Dane's POV:
I didn't sleep.
I lay there all night, staring at the ceiling, counting nothing.
My body never shut down. It stayed wired, alert, like it was still waiting for something to go wrong.
Morning comes anyway.
Pale light through the blinds.
The room smells like her shampoo and something metallic.
I don't feel tired.
I feel ready.
Stocciani.
The name hits and my focus narrows instantly.
A flash of heat that makes my vision sharpen around the edges.
But it's done.
He's dead.
I killed him.
That should be the end of it.
A line crossed.
A chapter closed.
It doesn't feel like one.
It feels unfinished.
Like something slipped past me.
Like he left something behind that I didn't see in time.
My gut twists.
I need to go back through everything.
Every file. Every call. Every half-dead lead I decided wasn't worth chasing. Because if there's even a chance something connected to him is still breathing—
It's coming for her.
Last night plays back without permission. The way she stepped in.
The way she didn't hesitate.
The guilt lands hard.
Why did she do that?
Because she wanted to help… or because she felt sorry for me?
The second thought makes my head throb. I shove it down. I don't have room for that.
From now on, she doesn't leave my sight.
Not for a second.
She doesn't know what's out there. And she won't—if I do my job right.
That bastard doesn't get to take anything from me.
I want her.
And I will keep her.
I turn my head.
She's asleep beside me, turned toward me, breathing slow and even.
She looks beautiful, her dark hair fanning the side of her face.
Perfect skin.
Lips slightly parted.
She shifts and her hand finds mine like it's automatic. Fingers curling around me without looking. I lift her hand, press a kiss into her palm, then settle it over my chest.
She moves closer, tucking herself against me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Something tight in my chest loosens.
"Danny," she murmurs, half-asleep.
"I'm right here, baby," I say quietly, kissing the top of her head.
"I'm sorry," I add. "I didn't mean to scare you last night. It felt like a nightmare."
She looks up at me, eyes questioning, assessing.
Before she can say something , I lean down and I press my lips on hers softly.
I need this before I leave.
Need something solid to carry with me when I step back into everything waiting outside this room.
Her lips soften immediately. No hesitation. No uncertainty.
She kisses me back instinctively.
Her body settles into mine, familiar weight, familiar warmth.
My hands slide to her hips, holding her there, grounding myself in the simple fact that she's real. That this moment exists.
For a second, it almost works.
"Dane—no—stop."
The words cut through the fog.
I freeze, my mouth still close to hers, my hands still on her.
She pulls back just enough to look at me.
"What happened last night?" she asks quietly. "Do you… do you get that often?"
Something ugly tightens in my chest.
She's watching me like she's trying to understand me , like she feels bad for me.
That's worse.
I step back before I say the wrong thing. Before I do something that crosses a line I won't be able to uncross.
The space between us feels too big immediately.
"I'm okay now," I say.
Too fast. Sounds rehearsed even to my ears.
"There's nothing to worry about."
I keep my eyes on the floor.
On the edge of the bed. Anywhere but her face.
"Dane, I—"
Her phone alarm cuts in, loud and sudden, shattering what's left of the moment.
"Where are we?" she asks, rubbing her eyes. Then, quieter, uncertain, "I need to…"
She trails off, watching me like she's waiting for me to fill that gap.
"You're safe here," I say.
My voice comes out steady, even if I don't feel it.
"Until I know there's nothing out there, it's better if you stay."
She hesitates. I can see the calculation happening—
"I'll stay," she says finally.
A small smile tugs at her mouth, careful, like she's trying not to push.
"But I need to call my mom. She needs to know I'm okay."
"I'll handle it," I say, already moving away from the bed.
I don't look back.
I leave the room before she can ask anything else—before I have to decide whether to lie better or, I don't even consider the other alternative.
I'm halfway down the corridor when I hear her footsteps.
"Dane—wait."
I stop.
She comes up short in front of me limping, dried blood on her feet, breath uneven, hair still a mess from sleep, trying to catch up with me.
"I don't know where I am," she says quietly. "You don't tell me anything."
I say nothing.
"I understand why," she continues, voice steady but strained.
"I do. But… what does that mean for me? I just stay here?"
Her hands curl into the fabric of her sleeves, knuckles whitening.
"Let me come with you."
The thought hits me like a physical blow.
Her out there.
Exposed.
Seen.
Pain flashes across my face before I can stop it.
I turn slightly, enough to hide it.
"I'm going to be gone for a couple of hours," I say instead.
"There's nothing to worry about."
She watches me closely, weighing every word, every pause.
"I just need to make sure you're okay," I add. "Maybe check that cut on your foot."
I say the guilt making my stomach churn.
She hesitates. Then nods.
"Yeah," she says softly. "You're probably right."
"I've arranged everything," I continue. "There's food. Staff. Whatever you need."
She doesn't like it.
I see it in the way her mouth tightens, the way her gaze drops to the floor like she's swallowing something back.
"I'll be fine," she says dismissively.
I turn and walk away before I can change my mind—before I can say something honest, or worse, let her come with me.
The corridor swallows the sound of my footsteps.
After leaving my home,I make a few calls.
Then I head straight to the barracks.
The GroundBase office is already active when I walk in—screens lit, maps projected across the far wall, voices low and tense. Six men are waiting.
Ivan.
Jake.
Boris.
Loren.
Tyler.
Dave.
Men who've been with me on Stocciani for four years.
Men who know exactly what that name costs.
"What do we have?" I ask, cutting straight
through it.
Ivan steps forward.
"Captain, we've reopened every log from the last forty-eight hours. The men who took her weren't acting independently. Their movement pattern suggests they were preparing to hand her off."
"To whom?" I ask.
"A higher-ranking intermediary," Boris adds. "Not Stocciani directly—but someone trying to earn access."
My jaw tightens.
"Every man involved belongs to a local gang," Ivan continues, pulling files onto the main screen.
"Low-level. Violent. Desperate. The kind that tries to climb by offering something ."
Cold settles in my chest.
Her.
Jake clears his throat.
"Sir, according to everything we have, Stocciani should be dead. Six months ago, we confirmed the blast. The compound was wiped. No survivors identified."
"And yet," I say slowly, "They went after her."
No one speaks.
"That's what doesn't add up," I continue.
"If Stocciani is gone, why am I still the target? And why now?"
Loren steps in. "We contacted every remaining asset and informant tied to the Stocciani network. Same report across the board. Radio silence. No movement. No retaliation. No chatter."
Dead quiet.
Which makes it worse.
"Regardless," I say, straightening, "we assume the worst."
All eyes are on me now.
"We operate like he's alive," I continue. "Or like someone is trying to reopen things.
I want every old route reopened. Every financial trail rechecked. Every captain briefed."
I turn to Ivan. "Where are we stationed?"
"GroundBase BL," he replies. "Most senior captains are within reach. Security's already elevated."
Good.
"She stays off every grid," I add. "No names. No locations. No patterns."
Because if they can't reach me—
They'll try to break me through her.
I look around the room.
"Until we know who's still breathing out there, we move like the operation never ended."
No one questions it.
They all know what Stocciani means.
And so do I.
Tyler clears his throat.
"Sir," he says, "we just received an image."
"From who?"
He shakes his head
"Unknown relay. Single drop."
The photo fills the screen.
Grainy. Slightly tilted. Taken through glass.
She's inside my home.
Sitting on the couch.
A book open in her lap.
That photo was taken from outside.
No one speaks.
Because someone was close enough to see her breathe.