Chapter 11

POV: Emma

I woke to the weight of his arm slung across my waist. Heavy. Familiar.

Jason.

Not the thin blanket the dorms gave us, not the sterile hum of the compound — but him. His arm heavy across my waist, his chest pressed against my back, his breath slow against the back of my neck.

For a second I thought I was still dreaming. Then I shifted, and his grip tightened, pulling me closer.

“Muffin,” he rasped, voice gravel and sleep. “Thought you’d slip away before I woke?”

I rolled to face him, hair messy across my eyes, and found him already watching me. Green eyes soft, lids heavy, his mouth tilted in that infuriating half-smirk. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

His smirk deepened. “Good. Because I’m not done with you.”

Heat rolled through me, low and instant. God, I hated how easy it was, how his voice alone could undo me. “You’re insatiable,” I muttered, though I was already sliding closer, pressing into his warmth.

“Only with you.” His hand skimmed down my spine, featherlight, until he cupped my ass and squeezed just enough to make me gasp. “Always been that way.”

I tried to glare, but it melted when he dipped to kiss my shoulder, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did. Maybe right now, in this cocoon, we did.

My fingers trailed to his ribs, brushing over the muffin tattoo. He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “Still makes you blush,” he teased.

“Still makes you ridiculous,” I shot back, though my chest was aching with how much I loved it.

His grin flashed — wicked, boyish, the same one that used to undo me in his jeep when we were too young to know better. “You loved it then. You love it now.”

And then his mouth was on mine, warm and slow, the kiss unhurried, tasting of morning and memory.

“You still kiss like you’re trying to ruin me,” I whispered against his lips.

He chuckled, soft and broken. “That’s because you ruined me first.”

Heat flared low in my belly. My hands slid down his chest — harder, broader than before, but still my Jason beneath it all. His skin shivered under my touch, and he groaned when I circled his nipple with my thumb.

“Still sensitive there,” I teased.

His smirk flashed. “You remember everything.”

“I remember too much.” My voice cracked.

His hand slid under my shirt, thumb brushing my skin in lazy circles. “God, you’re soft,” he murmured. “I missed this. Missed you.”

I arched into him, every nerve sparking, every inch of me already awake and aching. “Show me,” I whispered.

He did.

He rolled me onto my back, covering me with his body, kissing me until I was dizzy. His tongue teased, retreated, teased again, until I was fisting his hair and cursing into his mouth. He laughed, low and smug.

“You’re still bossy in bed,” he said, grinning against my lips.”A bossy Muffin,”

“And you’re still impossible,” I gasped.

“Perfect match,” he murmured, before sliding down to worship my body the way only he knew how — slow kisses, teasing bites, inside jokes whispered against my skin that made me laugh even as my toes curled.

When he finally slid into me, it wasn’t fierce like the night before. It was slow. Deep. Maddening. Every thrust like a memory reclaimed, every kiss a promise.

We moved together like we never stopped, like our bodies remembered even when our hearts had been torn apart. He knew exactly when to curl his hand against my hip, when to brush his thumb along my nipple, when to murmur “Muffin” against my throat just to watch me unravel.

And when I came, clinging to him, his mouth swallowed my cry, and I felt his shuddering release a moment later, his whole body trembling against mine.

We stayed tangled, catching our breaths, my cheek pressed to his chest.

“Lazy mornings with you were always my favorite,” he said softly, tracing patterns on my shoulder.

“Mine too,” I whispered, smiling despite the ache in my chestBut as the first slice of sunlight crept through his curtains, reality tugged me back. I couldn’t stay. Not here. Not yet.

I kissed him one more time, slow and lingering, before slipping out of his arms. He mumbled something, half-asleep, reaching for me even as I pulled away.

And it nearly broke me.

Because I wanted to stay. God, I wanted to stay.

But I dressed quietly, heart heavy, and slipped back into the compound’s silence — the taste of him still on my lips, his warmth still on my skin.

I was careful. Too careful.

Slipping out of Jason’s dorm felt like stepping through enemy lines—bare feet on the cold floor, every creak of the hallway amplified in my chest. My pulse thundered as I closed the door behind me, praying no one would see me, no one would guess where I’d spent the night.

By the time I reached my own dorm, I forced myself to breathe. Wash up. Change clothes. Check the mirror twice to make sure I didn’t look like I’d just been thoroughly wrecked by Jason. But there was no hiding it. My skin glowed. My lips still felt swollen. My legs… sore in the best way. And my eyes—God, my eyes gave me away.

I tried to school my expression as I walked into the breakfast hall, but the second I spotted him across the room, my stomach flipped. Jason. Sitting with the other judges, casual as hell in his chair, but his gaze… his gaze found me instantly. Like he’d been waiting. Like he already owned the fact that he knew every inch of me.

I forced myself to move like nothing happened, picking up a plate and sliding into the line at the buffet. Croissants, fruit, eggs—I reached for a golden, flaky pastry just as another hand reached too.

Jason.

My breath caught. He grabbed an orange juice instead, his body brushing too close, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing my ear. “Do something different this morning, Muffin?”

Heat surged through me, memory slamming into my body—the feel of his mouth between my thighs, the way he made me look into his eyes when I shattered for him. My fingers nearly crushed the croissant in my hand.

I turned, just enough to catch the smirk tugging at his lips before he stepped back, slipping seamlessly into his role. Jason-the-judge. Not Jason-who-spent-the-night-inside-me.

My chest tightened. He could pretend for the cameras, for the contestants, for the show. But I couldn’t forget. Not when every look he threw me across the room was a silent reminder of what happened.

I slid into a seat at my table, biting into the croissant just to have something to do with my mouth, while every nerve in my body buzzed from the weight of his attention.

And then—

The alarm blared. Shrill. Demanding. The kind that meant another task.

Chairs scraped, contestants scrambled, chatter erupted in the room. My plate sat forgotten as I stood with the others, adrenaline pumping.

The competition was getting brutal now, only a handful of us left. Each task cut deeper, tested more, and every elimination felt like the end was breathing down our necks.

I should’ve been focused on that. I should’ve been bracing myself for whatever insane challenge they’d throw at us next. But my gaze snagged on something else—something that burned hotter than the alarm.

The cameraman.

He wasn’t filming. He was talking. Too close. Too deliberate. His head bent toward Owen, who stood stiff, jaw clenched, like he didn’t want to be seen. My stomach flipped hard. That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t normal.

I forced myself to move with the others toward the door, but my pulse was hammering for a new reason.

Suspicion.

Whatever this game was, it was more than a reality show. And Owen knew something. The cameraman knew something.

