Melody's Silence: Unwritten Orders

Chapter -- "The Residue of Justice"

(POV: Dexter)

You ever watch a city eat its own?

I have. Her name was Melody McCall.

Six years ago, she vanished. Just gone. One minute, she was a rising star at one of Boston's top law firms; the next she was a headline and a hashtag. Her fiancé, Alexander Brooks, a Juilliard-trained trombonist, didn't stand a chance once the court of public opinion picked up the gavel. Everyone had an opinion. Most of them were wrong.

The official story said Melody ran.

The truth was that she was silenced.

We didn't know that until a note surfaced, hidden inside a Miles Davis record sleeve, buried in a storage unit no one had touched since the day she disappeared.

If anything happens to me, I didn't run. I knew.

That's when everything changed.

Judges were on payroll. Shell companies masked dirty money. Federal funds vanished through dead accounts and digital ghosts. Melody found something she was never meant to see, and someone high up made sure she paid for it.

There were bullets, blood, burned files, and a thumb drive locked with a code Alex didn't even know he remembered, until the music brought it back.

By the time we pieced together what Melody had uncovered, the damage was already done. And the people behind it weren't finished.

We got close. Too close. That's why they came after us.

Now, it's just me.

Marisha Baxter, my partner for ten years, sharp as hell and never one to flinch when it got ugly, took a posting in Los Angeles. Officially, it was a career move. Unofficially, she's with Alex now.

She never had to say the real reason out loud.

I saw it the day after Tanglewood, at the hospital, when Alex was still pale from blood loss after taking a bullet meant for her. She sat by his bedside, her hand wrapped around his like she couldn't bear to let go. In that moment, I saw it clear as day, she was falling hard for this man who still looked haunted every time Melody's name came up. He was broken, grieving, but there was something in the way she watched him that said she'd already made her choice.

So here I am. No partner. No backup. Just a cold trail, a closed case file, and the knot in my gut that says we missed something because whatever Melody found didn't die with her.

And I don't care how deep they buried it. I'm going to dig it up.

One name at a time.

*************

Chapter -- Promoted into the Fire

(POV: Dexter)

The Boston field office felt like a morgue that forgot to die. It was my second day wearing the new CID badge, and the only thing it earned me was a hotter pot of stale coffee and a wider target on my back. They called it a promotion, some kind of honor for peeling back the scab on the Melody McCall case. But I've been in the Bureau long enough to know the truth: promotions are just pressure with a press release.

Rourke was waiting in the task force war room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie hanging loose like he was one wrong briefing away from strangling it. He didn't say good morning, just slid a file across the table like it might explode.

"Fresh from the Harmony Wells seizures," he said. "Names, numbers, bad ideas."

I flipped it open. The ink still smelled sharp.

"Gideon Vale," I muttered, thumbing through pages of offshore accounts and fake charities. "God bless the Cayman Islands."

Rourke pointed to a transaction trail circled in red. "All of it ties to this fund. Vale Foundation Grant Line C., masked as a data ethics project. It's actually propping up an entire ecosystem of judicial kickbacks."

I snorted. "Data ethics. That's rich." I turned the page, and there he was, smiling from a Forbes cover, charcoal suit, dead eyes. "He's a ghost. Doesn't use the same shell twice. Doesn't even breathe near the money. Guy once bankrupted a whistleblower's family before the indictment even hit. Did it with a smile on a TED stage."

"That was true," Rourke said. "Until now." He handed me a second folder. "This came in off-books. Eyes only."

I opened it to find photographs of vineyards, couples clinking glasses under string lights, and luxury wrapped around something rotten.

"Vale Foundation Retreat," Rourke said. "Invitation only. Background checks disguised as relationship questionnaires. Weekend getaways for the morally bankrupt."

"Let me guess," I said, closing the folder. "You want someone inside."

"Couples only," he said. "And Vale likes to test emotional compatibility. We're talking intimacy evaluations, psychological screenings, full immersion."

I leaned back in my chair. "You want me to fake a marriage."

He raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather fake a priest?"

"I'm not your guy for this. I don't do the undercover ballroom tango. And with Marisha gone..."

Rourke didn't flinch. "We know."

I let the silence sit. It had weight.

"She's in L. A. now," I said eventually. "New division. New life. With him."

Rourke nodded. "Doesn't change the fact that you're the best tactician I've got. You know how Vale thinks. You've dealt with his kind before."

"And I know this kind of op falls apart without trust," I said. "Two agents playing house? That takes chemistry, coordination, and muscle memory."

"That's why you're not going alone." He slid one last folder toward me.

I read the name before I opened it: QUINN, RILEY.

"Quinn," I repeated. "She's the one who flipped a cartel by seducing the lieutenant and stealing his accountant."

"Six takedowns in three years," Rourke said. "Transferred from NYPD Organized Crime. Fast-tracked into Undercover Ops."

I flipped through her file: auburn ponytail, combat boots, smirk that could start wars.

"Psych profile reads like a dare."

"She's adaptable," Rourke said. "And unafraid."

I arched an eyebrow. "Says here she once impersonated a prosecutor to infiltrate a mob trial."

"Improvised," Rourke said, almost proud. "Got the conviction."

I closed the file. "She's a live wire."

"She's your best shot."

I looked at him. "She know who she's working with?"

"She said yes before I finished the sentence."

I stared at the folder in my hands. The whole thing was a bad idea dressed in tactical optimism. But the thing about bad ideas? Sometimes they're all you've got.

"Fine," I said. "But if she pulls a stunt in the field, I'm not carrying her out."

Rourke smirked. "She said the same thing about you."

I stood, folder tucked under my arm. "When do we meet?"

He checked his watch. "Ten minutes. Conference room."

Of course it was.

*************

Chapter -- "Firecracker"

(POV: Riley)

The Bureau doesn't give you flowers. Just assignments that smell like gasoline and the occasional compliment that sounds like a reprimand. So, when Rourke called me into his office before I'd even unwrapped my breakfast burrito, I figured someone finally got around to reading that "creative" incident report from Jersey.

Nope. This wasn't a wrist-slap. This was a wedding.

"You're going undercover," Rourke said, sliding a file across the desk.

I raised a brow and took a bite. "That a threat or a proposal?"

He didn't even blink. "Deep cover. Couples retreat. High-net-worth targets. Psychological manipulation tests disguised as marriage therapy."

I chewed slowly, eyes narrowing. "You want me to pretend to be someone's wife?"

"You'll be posing as Elena Barron. Tech entrepreneur. Newlywed. Charming, guarded, suspicious of group intimacy."

"So... myself, but with better shoes," I muttered, flipping open the file. The first page stopped me cold. A headshot stared back, ice-blue eyes, steel-gray hair, expression carved from granite.

"Wait. Dexter Marshall?" I asked, incredulous. "The guy whose handshake has a kill count?"

Rourke nodded. "He's your partner."

I laughed. "You're kidding."

He wasn't.

"You're telling me you want me to go full honeymoon suite with Captain 'I-Grind-My-Molars-to-Communicate'? That guy?"

"He's the best tactical lead we have," Rourke said. "You're the best undercover asset I've got. Together, you might survive."

"Might," I echoed, shaking my head. "Look, I've posed as a cartel mistress, a high-end escort, and once, don't ask how, a Vatican art thief. But married to Marshall? That's pushing it."

"You afraid he'll out-deadpan you?" Rourke asked, lips twitching just enough to call it a smile.

"Please. I'll have him making up pet names by lunch." I leaned forward, tapping the file. "What's the pitch?"

"Gideon Vale's inner circle is handpicked. He believes intimacy is leverage. Everyone at that vineyard has secrets. Your job is to make sure he believes yours are worth protecting."

