him, steady but hollow. "Nolan, he doesn't want her here. He told me that night—said he'd kill her if she so much as breathes wrong. And now he's proving it. He's sending her out on a fucking job alone."
Nolan swore under his breath, pacing like the room was too small to hold him. "Jesus Christ, Brock. He said that to you? And you let her walk out the door?" His cap brim shadowed his eyes, but the heat burning through made it clear.
Brock's jaw locked, no answer coming.
Nolan stopped pacing, hands braced on his hips. "Maybe it was a bluff. He's thrown shit like that before, trying to scare people straight. But if he meant it—" His gaze cut back to Brock, hard and tight. "That's not a job—that's a setup. He's putting a target on her back and daring you to stand there and watch."
The silence pressed heavy until Nolan dragged in a breath, forcing his voice down, rough but steadier. "You can't take him head-on. Not now. Not yet. But you find a way to keep her breathing, Brock. Because if Vex wants her gone and you don't stop it…" His stare fixed, unflinching. "…that's on you."