And if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up being the one caught in the middle.

Chapter 12

POV: Emma

The contestants gathered in the lounge, tension thick as everyone waited for the Williams to announce the next task. My stomach fluttered—not from nerves about the challenge, but from the weight of Jason’s gaze. He was across the room, leaning against the wall like he didn’t have a care in the world, but his eyes kept flicking to me. And I couldn’t stop stealing glances back, replaying every second of last night in my head.

I was still glowing, still aching. Still his.

Then Owen’s voice cut through the silence.

“Wait.”

Everyone turned. He stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes glittering with something sharp. Not nerves. Triumph.

“I need to say something before we go any further.”

My pulse jumped. His tone was wrong—too rehearsed, too sure. And the cameraman was right there, lens tilted, too focused.

“I think the rest of us deserve to know the truth,” Owen said, his voice slicing the stunned silence.

I froze. Truth. The word landed like a punch. My lungs locked, panic running hot through my veins. Could he mean me? Could he mean my secret? If this blew, I’d lose everything—the case, the career, the people who trusted me. The layers of what was at stake folded over my chest and crushed my breath.

“The truth about Emma Greene.”

For a second I forgot how to breathe. My face went numb, blood draining away until the world went slow. Every head swung toward me. My legs turned to stone. This was it. Some way, somehow, my cover had been found. My mission was about to be ripped apart on the floor of a reality show lounge.

Owen’s mouth curled as if he’d been waiting for the exact image he was about to show. “She’s been sleeping with one of the judges.”

The floor dropped out beneath me.

“What?” A hundred small voices folded together—gasps, the scrape of chairs, whispers that sounded like knives. “Who?”

I couldn’t answer. My ears filled with the roar of my own pulse. My throat felt raw and useless.

Owen lifted his hand and someone in the crowd pushed a phone forward. Grainy, dim — but unmistakable. Me, at dawn, slipping out of Jason’s dorm. The photo was small but its accusation was loud.

Laughter, a stinging chorus of breathy outrage, cut the air.

I looked at Jason. In him I saw a flicker of everything: guilt, rage, the kind of regret that wasn’t for the night itself — never that — but for the fact we’d been exposed. He looked like a man hooked with a blade. His eyes found mine and, for a sliver of a second, I felt protected.

“She’s been breaking the rules the entire time,” Owen said, doubling down. “She knew him before this. That’s why she’s here. That’s why she’s survived.”

“No.” Jason’s voice snapped like a whip.

He shoved off the wall, fury thrown raw in every line of his body. “That’s a lie. I never gave her an advantage. Not once.” His words hit the room, but they landed on deaf ears.

They weren’t looking at him. They were looking at me—hot, accusatory stares that peeled my skin back until I felt floated and hollow. My vision blurred. Shame and panic braided into something so tight it hurt.

“My history with Emma has nothing to do with this,” Jason pushed, raw.

“Of course you’d say that,” Owen sneered, triumph in his eyes. “The truth’s out. Everyone can see what she really is.”

Jason surged forward, his voice breaking, desperate. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that—”

“Enough.”

The room snapped into silence.

Silas Blackwood stepped forward, his presence like a shadow swallowing the air. His eyes, dark and merciless, swept the room before settling on me.

“I’m sorry, Miss Green,” he said, his voice smooth as a blade. “But this is unacceptable. The integrity of the show cannot be compromised. You’ll need to leave.”

“No.” Jason’s protest was raw, torn from his chest. He moved toward me, hand out like he could shield me from all of it. “She didn’t do anything wrong—”

Silas didn’t even look at him. “You will remain. The show goes on.”

The finality in his tone shattered me.

I stood there, every eye on me, shame crushing me from all sides. My mouth opened, but no words came. Jason’s face was twisted with rage and something deeper—desperation. He wanted to fight for me. But he couldn’t.

And I… I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t do anything but feel the ground vanish under my feet as the world decided my fate for me.

I went directly to my dorm, and shoved clothes into my bag with shaking hands, my breath coming too fast. The room was too quiet, every tick of the clock drilling into me, reminding me that I was out. Eliminated. Disgraced.

I jumped when the door clicked shut behind me.

“Emma.”

Jason’s voice.

I turned, and there he was—leaning against the door like the weight of the world was pressing on him, green eyes burning into mine. For a second I couldn’t breathe.

He looked every inch the Major he was—authority and command, tall, strong, lethal. Yet at the same time, he was my entire concept of home, all wrapped up in one person, especially in those impossibly beautiful green eyes.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whispered, voice cracking.

“Like I give a damn about supposed to.” He pushed off the door, crossing the room in a few long strides. His presence wrapped around me, heavy and desperate, like he was fighting to memorize every second before I disappeared.

My throat closed. “Jason, I—”

He cupped my face, rough palms trembling. “Don’t. Don’t say it’s over. It’s not. Do you hear me?”

Tears stung, hot, but I blinked them back. “They kicked me out. My cover’s blown. Everything is ruined.”

His jaw tightened. “Then I’ll keep it alive. I’ll stay. I’ll watch. I’ll dig. I’ll make sure they don’t bury this while you’re gone. You trust me?”

I did. God, I did.

I nodded, and he kissed me. Hard. Fierce. A kiss that felt like a promise, like a vow carved into both of us. My hands fisted his shirt, not wanting to let go.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to mine, his voice dropped to a rasp. “This isn’t the end. I’ll find you when this is over.”

The words split me open, hope and heartbreak tangling until I couldn’t tell them apart.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to step away, to grab my bag. “I’ll hold you to that.”

His hand caught mine, squeezing once, before letting go.

And then I left.

Every step down that hallway felt like I was walking away from oxygen, from the only place I belonged.

But in my chest, Jason’s vow burned like a brand.

Not over.

Never over.

The heels of my pumps clicked against the polished floor, too loud in the silence. I smoothed my skirt for the third time, trying to keep my hands still. The conference room was empty except for me and the hollow thud of my pulse in my ears. I’d worn the whole armor today—navy suit, pencil skirt, hair slicked back into a bun. My FBI mask. My professional shell.

But underneath, my stomach twisted. Any second, the door would open. And then—judgment.

It did.

Special Agent Watson swept in, tall, broad, presence filling the room like a storm. He didn’t even sit at first—just stood at the head of the table, glaring down at me as if I were a suspect, not his agent.

“Agent Green,” he said, voice sharp as a blade. “Care to explain what the hell happened out there?”

I swallowed, forcing my chin up. “Sir, I didn’t know he would be there. Jason. I haven’t seen him in years. I swear I had no idea he was one of the judges until the show started.”

His eyes narrowed, cold. “And yet you still decided to fuck him.”