"And what's Marshall's job?"

"To keep you alive," Rourke said.

I hesitated, my fingers still on the photo. "You sure he's up for that? Last I checked, the man trusts coffee more than people."

"Funny," Rourke said. "He said the same about you."

I grinned despite myself. "Well. This is gonna be fun."

The truth was, I was excited. I lived for this kind of mission: the blurred lines, the masks that feel too good, the dance of lies dressed up like love. But playing house with Dexter Marshall? That wasn't just high stakes. That was personal demolition waiting for the spark.

I closed the file, smoothed my jacket, and stood.

Rourke called after me, "Try not to get divorced before lunch."

"No promises," I called back over my shoulder, smirking.

I needed a second.

Not because I was nervous. Nervous gets eaten for breakfast in my line of work. No--this was different. This was the feeling you get when you see a storm on the horizon and realize you left the windows down.

Dexter Marshall.

Even his name sounded like a disciplinary report.

I leaned against the corridor wall just outside the conference room, flipping through his file again. Tactical genius. Instructor. Interrogation certified. Emotionally available as a brick in winter.

We were supposed to be married in forty-eight hours.

I thumbed past a bullet point about "minimal off-book improvisation" and actually snorted. This guy was going to hate me. Which meant I had to be twice as good and half as charming--just to keep the mission from exploding before the first wine tasting.

From inside the room, I heard Rourke's voice. Calm. Precise. Followed by a deeper one--low, gravel-wrapped steel. Dexter's, obviously.

Showtime.

I pushed off the wall, tucked the file under my arm, and adjusted my collar. First impressions mattered.

But second impressions? That's when people bleed.

I stopped just short of the conference room door.

Rourke's footsteps echoed down the hall behind me, getting closer. I could already hear Dexter's voice inside, low and deliberate, probably judging my punctuality down to the nanosecond. But I didn't move.

I'd been here before. Not this op, not this building, but this moment. I'd worked dangerous undercover ops before with NYPD. Gun rings, dirty deals, men who didn't hesitate to put a gun under my chin if I slipped.

That feeling? It's a pressure in the chest, like your body knows before your brain does: this one's going to cost you. I felt it again now. Not fear. Instinct.

Dexter Marshall was too rigid, too silent, too coiled. Like he carried secrets that had sharp edges. And now I was supposed to hand him mine and smile like a good little wife?

I exhaled, steady and slow, letting the weight of that memory settle where it belonged in the past. Then, I straightened my blazer, rolled my shoulders once, and reached for the handle.

"Alright, Captain Gravel Voice," I muttered, brushing invisible lint from my jacket. "Let's dance."

And I walked through the door.

*************

Chapter -- "The Assignment"

(POV: Dexter)

I saw the hesitation before she stepped through the door. Just a flicker. Half a second, maybe less, but I clocked it.

Rourke walked through the conference room door without looking back, and behind him came Quinn. Riley. Auburn ponytail. Combat boots. That grin she wore like body armor.

The moment she stepped in, everything shifted. Her posture softened, her smile brightened, and there was warmth in her eyes like she belonged there. "Honey," she called out, her voice sweet and casual as she spotted me. "You didn't start without me, did you?"

She didn't stop there. Dropping her bag next to the chair, she leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, her hand brushing my shoulder with easy affection. "Sorry I'm late," she added lightly, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Traffic was a nightmare, but at least I didn't spill coffee all over myself this time."

She winked as she sat down, slipping seamlessly into the role like she'd been playing it for years."So," she said casually, lips curling into a smirk, "do I start calling you babe now, or wait until the retreat's wine tasting?"

===

(POV: Riley)

His stare could've cut glass. And it wasn't just sizing me up. It was dissection. I could practically hear the gears grinding in that head of his: Is she a liability? A wildcard? A ticking bomb with lip gloss? He didn't say a word. Just folded his arms and waited.

Rourke launched into the briefing. Operation name: Wineglass. Objective: infiltrate Gideon Vale's exclusive couples retreat. Guests vetted through psychological profiling and staged intimacy drills. Translation? We were playing married, and not the "smile for the cameras" kind.

"Your cover names are Michael and Elena Barron," Rourke said. "You've been invited after passing a curated digital relationship diagnostic. You'll be expected to participate in exercises, both private and group, designed to expose trust issues, behavioral patterns, and secrets."

He slid two slim files across the table. "FBI tech has already doctored your backgrounds and seeded social media posts. Vacation photos, anniversary dinners, a few short videos, enough to hold up under casual scrutiny for a few days of work. WITSEC at US Marshals helped with the covers to make them airtight. Anyone digging deeper will need warrants we'll see coming."

I sat back in the chair, flipping through the profile packet Rourke handed over. Vacation photos in Bali, a couple's wine tasting in Oregon, some blurry Instagram stories with fake hashtags about soulmates and morning coffees. It was seamless. Almost too seamless. My eyes flicked over to Dexter, who was staring at his own file like it was a weapon he wasn't sure how to load.

My stomach twisted. The deeper I read, the colder it felt. These weren't just cover identities. They were lives. Lives we'd have to wear like tailored suits. Lives Vale would dissect, hunting for any stitch out of place.

"This is intense," I muttered under my breath, then shook my head. "No. It's more than that."

I closed the file and looked at Rourke, feeling my pulse drum in my throat. "This was deep-cover vulnerability with a psychopath watching for cracks."

I didn't miss the way Dexter's jaw twitched at the word vulnerability.

===

(POV: Dexter)

I hated every word coming out of Rourke's mouth. Not the mission, fine. Not the risk, standard. But the method. This wasn't tactical. This was therapy with a kill radius. And then he made it worse.

"Riley leads the interpersonal side," Rourke said. "You defer in-session."

I turned, slow. "You're serious."

"She's the better improviser," he said. "That's not a slight. It's a fact. Did you see how she walked in? Read the room in half a second, shifted her posture, called you honey like it was the most natural thing in the world. That's instinct, Marshall. That's what keeps people alive undercover."

I wanted to argue. I didn't. Not because I agreed, but because watching her lean back in the chair, smug as hell, told me she was waiting for it. I didn't give her the satisfaction. "Copy that," I said flatly.

===

(POV: Riley)

Rourke gave us a scenario. Trust exercise. I had to convince my "husband" I wasn't hiding my phone to avoid intimacy drills. The moment he finished the prompt, I was already rolling.

I turned to Dexter, my voice low, eyes locked. "You really think I'm afraid to open up? If I were hiding, I wouldn't be here. I'd be in Napa, sipping someone else's vintage and watching couples lie to each other while I judged their body language." I leaned in slightly, softened my tone. "But I'm here with you because I'm not scared of the truth. I'm scared of what happens when you keep assuming I am."

Then, before he could respond, I moved closer, pressing my palm lightly over his heart. I felt it beat under my touch, steady and strong. His eyes flickered with something I couldn't read. I leaned in and kissed him, just once, lips brushing his with a softness that felt almost out of place here.

I pulled back like it was nothing, dropping back into my seat with an easy smile as if I hadn't just shifted the ground beneath us. Silence followed. Not tension. Something deeper. His expression didn't shift, but his eyes had narrowed. Calculating. I knew that look. He was impressed. He just hadn't figured out how to admit it without chewing glass first.

===

(POV: Dexter)

It was good. Too good. Not the performance. Anyone can fake vulnerability. But the precision. She slipped into the role like she'd worn the skin before, like we were already married. Jesus,

that kiss was electric! Confident. Unapologetic. She knew exactly when to lean in, when to pause. It wasn't just about playing the part. She was testing mine.

I cleared my throat. "Rehearsed."

