The concrete of the parking garage was cold and damp, smelling of exhaust and stale water. Wade’s grip on Anya’s elbow was firm, guiding her forward as her boots scuffed against the oil-stained floor. The burlap sack over her head was a coarse, ugly thing, the weave rough against his knuckles where he held the gathered neck. She walked without resistance, her shoulders hunched, playing the part of a broken witness. Somewhere above them, in a penthouse with a view of the city’s glittering sickness, Truenai waited. The weight of that knowledge sat in Wade’s stomach like a stone.

Viktor Sokolov stood under a flickering fluorescent light, its buzz the only sound in the vast, empty level. He was a silhouette in a tailored charcoal suit, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t move as they approached. He simply watched.

Wade stopped ten feet short. “Sokolov.”

“Deputy Dunn.” Viktor’s voice was smooth, accent faint, a veneer over gravel. His cold gray eyes took in the scene: Wade’s tense posture, the sack-headed figure, the empty garage. “You came alone. As requested.”

“I’m not an idiot. You have men. I know they’re here.” Wade’s own voice was raw, stripped of its official timbre, replaced by the grit of a man who’d been cheated. “Where’s my money?”

Viktor’s lips twitched, not a smile. A predator assessing a new kind of prey. He gave a slight nod. A duffel bag landed with a heavy thud from the shadows of a concrete pillar, kicked into the circle of light by an unseen foot. “First half. As agreed. The rest after verification.”

“Verification.” Wade spat the word. He gave Anya a slight push forward. “There she is. The nurse who can put you away. The one my captain sold out for. Look at her.”

Viktor took one step, then two, closing the distance with silent grace. He circled them, his gaze a physical touch. He stopped in front of Anya, studying the shape of her under the sack, the tremble Wade could feel through her arm. “Remove it.”

Wade’s jaw tightened. This was the threshold. He yanked the sack up and off.

Anya blinked in the harsh light, her pale hair mussed, her haunted eyes wide with a fear that didn’t look like acting. She kept her gaze down, her body curling inward. A perfect picture of shattered defiance.

Viktor stared. A long, silent five seconds. He reached out, not to touch her, but to tilt his head, examining her profile. His expression gave nothing away. Then his eyes cut back to Wade. “She looks different. In the photographs from the facility, she had more… color.”

“Witness protection, a bullet wound, and a betrayal’ll do that to a person,” Wade snapped, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You want her medical records too? I didn’t bring a fucking dossier. I brought the asset.”

“You brought a woman who seems very afraid of you, Deputy.”

“She should be. She’s the reason my career is ash. She’s the reason I’m standing here dealing with you.” Wade took a step closer to Viktor, invading his space, letting the genuine fury over Reed, over the whole rotten system, blaze in his eyes. “You think I give a damn about her comfort? You paid for a problem to disappear. So take her. Disappear her. Just give me the rest of my money so I can disappear, too.”

Viktor held his gaze, a silent battle of wills in the buzzing stillness.

Viktor’s gaze finally broke from Wade’s, drifting back to the cowering form of Anya. “A problem to disappear,” he echoed, his voice a soft, considering rasp. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket. “You are a practical man. I appreciate this. It is why I prepared a… practical solution.”

He withdrew a slender, sealed plastic case. Inside, visible through the clear plastic, was a pre-filled syringe, the liquid inside a pale, innocuous yellow.

Wade’s blood went cold. “What’s that?”

“Potassium chloride,” Viktor said, as if naming a fine wine. “A high concentration. It stops the heart. Quite quickly. It leaves very little trace, especially in someone with a recent traumatic injury. It looks like shock. Like system failure.” He flicked the case with a fingernail. “I used the same on my brother. The one in the hospital bed. He was weak. He was going to talk. The syringe at his bedside was for his comfort. I simply… swapped it.” She was there that night and became a loose end.