Chapter 13

POV: Emma

​​“Agent Green,” he said, voice sharp as a blade. “Care to explain what the hell happened out there?”

I swallowed, forcing my chin up. “Sir, I didn’t know he would be there. Jason. I haven’t seen him in years. I swear I had no idea he was one of the judges until the show started.”

His eyes narrowed, cold. “And yet you still decided to fuck him.”

The words cut, but I didn’t flinch. Not now. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Oh, don’t insult me, Green.” He slammed a file on the table, papers spilling. “You compromised your cover. You jeopardized months of prep. Do you have any idea how this looks? To them? To me?”

Heat rushed to my face. Shame burned—but anger too. “I made a mistake. Yes. But I won’t let it cost the mission. Not now. Not when we’re this close.”

Watson finally sat, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. His stare was ice. “Then why should I trust you?”

Because Jason’s touch was still on my skin. Because I couldn’t let Owen and that cameraman win. Because Silas Blackwood was right there, and I wasn’t about to let him slip away.

I forced my voice steady. “Because I planted the bug. The one you gave me. On Blackwood. You should already be getting feeds.”

His jaw flexed. A pause. Then, finally: “We are.”

Relief punched through me, sharp and fleeting.

Watson leaned back, crossing his arms. “Lucky break, Green. That’s the only reason you’re still sitting in this room and not being benched permanently.”

I nodded once, hard. “I can do this. I’ll prove it.”

“Damn right you will.” His voice softened, just a fraction, into something like warning. “But hear me now—you let your personal life bleed into this again, and you’re done. I won’t save you a second time.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowing everything I wanted to say. About Jason. About how it wasn’t just personal. It was inevitable.

Instead I straightened my spine. “Understood.”

Watson stood, grabbing the file. “Good. Then get to work. The bug’s transmitting. And if we’re lucky, we’ll catch Blackwood’s people talking. Find me something real, Green. Prove you’re worth the mess you made.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving me alone again.

I exhaled slowly, my heart still pounding, my hands clenched in my lap. Shame, anger, determination—all tangled in a knot inside me.

This wasn’t over. Not with the FBI. Not with Jason. Not with Blackwood.

I would burn everything before I let them take me down.

The static hiss of the audio filled the dark briefing room. My eyes burned from hours staring at the transcripts, rewinding, slowing down, chasing fragments of truth through lines of interference.

Blackwood’s voice was smooth, deliberate. Always careful. Always guarded. But not his men.

I leaned closer to the screen, headphones biting into my ears. Jackson—Frederick Jackson, the cameraman—he wasn’t nearly as skilled at hiding. He talked too much. Too casual when he thought no one was listening. He dropped names, hinted at schedules, laughed about things that weren’t funny.

I paused, replaying the clip. His voice came low, rough, muffled through the wires. “The girls. Blackwood wants them prepped. No delays.”

My stomach turned, bile clawing up my throat. Every word confirmed what we feared, and still—it always hit like a blade.

“Got you,” I whispered to the empty room, scribbling notes, the pen nearly breaking under my grip.

The door creaked open, breaking the trance. Agent Lopez slipped inside, setting a paper bag on my desk. “Thought you could use this.”

I blinked, pulling my headphones down. “What is it?”

He smiled faintly. “Muffin. Blueberry. You’ve been in here for days, Green. Eat something before you pass out.”

My chest tightened. A muffin.

Jason’s laugh echoed in my memory. His hand brushing mine as he handed me one that morning after… us.

For the first time in days, I smiled. Just a small, secret curl of my lips. God, I missed him. Missed talking to him. The way his eyes softened when it was just us. I wanted the show to end, not for the mission, not even for my career—just so I could see him again. Really see him. Maybe pick up what we’d left behind all those years ago.

Hope. Fragile, reckless, but alive inside me.

I reached for my phone, not the Bureau line, just my personal email. Maybe just to feel something normal.

And then I saw it.

The subject line: Job Opportunity – Private Security Division.

My blood ran cold.

I clicked, hands trembling. The message was clean, professional, almost flattering. They praised my background—former police, sharp instincts, adaptability. They mentioned the show, how I hadn’t disclosed knowing Jason, how that proved I could make hard choices, bend the rules when needed.

Flexible ethics. That’s what they called it.

They had no idea who I really was. To them, I wasn’t FBI. I was just a woman who played the game, broke a rule, and proved I could be theirs.

I pushed back from the desk, heart hammering. This wasn’t random. This was them. The organization. Extending a hand. Pulling me into their circle.

I grabbed the printed offer and marched straight to Watson’s office.

He looked up as I entered, eyes narrowing at my expression. “What now?”

Wordlessly, I dropped the paper on his desk.

He scanned it once, then again, slower. His jaw tightened, but his eyes—his eyes lit with something fierce.

“This is it,” he said, voice low. “They want you. They’ve already opened the door.”

I nodded, throat dry. “They think I’m corrupt. That I can be bought.”

“They think you’re perfect.” He leaned back, studying me with a sharp, assessing gaze. “And that, Agent Green, is the best damn opportunity we’ve had yet.”

The weight of it pressed into me. The mission shifting, expanding, consuming. No turning back now.

I exhaled, steadying myself. “So… I take it?”

Watson’s mouth curved in something almost like approval. “You don’t just take it. You own it. You walk into their world and make them believe every word they already think they know about you. And when the time comes…”

His fist closed over the paper.

“…we bring them down.”

My pulse roared in my ears, adrenaline and dread twisting tight inside me.

I’d wanted another chance with Jason. A future. A breath of hope.

But right now, all I had was the mission.

And I wasn’t walking away.

I walked through the glass doors with my chin lifted, every inch of me wrapped in the illusion of control. My suit jacket sat snug across my shoulders, my skirt sharp and tailored, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The air smelled sterile—like money, power, and disinfectant. The kind of place that wanted you to feel small.

I wouldn’t.

This was my chance. The FBI had prepped me, trusted me, and for once, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was steps ahead. They thought I was here as a potential hire for a private security gig. But I was here for so much more. To peel back the layers. To find the rot inside. To prove that getting kicked out of that show hadn’t broken me.

A man in a dark suit guided me down a corridor lined with smoked glass. My pulse was steady, rehearsed calm pressed into every inch of my body. But underneath it, the adrenaline was there. Sharp. Hot. Alive.

We stopped before a heavy door.

He opened it and gestured me in.

The room was wide, sleek, shadows swallowing the corners. And at the center—sitting like he owned every molecule of air—was Silas Blackwood.

His smile curved slow, deliberate.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Welcome to the team, Special Agent Green.”