Rourke chuckled. "She improvised every word." He nodded toward where I still sat, my hand resting casually on my knee like I hadn't just kissed Dexter. "And the touch, the kiss? That wasn't in the prep file either. That was her reading you, reading the room, and doubling down on believability. That's field instinct you can't teach."

I didn't smile but I felt the flicker of one, buried deep under caution. She was trouble. But maybe not the kind that got you killed. Maybe the kind that made the mission work.

===

(POV: Riley)

He didn't say much but he didn't dismiss me either. That was a start. There was something in his silence that wasn't condescension; it was calibration. He was adjusting, calculating, weighing me against a standard I hadn't seen yet, and was going to make sure I set a standard with him

that he hadn't seen.

I met his stare head-on. "You'll get used to me," I said.

"Or I won't," he replied.

But he didn't object when I stood and said, "Guess we better start acting like we like each other."

He didn't smile. But he followed.

I knew this mission was going to be hell, but not boring.

*************

Chapter -- "The Brief"

(POV: Dexter)

Rourke shut the door to the conference room like he was locking us in with something dangerous, or maybe he was.

He didn't sit, he just opened the binder, pulled out a blueprint, and laid it flat. Vineyard layout. Rooms, access points, guard rotations. The kind of detail that didn't come from public records.

"Let's walk through it," he said. "You'll pose as Michael and Elena Barron. Married, tech entrepreneurs, looking to invest in Vale's next venture. Credentials have been seeded. If they run a background, it stands up to scrutiny."

I nodded once. Riley didn't. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, already reading ahead in her head.

"We've arranged delivery of customized luggage," Rourke continued, tapping the case diagrams. "False panels, dual lining, EM-shielded. You'll be able to bring sidearms, extra magazines, burner comms, and the micro-recorder. Nothing larger. No long guns, no trackers. You'll have one opportunity to retrieve the gear after check-in. After that, it's concealed carry only. Make it count."

Riley raised a brow. "Assuming we get through the gate."

"You will," Rourke said. "Vale's team will do the usual scan. But the subcontractor managing perimeter security owes us a favor. For the next four days, you'll have a shadow. Controlled blind spots, staggered thermal lags, looped audio. After that, everything dumps back into Vale's archive with full sync. Four days to move without triggering a flag. Then you're exposed."

"On Day Five?" I asked.

He nodded. "You trip a camera, it sticks. You breathe the wrong way, and his system logs it. We're not going to be able to cover for you after that."

"What about support?" Riley asked, straightening a little.

"We'll have a surveillance van posted in the next town over," Rourke said. "Five-mile range on the passive relay. You'll get one nightly data dump. No live contact unless it's an emergency. If something goes wrong, the extraction point is west of the property line, just past the vineyard's service trail. You'll have to make it there on your own."

I took that in. No lifelines. No hand-holding. Just four days inside a lion's den with enough evidence, if we found it, to burn half of Boston's judiciary to the ground.

Rourke pulled out the final item: two silver bands. Wedding rings.

He tossed mine across the table. "Congratulations. You're now happily married. Try to fake it better than your last attempt."

Riley caught hers without looking. "Oh, don't worry," she said with a smirk. "I've been practicing."

I didn't answer. I just pocketed the ring and glanced at the blueprint again.

Four days. No margin. No mistakes.

Game on.

Riley had just slipped the ring onto her finger when Rourke closed the binder.

"Quinn," he said, tone even. "Give us a minute."

She paused, glanced at me, then gave a mock salute. "Try not to gossip about me too much while I'm gone."

She was out the door before I could reply.

I waited, bracing for what I assumed was coming.

"If this is about her," I started, "you don't have to say it. She's green for this kind of op, but she's adaptable. She's sharp. She'll hold the line."

Rourke didn't answer right away. Just looked at me the way he did when he was deciding whether to argue or remind me he outranked me.

"It's not about her," he said. "It's about you."

That threw me. I straightened.

"You haven't worked a case like this since the internal affairs fallout. Not since Boston, not like this," he said. "And I've seen the way you've been running it. Quiet and calculated. But I've also seen the way you flinch every time her name comes up."

My jaw tightened.

"She's not just a case file to you, Dexter. What Melody uncovered and what you, Marisha, and Alex went through did something to you. And I need to know that you're not about to let that cloud your judgment inside."

I met his eyes. "I'm going to do what needs to be done. Nothing more. Nothing less. You have my word. Whoever did this, whoever's still pulling the strings, they're going to pay."

He held my gaze a moment longer, then nodded. "That's all I needed to hear."

I reached for the ring in my pocket again, feeling the metal press against my fingers. A fake symbol for a fake marriage, but the mission was real. The stakes were real.

Rourke stepped toward the door, and before he opened it, he glanced back.

"For Melody." he said.

I nodded once. "For Melody," I replied.

Then we stepped out into the hall and got to work.

*************

Chapter -- "Gaslight and Grapes"

(POV: Riley)

"You're assigning cover backstories like you're running a census, Dexter. No one remembers how many siblings they supposedly have when bullets start flying."

"We're not planning for bullets," he said without looking up from his tablet. "We're planning for questions. Details matter."

I gripped the steering wheel tighter and resisted the urge to slam my head into the airbag. We were twenty-eight minutes into the drive from the airport to Vale's vineyard retreat, and I was already considering opening the passenger door and rolling out into oncoming traffic.

"Fine," I said, jaw tight. "So, I'm the baby of three, and you used to be in a jazz band before going into biotech."

"Now you're just being difficult."

"No, I'm being realistic. People improvise their own lives. If we over-script this, we'll sound rehearsed."

He didn't answer. Just tapped something on his tablet and muttered, "The role of Elena Barron will be played today by emotional chaos in heels."

That did it.

I spotted a gas station up ahead and flicked on the blinker without warning. "I need water," I said flatly.

Dexter raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. "Probably a good idea," he said, unbuckling. "We're both getting sharp."

I parked, slammed the door behind me with just enough force to feel better about it, and marched toward the store. Water wasn't the point. Breathing room was. Between the confined space, the tightly coiled control freak in the passenger seat, and the constant ticking in the back of my head that something about this mission was going to explode sideways, I needed five damn minutes.

I grabbed a bottle of water and meandered down the snack aisle, pretending I didn't want to chuck a bag of peanuts at the security camera. When I rounded the end cap near the registers, I stopped short.

Dexter was talking to a woman in yoga pants and aviators. Her shopping basket full of wine and overpriced granola. And he was, God help me, charming. Not just the silent intensity thing he usually weaponized. No. Full-on engaged. Slight smile. Eye contact. Shoulders relaxed. And the woman? Laughing.

Huh.

So, the stone wall did have a dimmer switch.

He leaned slightly on the counter, nodding at something she said, then offered a small chuckle that didn't sound rehearsed. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was enjoying himself. And she definitely was.

I stood there for a second too long, watching. Not jealous. Just... surprised. All this time, everyone at the Bureau described him like a walking lockdown--grit, grumble, and zero give. But the guy chatting up yoga granola in aisle four? That guy knew how to play the game.

And that was what got me.

It wasn't the charm that unsettled me. It was the control. The switch. The calculated warmth dropped into just the right tone, the exact lean of posture, the knowing chuckle timed like punctuation. That wasn't a slip in character.

That was strategy.

Dexter Marshall didn't just live by instinct. He knew how to manipulate a room when it suited him. And now I had to wonder how much of that silent scowl he wore around me was for show as opposed to how much of it was him calculating exactly who I was?

I shook the thought loose, grabbed a pack of gum, and headed for the counter, already composing the perfect line to knock that smirk off his face. He was back in the car, hands resting on the wheel like he hadn't just given a TED Talk on charm. We pulled back onto the road, the silence crackling with things neither of us said out loud.

