Dane's POV:
I wake up with her hair in my face and the sound of her snoring like she doesn't have a single worry left in the world.
Who sleeps like that?
She's small—so small it still surprises me—but somehow she's taken over the entire bed. Her head is resting on my chest, her hair sprawled everywhere like it staged a quiet rebellion overnight.
She must've pushed it back at some point, overheated, half-asleep.
One leg is flung over mine, the other kicked out, claiming territory.
And she's snoring.
Like a truck.
I lift my hand and gently push her hair out of my face.
The scent of it lingers on my fingers—familiar, grounding, dangerous in how much it settles me.
My phone buzzes softly against the nightstand.
I glance at the screen.
7:02 a.m.
Missed calls from Jake. From Ivan.
My body tightens immediately, whatever softness the morning tried to give me evaporating on contact.
I try to slide out of bed without waking her, easing myself inch by inch toward the edge.
She shifts but doesn't wake.
Before I leave the room, I look back once—just to make sure she's still there.
Still breathing. Still peaceful.
Then I shut the door softly behind me.
I call Jake the second I'm out of earshot.
"Captain," he says, breath rushed, like he's been holding it in too long.
"Stocciani's on the move. Something's off."
So I was wrong.
That bastard isn't dead.
And after the damage I've done—after everything I've burned down to get close to him—
He's coming for me.
And that means—
He's coming for her.
"Briefing room," I say flatly.
"Thirty minutes."
I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch, the last traces of sleep bleeding out of my body like it never existed.
"Danny?" Her voice drifts from behind me. Soft. Sleepy.
"Good morning."
I turn.
She's standing there in nothing but a pink T-shirt that barely makes it to mid-thigh, hair a complete mess, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Morning," I say—and my body betrays me, already moving toward her.
Then she looks at the clock.
"Oh my god," she blurts. "I'm late. I'm late—we need to leave by 7:30."
Before I can say a word, she's gone—already rushing to her room.
The T-shirt doing so little to cover that subtle jiggle of her ass.
Impossible to ignore.
By the time I follow her down the hall—showered, dressed, twelve minutes to spare—I can hear the sound of drawers opening and closing like a storm tearing through her room.
"You ready?" I ask, taking in the chaos.
I almost pity my staff.
"Yeah—yes—just—okay!" she shouts, bursting past me.
"You are so making me late, move!"
She's wearing dark blue scrubs, her hair still an unruly mess, mismatched socks on her feet like she didn't even notice.
Or most likely didn't care.
She's a mess.
A hot mess.
"Danny," she whines, already halfway to the door, "you're getting me late."
This was our entire school life.
She'd be late, and somehow it would always be my fault.
I rush after her.
Just like I used to.
In the car, she seems lighter this morning. More relaxed.
Happier.
The way she hums to herself tells me she slept deeper than she has in days.
Happy next to me.
The thought settles somewhere warm in my chest.
"This job is good," she says, half to herself. "I think it's good for me."
I hear the doubt in her voice .
She's trying to convince herself.
And she's failing—but I don't say anything.
This works for me.
I drop her at the entrance of the medical center.
She hops out, jogs toward the doors, then turns around suddenly and blows me the most ridiculous flying kiss.
Pity my heart, baby.
I pull away and head toward Complex B.
The drive through the secured entrance is smooth, practiced.
The world disappears behind concrete and clearance levels exactly the way it's designed to.
Every checkpoint peels away another layer of noise, another layer of daylight.
By the time I reach the briefing room at the core, the outside world might as well not exist.
Three minutes to spare.
When I walk in, they're already seated.
And Stocciani is on the screen.
"Subject is up," Jake says.
Valen Stocciani IV.
He isn't a king. He's an old butcher with an army.
His power doesn't come from loyalty—it comes from terror, from ritual violence passed down like inheritance. He doesn't rule people.
He breaks them until there's nothing left to rule.
It's a family trade. Father to son. Centuries of blood.
Trafficking. Forced marriages. Ritual killings.
Every generation proved itself the same way—obedience, spectacle, and blood.
And when Valen finished learning the trade, he slaughtered his own family too.
I could recite the four-thousand-page record of his crimes in my sleep.
I've been obsessed with him ever since he made it personal five years ago.
He left my father—or what was left of him—at the gates of GroundBase.
Like some cruel joke.
"Everything was quiet until this," Ivan says, pulling up a map.
"Hohenmark. A shipment is moving out."
"From Hohenmark?" I ask, frowning. "Where to?"
Hohenmark is the operational capital of everything Stocciani touches.
After he destroyed his founding keep—Stoccara—by killing his father, he couldn't stay there.
The vultures would've torn him apart.
"The informant says it's heading to Stoccara."
The room goes still.
That makes no sense.
Why send fresh cargo into a place that's already soaked in his blood?
His hunting ground.
My temples begin to throb.
"Alright," I say finally.
"We intercept. Likely girls from the breeding houses."
A few jaws tighten.
"And get Voss on standby. Full medical support."
They salute in unison.
We move.
There are only two routes the trucks can take into Stoccara.
We split the teams.
Within ten minutes, we're airborne—chartered under a shell organization, no digital trail.
By noon we're wheels-down in northern Italy, switch aircraft, wipe the path behind us.
Civilian vehicles meet us past the border. Unmarked.
Sealed.
Silent.
At exactly 6:00 p.m., we cut engines between Hohenmark and Stoccara.
Exactly where I want us.
According to the informant, the shipment is thirty minutes out.
Plenty of time.
"Captain," Boris says carefully.
"We've got a proble—"
The radio crackles once.
Then the ground jumps.
A blast rolls through the valley, deep and concussive, knocking dust from the trees.
Ready or Not ,
I'm coming for you Stocciani.