He looked at Anya, then at Wade, a ghoul’s smile touching his lips. “And tonight, I will swap this nurse’s fate. You will not end her life. I will. Here. Now. Then you take your money and your freedom. Clean. Efficient.”

Wade’s hand twitched toward his concealed hip. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal is what I say it is,” Viktor said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You are not in a position to negotiate, Deputy. You are a traitor selling a witness. You do not get to care about her method of departure.” He snapped the case open. “Hold her.”

This was the signal.

As Viktor’s fingers closed around the syringe, Anya’s haunted expression vanished. Her curled posture uncoiled into a fighter’s stance. The fake tremble in her arm stilled into steel.

“Now!” Wade barked, not to Viktor, but to the echoing concrete void.

The garage erupted.

Viktor’s men, two bulky shadows at the SUV, drew their weapons. Muzzle flashes bloomed from the upper level catwalk—Anya’s FBI team, opening fire. The sharp, deafening cracks of gunfire multiplied, ricocheting off concrete. One of Viktor’s men fell, a dark spray arcing from his throat. The other dove behind the vehicle’s engine block, returning fire upward.

Viktor didn’t flinch. He looked at the syringe in his hand, then at the chaos, as if calculating the inconvenience. His gray eyes locked on Wade. Not with anger. With cold, surgical recognition. Then he turned and ran, not for cover, but for a service door set into the far wall.

Wade was already moving. His shoulder screamed, a hot tear of pain where the sutures had ripped. He ignored it. He shoved past Anya, who was crouched low, her service pistol now in her hand, firing precise shots toward the SUV. “Garrison, suppress that vehicle!” she yelled into her wrist.

Wade sprinted after Viktor. The world narrowed to the pounding of his boots on oil-stained concrete, the stitch in his side, the fleeing figure in the expensive suit. The service door swung shut. Wade hit it with his good shoulder, bursting through into a dimly lit stairwell.

The sound of the firefight became muffled, replaced by the hollow echo of feet on metal stairs above. Viktor was ascending, fast. Wade took the steps two at a time, the railing cold and gritty under his palm. His breath sawed in his chest. Each upward pull sent a fresh lance of agony through his wounded shoulder. He focused on the sound above. The rhythm of the chase.

He emerged onto the rooftop. The city sprawled below, a grid of twilight and early lights. The air was cooler, carrying the distant hum of traffic. Viktor stood thirty feet away, near the roof’s edge. He wasn’t out of breath. He had discarded his suit jacket. In one hand, he still held the sealed syringe case. In the other, a compact, black pistol.

“Deputy,” Viktor said, his voice calm. “You are a terrible businessman.”

Wade slowed, his hands raised slightly, his own gun still holstered under his arm. “It’s over, Viktor. The garage is swarming with feds.”

“Is it?” Viktor smiled. “Then why are you up here with me? Why not wait downstairs with your friends?” He tilted his head. “You want it to be you. You need it to be you.”

Wade said nothing. The wind tugged at his shirt.

“The nurse,” Viktor mused, hefting the syringe case. “She got to you. I saw it on the phone. The way you looked at her. The way your voice changed when you said her name. It’s not about duty anymore. It’s about…” He searched for the word. “Possession.”

“Put the weapon down,” Wade said, his voice low.

Viktor ignored him. “My brother. He was weak because he felt. He cared for a girl. He wanted out. He talked of conscience.” Viktor’s finger rested alongside the pistol’s trigger. “I showed him where conscience lives. In a hospital bed. In a syringe.” He looked at the case. “This is the same lesson. For the nurse. For you. Feeling is a fatal flaw.”

“Where’s Eleanor?” Wade asked.

Viktor’s composure cracked. Just a millimeter. A twitch in his jaw. “What?”

“Captain Reed’s daughter. The nurse you broke. Where is she?”

“She is a vegetable in a home. She is nothing.”

“She’s why Reed sold his soul. She’s why you had leverage. She’s the reason.” Wade took a step forward. “You didn’t just kill your brother. You killed his future. You killed Reed’s daughter. You’re trying to kill Truenai. Not because they’re loose ends. Because they’re proof you’re empty.”