By the time I stepped outside, the sun had sharpened, casting long shadows across the lot. Dexter was already in the car, seat reclined just enough to pretend he wasn't watching the door. Tablet in his lap, jaw tight, same unreadable expression. No music. No small talk. Just tension riding shotgun.

I slid into the passenger seat and dropped the gum in the console between us.

"Miss me?" I asked, peeling the wrapper.

He didn't look over. "I assumed you were buying explosives."

"Maybe next stop," I muttered, popping the gum into my mouth.

We pulled out onto the road in silence.

I watched the side of Dexter's face as he drove, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. The radio was off. The air between us felt like it had a weight limit.

I didn't want to poke the bear. But I also didn't want to spend the next hour in silence.

"So... Melody," I said, keeping my voice casual, like I wasn't asking about the ghost still haunting half the case file.

His grip on the wheel didn't shift. Not much. But I saw the flicker. In his knuckles. In his eyes.

"What about her?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Just trying to understand what I signed up for. I read the report. Doesn't mean I know what it did to the people left behind."

He didn't look at me. But he didn't shut me down, either.

"She was innocent," he said finally. "Brilliant. Brave. And she trusted the wrong people. The ones we're about to meet? They didn't just ruin lives. They ended hers. Covered it up and made

up evidence to convict an innocent man. Buried it with a smile."

The words were measured, but something in them cracked around the edges.

I didn't respond right away. Just nodded, letting it hang between us.

"Then let's make sure they don't get away with it," I said quietly.

He didn't reply. But his jaw set tighter. And that silence?

It felt like an agreement.

The scenery shifted slowly, urban grit giving way to manicured rows of green and gold. The signs got fancier, the road narrowed, trees thickened, and just when the quiet started to feel like an answer we didn't want to give, the gates appeared, ornate, black iron scrolled like a signature.

Dexter downshifted. "Vale's vineyard."

"Looks like a rom-com threw up on a winery," I said, watching string lights twinkle over the main lodge.

His knuckles flexed on the wheel. "You ready to lie for your life?"

I smirked. "Sweetheart, I was born lying."

The gates swung open.

The mission had started.

And somewhere inside that postcard-perfect vineyard, the kind of truth that gets people killed was waiting to see if we could fake love well enough to survive.

The car crunched over the gravel drive, past rows of vines that looked like they'd been curated for drone footage. A valet in a vest stepped out before we'd even come to a full stop. Too fast. Too rehearsed. I clocked three cameras before my door opened.

"Welcome to Vale Vineyards," the valet chirped, beaming like this place didn't run on blackmail and bribes. "We're so honored to have you both, Mr. and Mrs. Barron."

Dexter gave him a nod, the kind that said he'd killed people with less enthusiasm. I, on the other hand, turned up the charm like a dimmer switch catching fire.

"So excited to be here," I said brightly, slipping my arm through Dexter's like I meant it. His bicep flexed slightly. Surprise or discomfort? No idea and I didn't care.

The main lodge rose up ahead like something out of a luxury rehab brochure--stone archways, French doors, soft jazz leaking through invisible speakers. There were orchids. Orchids. Like they were trying to lull you into forgetting you signed up to be dissected.

As we crossed the threshold, a thought flickered:

We weren't just playing house.

We were walking into a game built by a man who collected secrets like wine labels and uncorked them when it hurt most.

Our hostess was a little too polished, blond blowout, name tag that read "Kendra," voice like chamomile. She handed us welcome folders and gave a quick rundown of the itinerary. Couples' yoga. Wine blending. Vulnerability workshops. Dexter's jaw tightened with every syllable.

"Your suite is upstairs, third door on the left," Kendra said. "Please remember, all guests are subject to passive wellness surveillance for safety and emotional tracking. You'll find that in your welcome literature."

I smiled like that wasn't creepy at all. "Of course. We're looking forward to disconnecting."

Dexter didn't say a word. Just grunted and took the keycard.

Inside the room, I dropped my overnight bag and immediately scanned the space... king bed, too many pillows, bathroom big enough to fake intimacy. And subtle red flags: the smoke detector with a glint that didn't quite match the others, a plant angled just so toward the bed, and a vent that definitely hummed.

Dexter didn't speak. He just grabbed the notepad from the desk, clicked his pen once, and started scribbling. Then he passed me the note:

*Smoke detector -- audio

*Vent -- directional mic

*Desk lamp -- possible lens

I raised a brow and added: Should I wave to the plant?

He didn't smile but his pen scratched back: Only if you're going to give it a name.

I tapped my chin and wrote: Cedric, feels like a Cedric.

He tore the note clean down the middle, then again into quarters, before dropping the pieces into the water glass by the sink.

Show-off.

I flopped onto the bed like it was a throne. "So, hubby," I said, deliberately lounging, "you want the left side or the right?"

He glared.

I slipped my arm through Dexter's as we crossed the patio, forcing a playful smile onto my lips. "Come on, darling," I teased, keeping my voice just loud enough to carry to anyone eavesdropping nearby. "At least pretend we're blissfully happy. We don't want the other couples pitying us over cocktails, do we?"

Inside, I hoped whoever was listening would just see us as another typical married couple with typical married problems, nothing worth a second look.

No answer. Just brooding silence as he unzipped the largest suitcase. He didn't pull out clothes.

Not yet. Instead, his hand found the seam near the base and slipped under it.

Click.

The false panel lifted, clean and smooth. Inside, foam padding cradled a compact Glock, two spare mags, my custom SIG, and a lipstick tube that would do a lot more damage than a red lip.

The baton sat snug beside it all, looking exactly like a luxury hair tool. I grinned.

"You didn't label mine."

"I assumed your ego would do it for you."

I took the SIG and checked the mag. Loaded. No safety. Just how I like it. I tucked it into the back of my waistband and zipped the suitcase shut again. The weight was grounding. Familiar. Like slipping back into your own skin after too long in someone else's.

Dexter stashed his Glock in the bedside drawer like it was breath mints and muttered, "We keep it quiet unless we have to get loud."

I nodded, already half-lounging again. "Relax, darling," I said, putting extra sugar on the words.

Because if I stopped joking, I might have to admit how much I cared. And I wasn't ready for that. "We've got this."

He didn't answer. But this time, he didn't object either.

And that? That was a start.

*************

Chapter -- "The Tasting Room"

(POV: Dexter)

I was halfway through buttoning my shirt when I heard the bathroom door click open.

"Hey babe, did you see--" Riley's voice cut off just as I looked up.

She stood in the doorway wearing a sleek black dress that probably had an official designation from the Pentagon for how distracting it was. Her eyes landed on me, shirt half-on, belt undone, slacks riding low on my hips, and her smile widened like she'd caught me stealing cookies instead of trying to locate my damn cufflinks.

I grabbed the nearest piece of clothing, jacket, towel, hell, maybe a pillow, and held it awkwardly in front of me. "Could've knocked," I muttered.

Riley leaned casually against the doorframe, eyebrows lifted. "Please, honey. I've seen you in less after a bottle of cab and two tiramisus. You're lucky I'm not rating you on posture right now." Her tone was teasing, but light, just enough for the surveillance bugs to hear what they wanted.

Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "Not bad though. Someone's been keeping up the push-ups."

I didn't answer. Just kept dressing, methodical, efficient. Shirt. Buttons. Tuck. I kept my face neutral, my movements sharper than necessary. I could feel her eyes still on me. Studying. Smirking. Selling the role.

It was part of the act. Had to be.

But the part that got me wasn't the line. It was the fact that, for one stupid second, I wanted to believe it wasn't.

So, I slipped on the jacket, adjusted the cuffs, and turned to her with a practiced smile. "You ready, sweetheart?"