Every muscle in my body locked.

The title hit me like a gunshot. My lungs burned. My heart plummeted straight into my stomach.

No. No.

They knew.

The offer hadn’t been an opportunity. It had been bait.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Silas went on, rising from his chair. His movements were unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to savor this. “Did you really think you were fooling us? That you could waltz into my world under a false name and we wouldn’t notice?”

My throat worked, but nothing came out. My instincts screamed at me to run, but my feet were stone. Every exit felt miles away.

Movement flickered at my back.

Before I could turn—before I could even breathe—something slammed hard against the back of my skull. White-hot pain exploded through me.

And then the world went black.

Chapter 14

POV: Jason

The first time I saw her again, standing there with the other competitors, my heart stopped.

Brown hair swept back, blue eyes sharp and steady, like she was ready to take on the whole damn world. But all I saw was the girl who used to fall asleep in my arms in the back of my jeep. The girl who laughed so hard her nose crinkled. The girl I left behind.

Emma Green.

I hadn’t said her name out loud in years, but it lived in me. Quiet. Constant. Like a wound that never closed.

And in that moment, looking at her across that room, every wall I’d built cracked wide open.

My mind ripped me back—seventeen again, my hand tangled with hers as we drove nowhere, music too loud, her bare feet on the dash. Nights when I thought forever meant something, when I thought loving her was enough to carry us both through everything.

But forever wasn’t simple.

I remember the night I decided to get the tattoo. We were lying in the jeep bed, stars bleeding across the sky. She was talking about the future—college, travel, dreams bigger than this town. And I looked at her, and I just knew. She was already tattooed in my heart, in my soul. Putting her on my skin was just my way of making it visible. So I went and got that muffin inked on my ribs. A stupid inside joke, but it was ours. She never knew what it meant to me—it was her, branded into me for good.

And then I broke her heart.

I told myself it was for the right reasons. That if we stayed together, she’d spend her whole life waiting on me. Waiting while I went off to the army, waiting while I disappeared into a world she couldn’t follow. She was too young, too bright. I couldn’t let her fade into my shadow.

So I left.

It was supposed to protect her. It gutted me instead.

The years that followed, I tried to live. Tried to move on. I kissed other women. Slept with them. Tried to drown Emma out of my system. But it was never her. Never even close. She was the ghost in every touch, the missing piece in every kiss.

And then, fate twisted the knife.

She walked back into my world—this time as a competitor, while I was supposed to be a judge. Rules, walls, all the things that should’ve kept me away didn’t matter. Being near her again felt like oxygen after years of suffocating.

That’s why I went to her dorm that night. I told myself it was just to bring whiskey, just to talk, just to make sure she was okay. But the truth? I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t sit in my room knowing she was only doors away.

Because Emma was—and always had been—home

I can still see it—her body flailing in the river, the current dragging her under. For a second, my heart stopped. The world narrowed to one single, brutal fact: Emma was in danger.

I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the risks, didn’t care that cameras were on us, that judges weren’t supposed to interfere. My body just moved, pure instinct. I dove in after her. The only thing in my head was her name, a scream tearing through my skull: Emma.

When I dragged her out, water pouring from her lips as she gasped for breath, I swear I almost lost it. That moment branded me. It reminded me—like a hammer to the chest—that I never stopped loving her. Not for one day.

And then came the night in the producer’s office. When she told me the truth.

FBI.

My blood iced, then burned. Betrayal twisted in my gut—she hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me. But beneath that anger was something worse: understanding. Because part of me knew exactly why she couldn’t. She was on a mission. She was protecting it, protecting me, protecting herself.

I’m military. I’m a goddamn Major. I know how it is—you swallow secrets for the mission. You bury the truth for the greater good. And yet, fuck, it cut me that she didn’t let me in sooner. Because I would’ve helped her. Always.

And then she kissed me.

The world realigned in that instant. Like gravity snapped back to where it always belonged—us. Her lips on mine felt like the universe had finally stopped spinning wrong.

When we made love—Christ. I’ve had sex before, plenty. Quick, meaningless, hollow. But that night? It wasn’t sex. It was everything. Her body under mine, her voice breaking on my name, her blue eyes burning into me when I thrust deep inside her—God, I’d never felt so right, so whole. Like every piece of me had been fractured until she put me back together.

Emma was home. Heaven. War and peace, all wrapped into one.

I’d dreamed of finding her again for years, but I never searched. Too fucking scared. Scared she’d moved on. Scared she was married. Scared she had kids and a life that didn’t include me.

But here she was. In my arms again. My Emma.

And then it shattered.

The photos. The accusations. The elimination. Watching her pack her things while I had to stay behind—every second of it ripped me open. She was leaving, and I couldn’t follow. Not yet.

But I swore to myself, as I watched her go: this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Because Emma Greene was mine. And I wasn’t losing her again.

I promised her I’d keep watching her back, even in here. But after she left, the rules tightened. Security doubled overnight. It was like they wanted me caged and blind. I went after Owen. Cornered producers in back corridors. Every door slammed shut in my face. And I hated myself for it. Because I’d promised. And I’d failed.

I knew her.

I knew Emma Green would never stop digging. Not when she got that look in her eyes—the one that burned with purpose, with justice, with stubborn fire that could set the whole damn world ablaze. She’d promised me she wouldn’t quit. And I believed her.

But being locked in this show… Christ. It was like being cut off from oxygen. The rules were clear: no phones, no outside contact, no real world. Weeks sealed away from everything except the cameras and the competition.

And I hated every second of it. Because while I was stuck here, she was out there. Fighting shadows. Chasing wolves. Alone.

The moment they let us out, I already knew what I’d do. First thing. Find her. I didn’t care about the cameras, the contracts, the aftermath. I’d hunt her down the second I could breathe free air again.

But I didn’t have to hunt.

The news hunted me.

Emma Greene. Invited into the organization. Walking straight into the belly of the beast we both wanted to tear apart.

And then the words that split my chest open like shrapnel: kidnapped.

Emma Greene had been kidnapped.

I couldn’t fucking breathe. My vision blurred. My heart pounded like mortar fire in my ears. All I saw was her face—the way she laughed against my lips, the way she looked at me when she came undone in my arms, the way her eyes softened when she whispered my name.

Gone.

They had her.

And every cell in my body screamed. Not fear. Not despair. Rage. Bone-deep, soul-crushing rage that nearly blinded me.

Because I’d promised her. I told her I’d never let her go again. And now? Now she was in the hands of the very monsters she’d sworn to destroy.

God help them.

Because I was coming for her.

And I wouldn’t stop. Not until I burned their entire world down and pulled her back into my arms.