Viktor’s face went blank. The cold, analytical mask slipped, revealing something barren and furious beneath. “You understand nothing.”

“I understand you’re about to drop that gun,” Wade said.

The shot came from behind Wade, not from Viktor. A single, sharp crack. It struck the gravel near Viktor’s foot, kicking up a spray of stone.

Viktor spun, bringing his pistol up toward the new threat.

Anya stood in the rooftop doorway, her pistol held in a steady two-handed grip. “Federal agent! Drop your weapon, Sokolov!”

It was the split-second distraction. Wade charged.

The distance closed in three heartbeats. Viktor saw him coming, started to swing the pistol back. Wade didn’t go for the gun. He drove his good shoulder into Viktor’s chest, slamming him against the low parapet wall at the roof’s edge.

The breath left Viktor in a grunt. The pistol clattered onto the rooftop gravel. The syringe case flew from his hand, skittering away. Viktor’s hands came up, fingers clawing for Wade’s eyes. Wade caught one wrist, wrenching it sideways. He drove a knee into Viktor’s thigh.

This wasn’t a police takedown. It was raw, desperate violence. Every ounce of Wade’s fear for Truenai, his rage at Reed, his terror at the thought of that syringe finding her skin—it fueled his fists. He hit Viktor in the stomach. Again. The man doubled over.

Viktor head-butted upward, catching Wade’s chin. Lights exploded behind Wade’s eyes. He stumbled back, his injured shoulder slamming against the parapet. The city tilted dizzily below him.

Viktor surged forward, his hand reaching not for Wade, but for the syringe case a few feet away. His fingers brushed the plastic.

“No,” Wade gasped. He lunged, not at Viktor, but at the case. He kicked it. It sailed over the parapet, disappearing into the dark alley below.

Viktor let out a strangled sound—not of anger, but of profound loss. He stared at the empty space where the case had been. As if Wade hadn’t just thrown away a weapon, but a sacred object.

That moment of stunned emptiness was all Anya needed. She was there. She pressed her pistol to the back of Viktor’s skull. “On the ground. Now. Hands behind your head.”

Viktor went still. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees on the gravel. He did not look at Anya. He looked at Wade. His gray eyes were hollow. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he whispered.

Wade stood, bracing himself against the parapet, breathing hard. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving the pain in his shoulder bright and overwhelming. He could feel warm blood soaking through his shirt.

Anya kept her gun steady as other agents flooded onto the roof, swarming Viktor, cuffing him, hauling him to his feet. The radio chatter was tense and victorious.

She looked at Wade. Her haunted eyes were clear. “You’re bleeding.”

Wade nodded, unable to speak. He looked toward the service door. Down through the concrete, to where the garage was, to where the penthouse was, to where she was waiting. The fight was over. Viktor was taken. The trap had sprung.

He had chased the monster. He had caught him.

Now he had to go back to her, and tell her what he’d almost let happen.

Anya holstered her weapon as the last of the tactical team led a shackled Viktor through the service door. The roof was suddenly, deafeningly quiet.

She turned to Wade, her movements efficient. "Sit. Against the parapet. Now."

He slid down the concrete, the rough edge scraping his back. The world tilted. The blood loss was real.

Anya crouched before him, unzipping a compact med-kit from her belt. She didn’t ask. She pulled a trauma shear from its loop and sliced through his blood-soaked shirt sleeve from cuff to collar.

The wound was a mess. The sutures Truenai had placed were torn, the flesh around them angry and weeping. Anya swabbed it with antiseptic. The burn was electric. Wade hissed, his head thudding back against the concrete.

"You kicked the case," she said, not looking up from her work. Her fingers were steady as she applied a thick pressure bandage, winding it tight around his shoulder and chest.

"Yeah."

"You hesitated first."