She winked when I called her sweetheart as if we'd done this a hundred times; like this wasn't a mission with microphones hidden in the damn lamp fixtures.

Riley didn't break character. Not once. And the scary thing? I didn't think she was trying anymore.

We walked the gravel path from the bungalow to the main house, her hand tucked neatly into the crook of my arm. Every so often, she'd lean in with some low comment, laughing like I'd whispered something dirty instead of giving the all-clear on another hidden camera. She was warm. Loose. Effortless. Which meant either she was a natural-born liar, or she'd convinced herself this was fun.

The dining room was straight out of a catalog for the morally elite: reclaimed wood, moody lighting, and wine racks that screamed curated intimacy. Couples milled around, champagne flutes in hand. I recognized one hedge fund parasite from a DOJ briefing last year. Another woman looked vaguely familiar, possibly from a tech lobbying case. All of them smiling, relaxed, and pretending this wasn't a vetting ground for corruption disguised as enlightenment.

Then there was Vale.

Polished. Measured. Hands clasped like a priest, smile like a blade. He greeted guests with warmth that made my skin crawl, too much eye contact, too practiced with names. When he got to us, I could feel Riley's body adjust beside mine, like she was shifting into character before he'd even said a word.

"Mr. and Mrs. Barron," Vale said smoothly, extending a hand. "What a pleasure. You both came highly recommended."

"Just don't ask who vouched," Riley said with a low laugh. "It'll ruin the mystery."

She leaned against me slightly, fingers curling against my jacket like she belonged there. I played along, nodding once, adding, "They said this place was subtle. I should've known better."

Vale's eyes twinkled. "We believe intimacy thrives in transparency."

"Then I hope you dim the lights when it's time to talk about taxes," Riley said, stealing a sip of her wine.

He led us to a long table where other couples were already seated, candlelit of course, with curated background jazz and wine cards printed on cream linen stock. I took the chair to Riley's left, our knees brushing just enough to register. She didn't move away. I didn't either.

"What do you both do?" a woman across the table asked, maybe biotech, judging by the badge clipped to her silk shawl.

"I build AI trust metrics for startups," I said, offering her a polite nod. "Elena keeps them from accidentally building Skynet."

"Oh please," Riley said, brushing my arm with theatrical annoyance. "You say that like I don't have to explain to investors that your software doesn't read minds."

She leaned in conspiratorially. "He once programmed a dating app to filter out people who misused semicolons."

I gave a small shrug. "Syntax matters."

That got a laugh from half the table. Vale raised his glass like a conductor cueing a solo. "Speaking of taste... shall we?"

He motioned for the servers, who brought out five pours, each from a different region of Burgundy. I recognized most of the labels before they landed.

"Michael," Vale said, swirling his glass. "You strike me as a man who knows his way around a vineyard. Thoughts on the first pour?"

I swirled, sniffed, let the silence stretch.

"2012 Pinot Noir, Côte de Nuits," I said. "Red currant up front. Hints of clove. Clean finish, though it could use a minute to breathe."

Vale's smile turned just a degree sharper. "Impressive. Do you collect?"

I shook my head. "Dated a sommelier for a few years. Learned a lot by osmosis. Tasted more bottles than I care to admit."

"Did she break your heart?" one of the husbands asked with a wink.

Riley cut in before I could answer. "She tried," she said, draping an arm across my shoulder. "But he was already mine by then."

That got more laughter. Even Vale chuckled. I stared straight ahead, nodding once, playing the part. But in the corner of my eye, I could see Riley's hand resting lightly on my arm, her thumb drawing slow, absent circles over my sleeve.

She didn't need to be that convincing.

That was the part I couldn't stop thinking about.

The conversation flowed like the wine, designed to loosen, to warm, to disarm. But I wasn't drinking. Not really. I swirled, I sipped, I smiled when I had to. But mostly, I watched.

Old habits die hard. And mine came with a badge and a decade of watching men lie under oath.

The biotech guy couldn't stop glancing at his wife's drink. Nervous tick, or checking for a sedative? The woman in the corner with the perfect manicure asked too few questions, performing vulnerability without actually revealing anything. And the blonde with the oversized laughter kept subtly repositioning her chair, like she needed a clear exit line.

Across the table, Riley kept the spotlight off me like it was second nature. She teased, she flirted, she redirected questions with stories that felt just plausible enough. Every time someone turned my way, she was already halfway into a new anecdote. She didn't just charm, she shielded. Smooth, effortless control of the room. Tactical distraction dressed in cocktail banter.

By the time dessert hit, we were the couple everyone wanted to sit next to. Married. Playful. Safe.

Exactly what Vale needed us to be.

We didn't speak until we were halfway back to the bungalow, shoes crunching lightly on the gravel path. The night air was cooler now, and quiet had settled like fog over the retreat.

Riley broke it.

"What's with the look?" she asked, glancing over. "You've been cataloguing body language all night like you're profiling suspects instead of dinner guests."

I didn't answer right away. Then I said, "Biotech guy's wife is lying about something. She kept touching her wrist every time someone mentioned transparency. Might be a tell. The woman on the left had ex-military posture. Her husband followed her lead in every response. Not submission, more like training. Probably black budget adjacent. And the woman who brought up spiritual intimacy? Her eyes jumped a full two feet every time Vale spoke. She's either scared of him or sleeping with him. Or both."

Riley slowed slightly, looking up at me with something new in her expression. Not sarcasm. Not amusement.

Respect.

"Well damn," she said softly. "You weren't just brooding. You were working."

"I always am," I replied.

She bumped my shoulder lightly with hers. "Remind me not to play poker with you."

"I'd clean you out," I said.

She smirked. "You'd try."

And just like that, the night shifted. It felt less like agents walking a wire, more like partners.

Maybe even something close to trust.

*************

Chapter -- "Night Watch"

(POV: Riley)

The room was dim, lit only by the ambient glow of the wall sconces outside the bungalow. The surveillance cameras weren't obvious, but I could feel their presence, like the weight of eyes behind tinted glass. Dexter lay on his side, back to me, breathing slow and steady. We'd kept up the act for the audio mics. Soft laughter. Pillow talk about fake weekend plans. He'd even thrown in a half-hearted "Love you, babe," like it tasted sour going down.

I waited another ten minutes after his breathing evened out, just long enough for the surveillance review team to assume nothing else was coming. Then I slipped out of bed, barefoot and silent. I moved to the vanity, leaned into the mirror, and tapped the frame twice. A soft click. The disguised mic there fizzed faintly, then shorted out. I'd rigged a narrow-pulse RF disruptor under the counter earlier that day. One use only. My window was small.

I was already in black. A change from my silk dinner dress to tactical leggings and a fitted black tee I'd smuggled in the lining of my roller bag. I slipped out the side exit, quiet latch, no creak, and followed the gravel path to the main house, keeping low between hedges and tree shadows. There were two exterior cameras I'd marked earlier. I timed the sweeps. Easy enough.

The study was on the second floor, behind a door that required a biometric reader for voice and print. Fortunately, the service staff recycled audio responses through a system Vale's own software had logged. I'd snagged a sample earlier during wine delivery. All it took was a mimic patch on my voice and a smudged glass from the kitchen.

The door clicked open. Inside: bookshelves, aged leather, and silence. I moved quickly, fingers scanning beneath the desk. Found it, a wall-mounted safe behind a climate-controlled wine rack. But it wasn't the safe that interested me. It was the hub beneath it, four small drives, networked, encrypted. Pulled fast, they'd trigger an alert. So I scanned, copied directory headers, dumped previews to a burner chip, and slid it into the hem of my waistband.