Chapter 15

POV: Emma

Cold metal bit into my wrists.

Handcuffs. Tight. Too tight. My shoulders throbbed from the position they’d left me in, chained to a chair that stank of sweat and old blood. My head swam in a chemical haze from whatever they’d pumped into me, but the pain was sharp enough to slice through it.

They wanted answers.

“What does the FBI know? Who else is inside? How far have they reached?”

The same questions, over and over. Blows when I stayed silent. Electric shocks when I clenched my jaw. Promises of death hissed in my ear when they realized I wasn’t breaking.

But I didn’t break.

I couldn’t.

Because if I cracked—if I gave them even one piece—it wouldn’t just be my life on the line. It would be every life tied to this mission.

Hours blurred. Or maybe days. I lost time. The only constants were pain and their voices drilling into me.

And in the darkness, a truth clawed at me.

They hadn’t chosen the show’s participants at random. They’d picked athletes. Ex-military. Ex-police. Men and women with training, with fire, with grit. The kind of people who could be bent—if the leash was tight enough.

“Flexible ethics,” they called it. But I saw the truth.

Most of them hadn’t been willing.

They dangled the perfect offer: private security, fat salaries, a new life abroad. A clean deal, or so it seemed. But once they saw what hid underneath—human trafficking, violence, a machine built on flesh and blood—some stayed, maybe to dig, maybe because they didn’t care about the dirt.

And the ones who wanted out?

They vanished.

Murdered. Dumped like trash in foreign soil.

My stomach twisted—not from the pain, but from the realization. That’s how the show kept running without a trace. That’s why no one spoke.

And now I was next.

They told me I’d die here. That no one would find me. That all the fire in me would be wasted in this dark hole.

But as the cuffs cut deeper into my skin, I clenched my fists.

They didn’t know me.

I wasn’t breaking.

And if I was going to die, it wouldn’t be with their secrets in my mouth.

For a few stolen hours I lived inside a dangerous, perfect lie.

Jason’s hands fit me like they’d been carved to hold my shape. His breath was a map I could read with my eyes closed. When he whispered—I’m here, I’m not leaving you again—it landed in me like a prayer, and I believed every word. We laughed like kids, kissed like sinners, moved like we’d been rehearsing those gestures in secret for years. For the first time since he walked away, I slept without the taste of ash in my mouth. I slept as if the world had been righted, as if every wrong had finally been put back where it belonged.

I woke thinking I’d been saved. Thinking we had been saved.

Then morning came with the taste of metal in it. The cameras. The lights. The rules. The accusation. The photograph. Owen’s voice cleaving the room, my name turned into a weapon. His words made the air thick and sharp. The order to leave. The producers’ faces like stone. Silas’s cold pronouncement.

One hour I was held in his arms; the next I was packing a bag with trembling hands because the world had decided I didn’t belong anymore.

I was leaving the show, but not my mission. And still his taste haunted my mouth like contraband—sweet and illegal and burning.

Alone, the memory of his mouth was a brand. I tried to hold it as armor, as anchor, but shame slid under the skin of that armor: shame that I’d been the cause of this mess; shame that I’d let myself be vulnerable; shame that the thing I wanted most might be the very thing that would burn me alive.

In the darkness I had only his memory to keep me breathing.

I mouthed his name like a prayer and begged whatever god would listen: Don’t let it end like this. Don’t let me die here. Don’t let him lose me again.

No answer came. Only the cold of the corridor and the weight of the bag in my hand. My heart beat a slow, brutal tattoo: we’d been close enough to touch forever, and now we were apart again—closer in memory than in distance—and it tore me open all over.

I thought of home, of the jeep, of the stupid muffin tattoo on his ribs. I thought of promises that had felt too big for a boy to keep and wondered if a man could do any better. I counted the seconds until I could see him again. But the counting was a lie I told myself just to keep breathing.

Because in the quiet between the doors, with the stairwell swallowing the last of his scent, I realized the truth in a way that stabbed me right through the ribs: I had found him again, and now I might die here without even beginning a life with him.

That thought—sharp and ugly and glorious—stuck in my throat like a stone. It tasted like iron. It tasted like resolve.

I fucking missed him. I missed the possibility of having him again.

Exhaustion lived in my bones.

I didn’t know how long I’d been here anymore—days, weeks maybe. The cuffs had carved permanent burns into my wrists. My throat was raw from silence and screams. Even my hope felt thinner than paper.

What if the FBI never found me?

What if I just disappeared like the others, dumped nameless into foreign soil? My chest ached with the thought. I’d fought so hard, held on so tight, but death was circling me like a vulture.

And then—noise.

Boots. Shouts. The crack of gunfire ripping through the dark.

At first I thought it was another game, another trick to break me. But the chaos grew louder, closer. Metal clashed. Men screamed. The air filled with smoke and the acrid sting of gunpowder.

The door burst open.

Blinding light seared my eyes—and through it, a silhouette. Tall. Armed. Commanding.

Jason.

Major Ballard.

Not just the man who had kissed me, touched me, made me feel alive again. He was every inch the soldier now. Authority. Fire. Lethal precision. He cut through the room like the storm he was, and the world bent around him.

I thought I was hallucinating. My mind’s last mercy before death.

But then he was there. Real. Solid. His hands on me. Unlocking the cuffs, pulling me up against his chest.

“Emma.” His voice broke on my name.

I collapsed into him. My body trembled, weak and wrecked, but the second his arms closed around me, the pieces of me stitched back together.

“You came,” I whispered, barely a sound.

“I’ll always come for you.” His forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “I thought I’d lost you. Never again.”

And then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not restrained. It was desperation and relief and years of love burning out of him in one searing, unstoppable rush. His mouth claimed mine like I was oxygen, like he’d been suffocating until this second.

I kissed him back with everything I had left. With the part of me that had refused to break, the part that had clung to the thought of him in the dark.

Around us the world roared—boots, shots, men shouting orders—but in that moment, all I knew was Jason. His taste. His strength. The promise in his arms that I wasn’t alone, that I would never be alone again.

For the first time since they’d taken me, I believed it.

I was alive.

And I was his.

Chapter 16

POV: Emma

The beeping of the monitor was the first thing I heard when I clawed my way back to consciousness. A steady rhythm, not unlike Jason’s heartbeat when I’d fallen asleep against his chest. For a second, I didn’t know if I was dreaming again, if the darkness had finally taken me. But then I opened my eyes, and he was there.

Jason.

His hand wrapped around mine, big and warm and trembling with the kind of restraint I’d only ever seen in soldiers. His hair was a mess, his eyes ringed in red, like he hadn’t closed them in days. He hadn’t left.