Wade closed his eyes. The image of the briefcase’s latches, gleaming under the rooftop lights, flashed behind his lids. The weight of it in his hand. The promise of an end.

"I know."

Anya secured the bandage with a sharp tug. "He offered you a clean slate. No looking back. I saw it in your face."

"It wasn't real."

"It was real enough to make you stop." She packed her supplies away, her movements precise. "The fight is over, Wade. Viktor is in a cage. The mission is complete."

She stood, looking down at him. Her haunted eyes held no judgment, only a stark, weary clarity.

"Your duty to the witness is fulfilled. Your duty to the badge is satisfied. There is no protocol left for what happens next."

Wade pushed himself up, using the parapet for support. The new bandage pulled, a firm, clean pain.

"Go to the penthouse," Anya said. Her voice was low, final. "Tell her what you want. Not as a deputy. Not as her protector. As a man. Or walk away now, and lose her forever. Those are your only choices."

She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and followed the path the tactical team had taken, her silhouette swallowed by the dark doorway.

Wade was alone with the drip of the pipe and the city’s distant hum.

He moved toward the service stairs, each step sending a jolt through his bandaged shoulder. The garage level was empty, echoing with the ghosts of the confrontation. He found the private elevator, its doors still open where Viktor’s men had left it.

The ascent was silent. He watched the numbers climb, his reflection a stranger in the polished brass—pale, bloody, hollow-eyed.

The penthouse doors opened directly into the living room. The space was all cool marble and floor-to-ceiling glass, the city lights a sprawling tapestry below. It was utterly silent.

Truenai stood at the window, her back to him. She wore the simple jeans and sweater Anya had provided. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself.

She didn’t turn. "I heard the radios. Through the ventilation shaft. They said 'subject in custody.'"

"Yeah." His voice was gravel.

She finally turned. Her face was pale, her eyes scanning him—the torn, bloody clothes, the fresh white bandage stark against his skin. Her clinical gaze catalogued the damage, but her expression was raw, uncharted territory.

"Your shoulder—"

"It's fine."

"It's not fine." She took a step toward him, then stopped, as if an invisible line lay between them. "Is it done?"

"Viktor's in custody. It's done."

A shuddering breath left her. The relief didn’t soften her. It made her tremble. "What happened up there?"

Wade crossed the room. He didn’t stop at the line. He walked until he was right in front of her, close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.

"He offered me a deal," Wade said, the words ripped from a dark place. "A briefcase. Money. New identities. A way out for both of us, where no one would ever find you."

Truenai went very still.

"He put it in my hand. And for a second… for a second, I wanted it. I wanted to take it and run. To make you safe by making you disappear with me."

Her eyes searched his. "Why didn't you?"

"Because it was a cage. A prettier one, but a cage. And you deserve more than a life spent looking over your shoulder because of a deal I made with a monster." He swallowed. "I kicked it off the roof."

A tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. "You hesitated."

"Yes."

"Good."

The word hung between them, soft and devastating.

He closed the distance and kissed her, hard and desperate. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision of relief and terror, his mouth claiming hers with a force that stole her breath. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing away the wet track of her tear, his fingers tangling in her hair. He tasted of sweat, concrete dust, and the metallic fear of the rooftop. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in the blood-stained fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if she could absorb him through her skin.

When he finally broke for air, his forehead rested against hers. Their breaths mingled, ragged and loud in the penthouse silence. “I thought,” he gasped, “for a second up there, I thought I’d have to come down here and tell you I failed.”

“You didn’t.”

“He’s in cuffs. Anya’s processing him. It’s over.” The words felt unreal. A fiction he couldn’t trust.

Truenai’s gaze dropped to his shoulder. The dark red bloom on his shirt had expanded. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Sutures tore. During the fight.”

“Sit.” It was her nurse’s voice, the one that brooked no argument. But her hands, as she guided him to the edge of the luxurious bed, trembled.