On my way out, I caught movement through the east window. Two figures. One tall, built like a battering ram. Colt Maddox, Vale's head of security. The other a retreat guard. Both standing at the main entrance. Maddox turned, slow and deliberate. His eyes swept the compound like he felt something off. Then he reached for his comms.

I cursed under my breath and doubled back, circling behind the wine cellar, only to find the hallway to the bungalows cut off. Maddox and the guard were flanking the only visible exit. No panic. Just recalibrate. I turned on my heel, scanning for a new path.

A hand clamped around my wrist and yanked me backward into the dark.

No sound. No warning. Just silence and the rush of adrenaline crashing into instinct.

*************

Chapter -- "Underneath the Vines"

(POV: Dexter)

I heard her footsteps before I saw her, quick and deliberate, too light to be one of Vale's guards. Then came the hiss of breath, and suddenly Riley was in motion, dragged backward into the dark corner of the cellar hallway, nearly crashing into me.

"Jesus," she whispered.

I clamped a hand over her mouth and yanked her down behind a wine barrel as two flashlights swept through the corridor outside. Maddox's voice echoed low and sharp. "Check every exit. Someone tripped the motion node on the south wall."

We stayed still, her shoulder pressed into mine, breath warm against my wrist. Her heart was racing. So was mine, but I knew how to bury it deeper.

When the lights moved on, I let her go. She shoved my hand off with a glare.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" I whispered.

"Saving my own ass," she snapped back. "I had it handled, until you grabbed me like a horror movie jump scare."

"You were seconds from walking into Maddox's sightline."

"I wasn't," she hissed, face inches from mine now, lips parted just enough to challenge. "I mapped the routes. I had backup plans. You being here? That's what almost got us caught."

We stood locked in that standoff, too close, too loud in a place where silence was survival. I could see the adrenaline still sparking in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the tension coiled tight between us like a wire about to snap.

"I thought you were asleep," she said, lower now. "You were breathing like it."

"I don't sleep much," I muttered. "Especially when someone disables a surveillance mic before sneaking out dressed like a cat burglar."

She blinked, surprised, maybe even impressed. "So you noticed."

"I notice everything."

We didn't move. Her back was still against the door. I was close enough to smell the remnants of that floral soap she used, lavender maybe. And somewhere between frustration and fear, I realized something else had slipped in. Something dangerous.

I stepped back first. "Come on," I said quietly. "Let's not push our luck."

We retraced our path through the vineyard under the cover of darkness, cutting through the hedges and skirting security cameras. Neither of us spoke until we were inside the bungalow and the door clicked shut behind us.

She dropped onto the bed without ceremony. "You mad?"

"No," I said after a beat. ""Just a reminder of how easy it is for plans to go sideways."

She looked up at me, her voice soft now. "I wasn't trying to be reckless. I was trying to help."

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees. "I know."

For a long second, silence settled between us. No mics. No eyes. No fake names. Just Riley and me. Two people stuck under the weight of too many lies and too little sleep.

And underneath all of it, something else neither of us dared name.

*************

Chapter - "The Safe Word is Bourbon"

(POV: Riley)

It started like dreams always do, disjointed and half-sensory, like someone dropped lust into memory and stirred.

In the dream, Dexter wasn't scowling. He was laughing, low and rough, the sound of a man who didn't do it often. His hands were on my waist, my back pressed to a wall that may have once been our bungalow or maybe nowhere at all. I remembered heat. Pressure. His voice in my ear, saying my name like it meant something.

Then his mouth was on mine, slow and confident, nothing rehearsed. The kind of kiss you only let yourself imagine when you're alone or stupid.

I jolted awake, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a curse. The room was dark, moonlight casting faint lines across the ceiling. My body still hummed with the aftershocks of the dream, skin prickling where the memory had lingered.

And then I realized.

Dexter's arm was wrapped around me. One leg tangled with mine. His breath warm against the back of my neck, slow and steady. I froze, every nerve suddenly on high alert.

He was snuggled against me.

Dexter. Stone-face. Night-watch. Doesn't-sleep Dexter.

His hand rested at my waist, fingers curled loosely, but not by accident. And the worst part--the most dangerous part--was how good it felt. How natural. How I didn't want to move. I could feel his chest rise and fall behind me, the soft exhale of someone deep in sleep, completely unaware that he was making my pulse race for all the wrong reasons.

I shut my eyes, tried to will the heat away. This wasn't part of the mission. This wasn't safe. This was chemical betrayal.

But I didn't move.

I just lay there in the dark, pretending not to feel everything I wasn't allowed to want.

I lay there, still as stone, staring into the dark like it might offer an answer.

Dexter didn't move. His breathing stayed slow, deep. Still asleep, probably dreaming about mission protocols or surveillance angles. I shifted my hips just a fraction, enough to feel the heat between us, and bit down on a curse. This wasn't happening. I wasn't letting it happen.

But my body hadn't gotten the memo.

Carefully, I lifted his arm and slid out from under it, suppressing the whisper of disappointment that tried to sneak up behind the relief. I padded into the bathroom on silent feet, shut the door, and turned the faucet on just enough to cover the sound of my own weakness.

The mirror didn't judge, but I did.

I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the sink like it might anchor me. I could still feel him. The weight of his arm. The warmth of his breath against my neck. The maddening safety of it all, like we were something real. My fingers curled against porcelain. My thighs clenched.

One hand slid down between my legs.

I didn't close my eyes. I couldn't. Because when I did, it wasn't just some faceless fantasy. It was him. Dexter. His mouth against my shoulder. His voice low, wrecked. The way I imagined he'd lose control, just once, and pull me under with him.

I tried to brush it off, like that kiss back at the FBI was nothing but a memory, just part of the act, adrenaline and proximity, nothing real. But standing here now, feeling his warmth next to mine, I couldn't lie to myself anymore.

It didn't take long for the orgasm. It never does when you're already half there. It hit hard and fast, so intense my legs nearly gave out beneath me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out his name, clinging to the counter like it might anchor me back to myself.

After, I stood still for a long time, breathing harder than I wanted to admit. My pulse slowed. Shame didn't.

This wasn't what professionals did. This wasn't what I did.

I rinsed my hands, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection until I could pull the mask back on.

Then I slipped back into bed beside the man I wasn't supposed to want, pretending I hadn't just betrayed my own rules in the dark.

The scent of coffee hit first. Rich, dark, French roast, probably over-extracted. Dexter's version of foreplay was clearly caffeine and silence.

I wrapped the robe tighter around my waist and stepped into the bungalow's kitchenette, pretending the night hadn't happened. That I hadn't snuck off to the bathroom to relieve myself like some hormone-rattled teenager. That I hadn't come back and laid beside him feeling like a traitor in my own skin.

He stood at the counter, shirt on, sleeves rolled, jaw set with the kind of quiet tension I'd started to recognize wasn't anger--it was overthinking. He handed me a mug without looking up.

"Thanks," I said. My voice came out hoarse. Great.

He nodded, eyes still focused on the second mug he poured for himself. The silence that followed was the wrong kind--not companionable, not comfortable. Just heavy. Stale. Like smoke after a fire you didn't admit had happened.

I leaned against the counter, sipping. "You always make coffee like you're interrogating the beans?"

He smirked, barely. "They talk eventually."

It should've broken the tension. Instead, it sharpened it. His eyes finally lifted to meet mine--and for a second, just a second, I wondered if he knew. Not what I did, exactly. But that something had shifted in me overnight. Like the weight of his arm had left a bruise on more than just skin.

He blinked and looked away. "We've got a couples meditation at ten. You ready to lie about your feelings for an hour?"

"I do it every day," I said. "This time, I just get to sit cross-legged."

But it landed flat. Too defensive. Too fast.