“You’re here,” I rasped, my throat raw, the words scraping out of me like broken glass.

“I was never leaving,” he said. His voice cracked, but his grip on me didn’t. “Not again.”

For a long moment, I just breathed him in. The antiseptic tang of the hospital air didn’t matter. What mattered was the weight of his hand anchoring me, the green fire of his eyes holding me together.

When the doctors finally cleared out, Jason leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead with aching gentleness. “You need to know what happened.”

And then he told me.

The second he realized I was gone, he’d unleashed hell. He went to the FBI, forced his way into their war room with the sheer force of his will. He pulled every string, every resource, called in every favor. And somehow, they listened. The Army. The FBI. Together. All because he refused to accept that I was gone.

“They used everything you found,” he said, voice low, like the truth might burn us both. “The bug you planted in Blackwood’s office, the files you risked your life to pull. You cracked them open, Emma. You gave them the map. I just made sure they followed it.”

My chest ached—not from the bruises or the pain, but from the weight of it. Because it hadn’t been for nothing. My terror, my scars, my fight—they had freed others. Hundreds of girls. Safe now because I hadn’t stopped. Because wehadn’t stopped.

Tears burned my eyes before I could stop them. “So the show…?”

“Clean,” he said. “It was just the producer and that cameraman. They were running their own sick little empire behind the scenes. But they’re done. All of them. Because of you.”

Because of me. The words didn’t fit in my chest. I wanted to reject them, shove them away, but Jason’s eyes held me steady. He wasn’t letting me run from this.

“You’re the reason they’re free,” he whispered. “You’re the reason I still have you.”

Something inside me cracked then. All the walls I’d built to survive, all the defenses I’d wrapped around my heart—they crumbled under the raw truth in his voice.

I reached for him, my hand weak but desperate, curling at the back of his neck. His forehead pressed against mine, his breath shaky.

“Jason…” My voice broke. “I thought I lost you again.”

“You’ll never lose me,” he swore, fierce and trembling. “Not again. Not ever.”

His mouth found mine then, gentle but desperate, a kiss that tasted of salt and pain and hope, of everything we had clawed our way through to reach this moment. I kissed him back like it was the only medicine I needed. Like maybe it was.

When we pulled apart, I could barely breathe, but the smile that trembled on my lips was real. “Promise me we’ll make it this time.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing my cheek like he was sealing the vow into my skin. “I promise. Whatever it takes, Emma. Always.”

And for the first time, I let myself believe him. Not because the world was safe—it never would be. But because we were stronger than the darkness. And we weren’t done yet.

The first two weeks after the hospital weren’t easy. My body had been stripped down to the bone, starved and battered, and even with the best doctors, healing didn’t happen overnight. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. My stomach clenched at every meal, untrusting, like it had forgotten how to accept food. Some days my hands trembled so badly I couldn’t hold a glass of water without spilling it.

But Jason never left.

He took me to his apartment the day I was discharged, and from that moment on, I became his mission. Major Ballard, operating in full force—but this time, the battlefield was me.

The first days, he didn’t even let me walk. He carried me everywhere—bed, sofa, bathroom—like I was made of glass. I protested, of course. “Jason, I need to relearn how to use my legs,” I’d mutter against his chest.

“Not today, Muffin,” he’d answer, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “Today, you heal. Tomorrow, you fight.”

And then he’d kiss my forehead like a period at the end of a command I had no choice but to follow.

By the third day, I started insisting harder, pushing myself to stand, to move. He didn’t argue this time, but his hands were always there—steadying me, shadowing every shaky step like he could catch me before gravity even thought of trying.

His care was military precise. Medications lined up like ammunition, doses timed to the minute. Meals prepped with the kind of detail that made me laugh. “Protein, Muffin,” he’d say, sliding a plate under my nose. “Hydration, Muffin,” handing me a glass of water like it was the most important mission of the day.

And between those orders, he kissed me.

Sometimes quick kisses against my hair as he adjusted the pillows. Sometimes long, slow kisses after I managed to eat a full plate, as if I’d conquered a mountain. Once, when I groaned about yet another supplement, he leaned in, mouth brushing mine, and murmured, “Take it, and I’ll reward you.” The pill was gone in seconds. The reward lasted longer.

Nights were the hardest. The body remembers pain even when it’s gone, and I woke more than once gasping, sweating, my chest caving in on memories I couldn’t shake. But every single time, Jason was there. His arms tight around me, his breath steady in my ear, grounding me. He held me like I was the only thing tethering him to earth, and in a way, maybe I was.

I hated the weakness in my body. But I never hated needing him. Because Jason didn’t make me feel weak. He made me feel… worth it.

And somewhere between the meds, the meals, the carrying, the steady hands and the soft kisses, I realized something terrifying and beautiful:

I wasn’t just recovering. I was falling. Again. Hard.

Chapter 17

POV: Emma

Sunlight spilled through the blinds, catching on the sharp edges of Jason’s jaw as he stirred awake beside me. I lay there pretending to still be asleep, just so I could watch him—broad shoulders relaxed for once, hair mussed from the night, his arm heavy across my waist like I was something he’d sworn to guard in his dreams.

Then his hand moved, sliding lower, cupping my hip, and I knew the pretending was useless.

“Good morning, Muffin.” His voice was a low growl, warm and dangerous at the same time.

I buried my face against his chest, smiling. “Morning. I should get up. Big day. First day back…”

I shifted, and his arm tightened.

“Where do you think you’re going, Muffin?” His voice was gravel-soft, thick with sleep, but the hand that slid up my thigh wasn’t sleepy at all.

I laughed against his skin. “Jason, it’s my first day back. I can’t exactly show up late.”

He rolled us so I was on my back, his weight pressing me deliciously into the mattress. “Then we’ll make it quick.” His mouth brushed my ear, his breath scorching. “But you’re not leaving this bed without me tasting you.”

Heat rushed through me so fast I almost forgot to breathe. “Bossy,” I whispered.

“Major Ballard, remember?” His grin was wicked as his lips trailed down my neck. “Orders, Muffin.”

And then his mouth was on mine, slow at first, savoring, before it deepened into something hungry, something that stole every thought from my head except him. His hands mapped me like he was relearning territory he’d never forgotten—palming my breasts, tracing my ribs, sliding lower until I was arching under him.

“I’m just a man who’s about to make you forget your own name.”

I gasped when his fingers found me, stroking slow, deliberate circles. My legs trembled, traitorous, already opening for him.