He sat, wincing as the movement pulled at the torn flesh. She knelt before him, her medical bag already open on the floor. With careful, precise motions, she peeled the ruined shirt from his skin. The cool air of the penthouse hit the wound, and he hissed.

Her focus was absolute. She cleaned the area, her touch clinical and gentle. But her breathing was uneven. He watched the pulse flutter in her throat. Saw the way her lower lip was caught between her teeth.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“Adrenaline crash.” She didn’t look up, selecting a fresh suture kit. “It’s normal.”

“Look at me.”

Her hands stilled. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his. The professional mask was gone. What remained was raw, wide-open fear. And beneath it, a heat that had nothing to do with medicine.

“It’s over,” he repeated, as if saying it again would make it true for both of them.

“Is it?” Her voice was a whisper. “What happens now? To you? To… this?”

He had no answer. The future was a blank, terrifying page. His duty was done. The witness was safe. The protocol now was clear, and it didn’t involve the witness in his arms, in his bed, under his skin.

She saw the conflict in his eyes. Her own gaze dropped, focusing on her hands as she threaded the needle. “I need to close this. It might… you should lie back.”

He obeyed, easing back onto the expensive duvet. The ceiling was smooth, featureless white. He felt the bed dip as she climbed up to kneel beside his hip, leaning over his shoulder. The first pinch of the needle made his muscles tense.

“Breathe,” she murmured, her breath warm against his neck.

He let out a slow exhale. His eyes drifted closed. His other senses sharpened. The scent of her—antiseptic and the faint, clean perfume of her shampoo. The soft brush of her hair against his cheek. The intense, focused heat of her body so close to his.

Her movements were efficient, each suture a small, sharp tug followed by the gentle pressure of her fingers tying it off. But with each pass of the needle, her breathing grew shallower. Her knee pressed against his ribs. He could feel the tremble in her thigh.

He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. From this angle, he could see the concentration etched on her face, the slight flush on her neck disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. His gaze traveled down. The thin fabric of her top had gaped slightly as she leaned over him. He could see the shadowed curve of her breast, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

A low, involuntary sound escaped him.

Her hands froze. The needle hovered above his skin. “Wade?”

“Don’t stop.” His voice was rough.

She didn’t move. He could feel the weight of her stare on the side of his face. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his right hand up and covered hers, the one holding the needle. He guided her hand down, pressing her palm flat against his bare chest, over his pounding heart. The needle fell, forgotten, to the duvet.

“It’s over,” he said for the third time, and this time it wasn’t about Viktor. It was about the last fraying thread of his control. “The job is done.”

Her fingers flexed against his skin. Her eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the warm brown. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not your deputy right now.” He shifted, ignoring the flare of pain, turning onto his good side to face her. “There’s no protocol for this. No rulebook.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Then what are you?”

“A man,” he said, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck. “Who almost lost you today. Who wanted to run away with you. Who needs to feel that you’re real, and here, and mine.”

The last word hung between them, a claim he had no right to make, but one his entire soul screamed was true.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, a shudder ran through her. “Then feel it,” she whispered, and closed the last inch between them.

This kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. A deliberate savoring. He tasted the salt of her earlier tears, felt the soft give of her lips, the tentative slide of her tongue against his. It was an affirmation. A yes. He groaned into her mouth, pulling her down until she was straddling his thighs, her weight a sweet, solid pressure.

Her hands were everywhere—in his hair, tracing the line of his jaw, skimming down his neck to his shoulders. She was careful to avoid his wound, her touch mapping the unmarked territory of his chest, the tense cords of his abdomen. He let her explore, his own hands roaming up her back, under her shirt, finding the warm, smooth skin of her spine.

He broke the kiss to trail his lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat. She tipped her head back with a gasp. “Wade… your shoulder…”

“Forget the shoulder,” he breathed against her skin, his hands sliding to her hips. He guided her down, turning them until her back met the cool cotton of the sheets and he was above her, caged between her thighs. “I’m going to feel every inch of you.”