He didn't push. He just sipped his coffee and walked to the small table, leaving space between us like it was a line we weren't supposed to cross.

And for the first time since this op started, I wasn't sure which side of it I wanted to be on.

We dressed in silence. Not the comfortable kind, more like putting on armor. Every glance was too long, every brush of contact too sharp. I told myself to focus. To compartmentalize. But the lines between act and instinct were already starting to blur.

By the time we stepped into the main hall, I had my smile back on.

The room smelled like sage and polished wood and performative healing. Couples sat in a half-circle, draped in serene tones and passive-aggressive smiles. Vale paced like a cult leader disguised as a therapist, his voice syrupy smooth as he gestured toward the center mat.

"We're here to peel back what you hide," he said. "Trust isn't built in comfort. It's forged in discomfort. Let yourselves feel, even when it stings."

I almost laughed. I'd been feeling nothing but sting since last night.

Dexter sat beside me, his arm brushing mine. Tense. Coiled. The same unreadable mask locked across his face. I wanted to elbow him just to see if he'd blink.

The first task was harmless enough, navigate a blindfolded obstacle course using only touch. I led him, palms grazing his shoulders, guiding him with the barest pressure on his lower back. He followed every cue, silent, obedient. But I felt the tension in his frame, the restraint. Like his skin was flinching under mine.

"You trust me?" I whispered near his ear.

"Until I shouldn't," he muttered.

We made it through without error. But I was already burning.

Then came the second task.

"Switch roles," Vale announced. "Your partner will read a truth. You respond with instinct, not logic. Touch, word, movement. No delay. No filters."

I took the card.

It read: "Say something your partner needs to hear but won't believe."

I looked at Dexter. And for a second, the whole room went quiet. My voice dropped.

"You're not broken."

He blinked. A flicker of breath caught in his throat.

"Riley--"

I didn't let him finish. I kissed him.

My hands curled into his shirt, my mouth catching his in a moment that wasn't staged, wasn't smart, wasn't safe. He didn't pull back. Not right away.

His breath hitched. Then his hand slid behind my neck. His mouth opened against mine. For one suspended second, we stopped being undercover.

And then it passed.

His hand fell away. His body went rigid.

"Okay," Vale said, clapping his hands like an applause cue. "Now that's instinct."

The room laughed. Someone whistled. I stepped back and smiled like it was all part of the show.

But it wasn't.

We were still seated on the plush floor cushions when Vale stepped forward, wine glass in hand, that polished grin of his dialed up just enough to feel like an x-ray.

"Well done," he said, his eyes on us. "Some couples perform very well under pressure."

Dexter gave a small, neutral nod. I smiled like I hadn't just kissed the man beside me because I couldn't stop myself.

Vale turned his gaze to Dexter. "Michael, what was it you said during your intake? Your wife's favorite vineyard, it was Napa, wasn't it?"

Dexter didn't miss a beat. "She says it was Paso Robles. I still swear it was Napa. One of the few things we disagree on."

I laughed lightly and leaned into him. "He's got a great palate, terrible memory."

Vale's smile held. Didn't move.

"Funny. Your file said Oregon."

The room went still. Only for a second. Just long enough to mean something.

I pivoted smoothly. "Oh. That's on me, I answered the pre-interview while he was still packing. I listed the last trip we almost took. I've been dying to try Oregon Pinot. He keeps promising."

Dexter added, "Haven't made it out there yet. But it's on the list."

Vale's eyes stayed on us for a beat longer than necessary.

Then, with a soft chuckle, he raised his glass. "Cheers to untraveled roads."

Later, back in the bungalow, I kept it breezy.

"So... are we making out part of the routine now, or was that just a one-time emotional seizure?" I joked, pulling off my sweater.

Dexter didn't look at me. He went to the sink and poured a glass of water.

"Forget it," he said quietly.

"Wow." I tossed my sweater onto the chair. "That's the whole debrief? Just 'forget it'? Not even a joke about technique?"

He didn't answer.

"Dexter." I took a step toward him. "Say something. Anything. Even a grunt would be great."

He turned. "It was good cover. That's all."

I froze.

"Right," I said after a beat. "Just another prop in the mission. Got it."

He disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him like a period on the sentence I hadn't realized we were writing.

I stood alone in the room, suddenly cold.

And I hated how badly I wanted him to open that damn door.

*************

Chapter -- "Flinch"

(POV: Dexter)

She kissed me like she meant it. That was the part I wasn't ready for.

It wasn't the mission. It wasn't cover. It wasn't strategy. It was real. Raw. And for just a few seconds, I let it happen. I let myself want it.

The taste of her. The heat in her touch. The way she said I wasn't broken like she actually believed it.

And I believed her. That was the problem.

Later, when we were alone and she cracked some joke about it, because that's how Riley handles tension with banter and deflection, I couldn't look at her. If I had, I might've done something worse than kissing her back. I might've told the truth.

That it hadn't been about instinct. That it had meant something.

I poured water instead. Said the first lie I could reach. "It was good cover."

And I saw it land. Sharp. Clean. The way truth doesn't.

I didn't mean to hurt her. I just didn't know how to be in that room with her looking at me like I wasn't a wreck in a suit. Like I was hers.

So I shut the door. Not because I was angry. Because I wasn't.

Because for one second, I'd let myself want something I wasn't allowed to have.

And I needed to remember how to stop.

So I walked. No plan, no destination. Just a slow march into the cold air, trying to put distance between me and whatever that moment had been. But clarity didn't come with footsteps. It came with the wrong company.

Maddox found me before I could make it halfway across the compound.

He didn't say hello. Just appeared at my side with a glass of something amber and expensive, wearing a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Enjoying your stay, Mr. Barron?"

His voice was calm. Unbothered. But that was the trick. Men like Maddox didn't speak unless they were probing for weaknesses.

I sipped from my own glass, slower. "Beds could be better. Food's decent."

He chuckled, then leaned in just enough for it to feel intimate. "Trust is a fragile thing in places like this. It breaks in silence. Cracks when no one's watching."

"I thought that was the point," I replied. "No one watching."

Maddox smiled, but his eyes said otherwise. "Just making sure everyone's playing their parts."

"And yours?" I asked. "Security? Or intimidation?"

He gave me a look that might've been amusement or threat. "Same thing in a place like this."

Then he walked off, sipping his drink like he hadn't just tried to mark his territory.

I returned to the bungalow and locked the door behind me. Still wired. Still watching. Something about his tone had itched under my skin like a splinter. I moved through the space slowly, listening.

And then I found it.

A GPS tracker, tucked under the leg of the dresser. Compact. Military grade. Not the kind of toy you hand out to weekend therapy guests. Maddox had marked us. Not just in case. Deliberately.

I turned it over in my hand. Cold, sharp edges pressing into my palm.

So much for trust.

I didn't hear Riley come in until the door clicked shut behind her. She froze mid-step, eyes flicking from my expression to the tracker in my hand.

"What is that?" she asked, voice quiet.

I held it up. "Surprise."

She crossed her arms, biting her lip like she wasn't sure if she should be mad or impressed. "So... they've been tracking our movements inside the retreat?"

"Looks that way."

A beat passed. Tension thick enough to strangle.

"Guess that intimacy exercise really was a test," she muttered, trying to force a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.

I said nothing. Just watched her. The way she shifted her weight. The way her arms tightened a little more with each second of silence.

"You're still not gonna talk about it, are you?" she said, sharper now. "The kiss. The fallout. The fact that you locked a door like it was a confession booth."

"I don't know what to say."

"Try anything that doesn't make me feel like an idiot for caring."

That landed harder than I expected. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Riley shook her head, stepped past me, and grabbed her go-bag. Unzipped it like she was about to punch the fabric instead of pull something out.