“Already wet,” he whispered, his grin dark against my skin. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

I tried to be smart, tried to play along, but the pressure he built with those fingers made words impossible. “Jason…”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, green eyes blazing. “Say it, Muffin. Say you missed me.”

“I missed you,” I admitted in a breathless rush.

He kissed me then, hungry, devouring, before sliding down the bed, his mouth replacing his fingers.

The first stroke of his tongue had me arching off the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from my throat. He pinned my hips with his hands, merciless, keeping me right where he wanted me as he tasted me like he’d been starving.

“Jason—oh, God—” My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, begging, but he didn’t stop, didn’t ease up. He dragged me to the edge over and over, then pulled back just enough to make me whimper.

“You’re not going anywhere until you come in my mouth,” he rasped, his chin slick, his voice wrecked with need.

“Please—”

“Please what?” he taunted, tongue circling just where I needed him most.

“Please, Jason. Don’t stop.”

That broke him. He groaned against me, devouring me until I shattered, my whole body shaking, his name ripped from my lungs as pleasure tore through me like fire.

Before the aftershocks faded, he was on me again, mouth hot and demanding, kissing me like he wanted me to taste myself on his lips. And then, with one hard, perfect thrust, he was inside me.

The stretch, the fullness, the way my body molded to his—I nearly sobbed from the sheer rightness of it.

His forehead pressed to mine, sweat dripping, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. “Mine.” The word was rough, guttural, absolute.

I clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as I moved with him, every stroke pushing me higher, every kiss anchoring me deeper.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, his hand framing my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “I want to see you fall apart.”

I did—breaking, crying out his name, my release crashing over me like a storm. He followed, his body jerking, a raw sound ripped from his chest as he spilled inside me, holding me so tight I could barely breathe.

When it was over, we collapsed together, slick with sweat, trembling, his lips pressing over and over to my temple, my cheek, my mouth.

“You’re ready for today,” he whispered hoarsely, brushing hair from my face. “But God help me, Muffin, I don’t want to let you out of this bed.”

I smiled weakly, still dizzy from him. “Then kiss me again before I go. So I carry you with me.”

And he did—slow and reverent this time, sealing a promise in my mouth that no first day, no mission, no world could ever take away.

The smell of coffee pulled me, warm and sharp, tugging me out of the haze Jason had left me in. I rolled over to find the bed empty, sheets already cooling.

I smiled. Major Ballard, domestic. Who would’ve thought?

When I padded in, hair still a mess, wearing one of his shirts, he was at the stove—barefoot, bare-chested, muscles flexing as he flipped something that looked dangerously close to burning.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned without looking up.

“I wouldn’t dare,” I teased, leaning on the doorway. “But for the record, smoke alarms are supposed to be optional, not part of breakfast prep.”

That got me a half-grin over his shoulder. Then he turned, plate in one hand, the other reaching for me. Before I could protest, he grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto the kitchen counter like I weighed nothing.

“Sit,” he said simply, settling between my knees as he set the plate down beside me.

I let him feed me bites—eggs, toast, even strawberries he’d washed like it was some military operation. We laughed, kissed between mouthfuls, shared sips of coffee until my nerves about the day started buzzing under my skin again.

Jason noticed. Of course he did. His thumb stroked my jaw as he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. “You’ve got this, Muffin. You’re stronger than all of them combined. They’ll see it the second you walk in.”

I kissed him for that. For knowing me better than I sometimes knew myself.

Getting ready felt like suiting up for war—skirt, blazer, badge clipped to my waist. But when I caught my reflection, I didn’t see just an agent. I saw a survivor. I saw the girl who’d almost lost everything and the woman who had clawed it back.

Jason drove me, of course. His jeep was newer than the one I remembered, but it was still him—rugged, solid, a little stubborn. The kind of car that didn’t quit. Like its owner.

At the FBI building, my nerves spiked. But the second I walked in, applause erupted. My team was waiting—smiles, clapping, even someone holding a ridiculous “Welcome Back, Hero” banner. My throat closed up.

Agent Watson stepped forward, stern as ever, but there was warmth in his eyes when he shook my hand. “Agent Green, your work saved lives. You proved your loyalty and your strength. The Bureau is lucky to have you back.” He paused, letting it sink in. “And it’s past time we recognize that. Congratulations, Special Agent Green. You’ve been promoted.”

The room blurred for a second—cheers, pats on my back, my own tears stinging. All I could do was nod, smile, whisper thank-yous as my chest swelled with something I hadn’t felt in so long: pride.

The day flew by, a whirlwind of briefings, hugs, paperwork, and so many people telling me how glad they were I made it home. By the end, exhaustion and joy knotted together in my bones.

And then I stepped outside.

There he was. Leaning against his jeep like he belonged to every horizon. Arms crossed, sunglasses on, but the moment he saw me, his whole face broke into that rare, devastating smile—the one he only ever gave me.

I crossed the distance fast, my heels clicking on pavement, and when I reached him, he pulled me into his chest like he’d been holding his breath all day waiting for me.

“Special Agent Green,” he murmured against my hair, voice rough, proud.

“Major Ballard,” I whispered back, smiling into his shirt.

Home. Right there, in the circle of his arms, under the fading light, with the world finally on our side.

Chapter 18

POV: Emma

The grass was still damp with morning dew when Jason spread the blanket out, his movements crisp and precise like he was laying out a field map for an operation. Except this operation came with a wicker basket, a thermos, and—God help me—actual muffins.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, catching the smirk tugging at my mouth.

“I’m not laughing,” I lied, plopping down on the blanket. “I’m just… appreciating Major Ballard in domestic mode. Very intimidating.”

He shot me a look, sharp and amused, and then settled beside me, the basket between us. “You almost died, Muffin. You’re not skipping breakfast ever again.”

My chest tightened at the name—how easily he said it now, like it had always belonged to me. “So this whole picnic is really just an excuse to force-feed me?”

“And kiss you in public,” he said, leaning in to brush his lips against mine before I could fire back. His mouth tasted like coffee, like home.

“Smooth,” I murmured, kissing him again, slower this time.

He pulled away just long enough to open the basket. Inside: muffins, strawberries, little sandwiches cut with military precision. I burst out laughing.

“Jason. Did you seriously—”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “And don’t mock the sandwiches. They took me longer than I want to admit.”

I popped a strawberry into my mouth, then leaned over, brushing his jaw with sticky-sweet fingers. “You’re adorable.”

He caught my wrist, licking the juice off my fingertip with a wicked grin that made my stomach drop and my thighs clench. “Adorable?” he echoed.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Maybe lethal.”

“Better,” he said, tugging me across the blanket until I was practically in his lap. His kiss this time was hungry, strawberries and heat and the low rumble of his chest under my palms.