He kissed her again, a deep, claiming press of his mouth, then began a slow descent. His lips traced a path down her sternum, over the soft swell of her breast through her shirt, down the quivering plane of her stomach. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her pants and her underwear, pulling them down her legs in one slow, deliberate motion. The air in the room was cool against her heated skin.

He settled between her legs, his hands spreading her thighs wider. He looked up the length of her body, meeting her dark, wide eyes. “Don’t worry about the shoulder,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m going to finally claim what’s mine.”

Then he lowered his mouth to her.

The first touch of his tongue was a soft, slow stroke. She cried out, her back arching off the bed. Her hands fisted in the sheets. He didn’t rush. He explored her with a focused, devastating patience, learning the shape of her, the taste—musky and sweet and entirely her. He licked into her, deep, then circled the sensitive peak of her clit with a relentless, gentle pressure.

“Wade…” His name was a broken syllable.

He groaned against her, the vibration making her jolt. He could feel her trembling, the tight coil of her muscles. He slid a hand up her stomach, under her shirt, to cup her breast. Her nipple was a hard peak against his palm. He rolled it between his fingers as his tongue kept its rhythm.

Her hips began to move, a helpless rocking against his mouth. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps. He could feel her getting closer, the tension winding tighter, her thighs tightening around his head. He increased the pressure, flicking his tongue faster, sucking gently.

She came with a choked sob, her body bowing, one hand flying down to tangle in his hair, not to push him away but to hold him there. He rode it out with her, gentling his touch until the last shiver passed through her.

He kissed his way back up her body, his own need a painful, urgent ache. His cock strained against his jeans, a thick, hard line. He paused to yank his shirt over his head, ignoring the fiery protest from his shoulder. The bandage was spotted with fresh blood.

Her eyes were hazy, but they focused on the stain. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Later,” he growled, unfastening his jeans. He shoved them down, kicking them off. He knelt between her legs, his body on full display for her—the scars, the tension, the sheer, raw want. “Look at me.”

She did. Her gaze traveled from his face, down his chest, to his erection. Her lips parted. She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his length. The touch was electric. He hissed, his hips jerking forward.

“I need you inside me,” she whispered, guiding him to her entrance. “Now.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He braced his good arm beside her head, his other hand gripping her hip. He pushed into her, slowly, watching her face. Her eyes fluttered closed, her mouth falling open on a silent gasp. She was so wet, so tight, still pulsing from her climax. He sank deeper, until he was fully sheathed, buried in her heat.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stayed there, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her air. This was the feeling he’d almost lost. This was the reality he needed. Her. Connected. His.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured.

She did. They were swimming with unshed tears. Not from pain.

He began to move. A slow, deep withdrawal, then a thrust that made her gasp. He set a relentless, claiming rhythm, each stroke a punctuation to his earlier words. *Mine. Here. Real.* The pain in his shoulder was a distant buzz, drowned out by the slap of skin, her ragged cries, the overwhelming sensation of her body gripping his.

Her legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her nails scored down his back. “Harder,” she pleaded, her voice raw. “Please.”

He obeyed, driving into her with a force that shook the bedframe, each thrust pushing a groan from his chest. The world narrowed to this bed, this woman, this fusion. He could feel his own climax building, a tight, hot pressure at the base of his spine. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit again, circling.

She shattered first. Her climax tore through her with a sharp cry, her inner muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses. It was too much. The sight of her, the feel of her, the sheer relief of being alive and together. His control snapped.

He drove into her one last, deep time and came with a guttural sound that was half her name. Pleasure, white-hot and obliterating, surged through him. He collapsed onto his good side, taking her with him, still joined, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

They lay there, tangled, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The only sound was the hum of the penthouse air conditioner. Slowly, the world seeped back in. The ache in his shoulder, now a throbbing, insistent beat. The cool air on his damp skin. The weight of her leg thrown over his.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “I’m not letting you go,” he said into her skin. It wasn’t a deputy’s promise. It was a man’s vow.