We ended up half-reclined on the blanket, the basket knocked to the side, me laughing breathlessly into his mouth. Every kiss tasted like sunlight and second chances. Every touch carried the weight of what we’d survived to get here.

“You know,” I whispered against his lips, “this is unfair. You bring muffins, you kiss me senseless, and suddenly I forget I’m supposed to be the strong FBI agent, not some girl swooning on a picnic blanket.”

“You can be both,” he said simply, cupping my face like I was the only thing he wanted to hold onto in the world.

And maybe he was right. Because in that moment, with crumbs on my dress, grass in my hair, and Jason Ballard’s mouth on mine, I’d never felt stronger. Or happier.

****

The new house smelled like fresh paint and cardboard. Boxes lined every corner like silent sentries, stacked and labeled with Jason’s neat block handwriting: KITCHEN, BOOKS, WEAPONS. I’d laughed at that last one until he gave me a look that said yes, actually.

I dropped the box I was carrying onto the hardwood with a grunt. “That’s it. I’m done. If I lift one more thing today, my arms are going to fall off.”

From across the room, Jason straightened, sweat darkening his t-shirt, biceps flexing as he set another box down like it weighed nothing. He looked annoyingly unbothered, like moving an entire house was just his version of a light workout.

“Need me to carry you too, Muffin?” he teased, smirking.

“You already did that when I couldn’t walk,” I shot back, hands on my hips. “Don’t get cocky.”

He crossed the room in three strides, wrapping those big, warm hands around my waist and pulling me against his chest. His lips brushed my ear. “You like it when I’m cocky,” he murmured.

Heat raced up my neck. “Jason. There are still at least ten boxes to unpack.”

He kissed the corner of my mouth, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world. “Boxes can wait. This—” His hand slid lower, cupping my ass. “—can’t.”

I laughed, breathless, shoving at his chest even as I leaned into him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

I looked around at the chaos—the stacked boxes, the bare walls, the still-wrapped furniture. For the first time in months, maybe years, none of it felt temporary. It was ours. This messy, half-empty house was the beginning of everything we’d fought for.

Jason tilted my chin up with one finger, green eyes locking on mine, his voice softer now. “Welcome home, Muffin.”

Something in me broke wide open at those words. My throat tightened, and I kissed him before I could choke on the emotion clawing up inside me.

This wasn’t just a house. This was us—starting over, starting new, together.

The shower was barely unpacked. No curtain yet, no fancy soaps, just the bare essentials we’d thrown in a bag. But the second the water hit my overheated skin, I groaned like it was heaven.

Jason slid in behind me, steam already curling around us. His chest pressed to my back, slick with heat, his lips finding the curve of my shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to look this good covered in sweat and dust,” he murmured, teeth grazing my skin.

I laughed breathlessly. “You’re not supposed to get hard every time we move a box.”

His hand slipped between my thighs, spreading me open under the spray. “Can’t help it. You’re mine.”

The word—mine—burned through me. I arched back into him, already wet from more than the shower.

He turned me to face him, crowding me against the tile. His mouth took mine, slow and deep, until I forgot the ache in my muscles, the mountain of boxes waiting outside. Only this mattered—his body, his hunger, the way he kissed me like this house, this life, was finally ours.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Steam curled in his hair as his mouth found me, tongue flicking, sucking, devouring. My fingers gripped his wet hair, holding him to me as I cried out, the tile cold against my back.

“Jason—” My voice cracked on his name, my thighs trembling.

He groaned against me, the vibration tearing me apart. My release came sharp, almost brutal, making me shudder until I had to clutch the shower knob just to stay upright.

Before I could catch my breath, he rose, mouth glistening with me, kissing me deep so I tasted myself on his tongue. My legs were still weak when I pushed him back against the wall, sliding down, kneeling on the slick tile.

“Emma—” His voice broke as I took him into my mouth, slow, deliberate, hollowing my cheeks as I sucked him deep. His hands tangled in my wet hair, head tipping back, a ragged groan echoing off the tile.

I loved the power of it—the way this man who could command a room, who could storm an operation with the FBI at his back, was trembling because of me. I teased him with my tongue, dragged him to the edge, then pulled back, looking up with a smirk.

“Payback,” I whispered, licking my lips.

His eyes went dark, dangerous. “Get up.”

He spun me, pressing me to the wall, lifting my leg as he thrust into me hard enough to make me gasp. The water poured over us, hot, relentless, but nothing compared to him—filling me, stretching me, moving with a rhythm that shook the pipes.

“Jason—God—”

His hand found my clit, working me as he fucked me, every stroke dragging a cry from my throat. My orgasm tore through me, sharp and consuming, clenching around him until he groaned, biting my shoulder, spilling into me with a shudder that made us both sag against the wall.

For a long moment, all I heard was the pounding water and our ragged breaths.

He kissed the side of my neck, softer now, murmuring, “First time in our new house. Perfect.”

I laughed, weak and shaky, forehead pressed to the tile. “We’re supposed to be unpacking.”

He smirked against my skin. “We’ll unpack later. Right now, I want to christen every room.”

By the time night fell, the house looked like a battlefield of half-opened boxes and abandoned tape rolls. The mattress was on the floor, no frame yet, no headboard, just a pile of pillows we’d thrown together. It didn’t matter. It already felt like home.

Jason lay on his back, arm stretched out, tugging me against him. My cheek rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His hand traced lazy circles on my hip, slow, grounding.

We were exhausted, bodies aching from lifting and from everything else we’d done in that shower—but I’d never felt so alive.

“This is it,” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue and something heavier.

I tilted my head to look up at him. “This?”

His lips curved. “Us. Here. Finally building something that’s ours. No missions. No secrets. Just… life.”

Something hot pricked behind my eyes, but I blinked it back. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry tonight, not when everything finally felt safe. “You really think we can make it work? FBI, Army… long hours, distance sometimes?”

He shifted, rolling us until I was sprawled across him, his hand threading through my hair. “Emma, I’ve been in war zones with less fight than I had just trying to stay away from you. We’ll make it work. I don’t care what it takes.”

I kissed him, slow and sweet, tasting the truth in every word.

We lay there in the quiet, the hum of the city faint through the open window, boxes stacked like silent witnesses to the start of everything new.

“I love you, Major Ballard,” I whispered against his jaw.

“Love you too, Muffin,” he said, smiling into my hair. “More than I’ll ever be able to explain.”

His arms tightened around me, pulling me closer until there was no space left, nothing between us but skin and heart and breath.

And for the first time in forever, I believed in forever. Our forever.