"I'm not your liability," she said without looking at me. "Stop treating me like I'm one mistake away from blowing this op."

"I don't," I said. Too fast. Too defensive.

She turned, eyes flashing. "Then what am I to you, Dexter?"

I didn't have the answer. Not one I could say out loud. Not one that didn't make me feel like everything I'd built was already halfway to collapse.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I looked away. And that hurt her more than if I'd said nothing at all.

We didn't speak for a while after that. The silence wasn't just tension, it was armor. Mine, mostly. But I saw her retreat behind hers too.

So I buried myself in logistics. Timetables. Blind spots. Contingency routes. Planning was safer than feeling.

Sleep wasn't happening, not with that kiss still replaying in my head and Riley's voice echoing somewhere beneath my ribs. So I got up. Pored over the bungalow floor plan again. Rechecked the shift rotation. Eventually, I ran out of excuses to stay put.

I needed movement. Control. Something routine.

So I made for the tasting room, told myself I needed caffeine.

I was refilling my coffee in the tasting room when I heard his voice behind me.

"I've always admired people like you, Michael."

I didn't flinch, just set the carafe down and turned.

Vale stood in the doorway like he belonged there, which, of course, he did. Gray tailored suit. Shoes that had never touched dirt. That curated calm he wore like cologne.

"You don't strike me as the admiring type," I said.

He smiled. "I admire clarity. Purpose. People who know what they're willing to burn to keep control."

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, like a man who knew exactly how much space to invade without appearing impolite.

"I read your intake file again last night," he said, voice low. "Fascinating stuff. Military background. Quiet job transitions. Reluctant romantic history. You and Elena have quite the arc."

I said nothing. Let silence do what words couldn't.

He stepped closer, just enough to make it feel like a confession.

"You know," he said, "we had a couple here last year. Very in love. Or so they said. But something about them felt... dishonest. You ever get that instinct? Like a sixth sense humming just under your skin?"

"Sometimes," I replied.

He smiled, too wide. "They left early. Vanished, actually. Shame no one could find where they went."

He sipped from his glass. "But I'm sure that won't happen here."

He left then, just walked out like he hadn't said anything at all.

But I stood there for a long time, listening to the echo of his words.

Because that wasn't a warning. It was a promise.

And for the first time since I took this assignment, I knew the clock wasn't just ticking.

It was rigged.

We weren't undercover anymore. We were on borrowed time. Every glance from Vale felt a little longer. Every footstep behind a door made my hand drift toward the weapon I couldn't draw. The margin for error was gone. And the clock wasn't just ticking. It was winding down with purpose.

That night, I finally broke the silence.

"We go in tonight."

Riley didn't even blink. She just set her wineglass down on the dresser and crossed her arms, like I'd just asked her to grab milk from the store.

"You finally ready to get your hands dirty, Captain Gravel Voice?"

I handed her the folded napkin I'd written the plan on. Minimal ink, compact shorthand, burnable. "Vale's hosting a closed session wine tasting for select couples tonight. Maddox will be occupied. We slip out during the shift change at 2200, gain access through the east terrace. I spotted a service panel we can bypass."

She scanned the note and nodded. "Let me guess. You've already counted the paces from the bungalow to the study."

"Sixty-two," I said. "Seventy-four if we loop wide past the north fountain to avoid the line of sight from the kitchen cam."

Riley smirked. "God, that's hot."

I ignored her. Mostly.

The retreat was quiet at 21:58 p. m.

Moonlight cut pale ribbons across the gravel walk as we moved in sync, dressed in black, soundless but not invisible. I took the lead, Riley covering our six. At the terrace, I disabled the motion node with a pulse-scrambler and nodded for her to slip inside.

We were ghosts. Until we weren't.

Two minutes into the sweep, just outside Vale's private study, I felt the air shift.

Then I saw it, a shadow too fast to be wind, moving in the reflection of the wine fridge door.

Riley saw it too. Her hand was already on my arm before I spoke.

"Maddox," I whispered.

"Where?"

"Somewhere close."

She didn't ask how I knew. Just nodded once.

The next sixty seconds were a master class in improvisation. Riley ducked into the gallery hallway. I doubled back toward the cellar door, using her decoy path as bait. Maddox took it. I heard the soft scrape of his boots, deliberate, quiet, but not perfect.

He's good, I thought. Not just ex-military. Trained. Predatory. The kind of man who doesn't blink when blood hits tile.

We regrouped near the garden archway. Riley emerged from the hedges, breath even, eyes wild.

"Tell me we lost him," she murmured.

I didn't answer right away. Just looked back once, scanned the darkness for movement.

Then: "We did. For now."

She blew out a breath. "Remind me to never play hide-and-seek with that guy."

I nodded once, jaw tight. "That guy is good. Real good."

And suddenly, this whole op felt like it was sitting on a tripwire. One we'd have to step over in the dark and just pray didn't snap.

*************

Chapter -- "Precipice"

(POV: Dexter)

The door to Vale's office clicked shut behind us, and the silence was immediate. Heavy. Waiting.

I knelt beside the cabinet we had marked earlier, false front, biometric seal. Riley moved to the desk, slipped on a pair of thin gloves, and began feeding the burner tablet into the hardline.

"Thirty seconds to handshake," she murmured, eyes flicking to the hallway camera. "Maddox is in the tasting room. His patrol's off by at least ten."

I didn't respond. I was already in. The panel opened with a satisfying hiss, revealing four drives, three encrypted devices, and one travel dossier marked with Vale's initials and a list of offshore accounts that made my stomach knot.

We didn't speak as we worked. We didn't need to.

By the time the files finished copying, we had enough to collapse the whole operation. Bribery. Shell companies. Even flight plans. He was planning to vanish within the week. The bastard had been ten steps ahead until tonight.

====

(POV: Riley)

We closed the safe. Wiped our prints. Reset everything.

On the way back, we said nothing. Not because there was nothing to say, but because everything was too loud to speak over. Every brush of fingers. Every shared look. Every breath.

By the time we got back to the bungalow, I expected relief. But it didn't come. We had just cracked the case wide open. We should have been celebrating.

Instead, we sat on opposite ends of the bed, lit only by the bedside lamp and the long shadow of almost.

Dexter leaned forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him permission to feel something. I watched him in the reflection of the window. The set of his jaw. The weight on his shoulders.

"I thought it would feel better than this," I said finally.

He glanced at me, but didn't answer.

====

(POV: Dexter)

She moved closer. Just slightly. The space between us now thin enough to touch if either of us reached.

Riley looked up at me. Her voice dropped into something quieter than I'd ever heard from her. "You make me feel... safe."

I froze.

Not because I didn't believe her.

Because I did.

The words lodged somewhere I didn't know I had space for. And for one second, I started to lean in. Her breath caught. Her eyes didn't move.

We were close. Too close.

And I didn't do it.

I stood instead. Cowardice in motion.

"I'll take the first watch," I said.

Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course you will."

And just like that, the moment passed.

But the edge of it stayed behind.

====

(POV: Riley)

The door clicked softly behind him.

He didn't slam it. Didn't make a sound, really. Just left. Like stepping into the hallway was easier than stepping into whatever that almost-kiss would have meant.

I sat there on the edge of the bed, still facing the place where he had been, my breath shallow in a room that suddenly felt too large. Too quiet.

"You make me feel safe." That was what I had said. No plan. No performance. Just the truth, slipping out before I could armor it in sarcasm or a smirk. And he looked at me like I had put a bomb in his hands.

He didn't reject me. That would have been easier.

He evacuated.

I stood and crossed to the bathroom. Washed my face like it would scrub away the tension coiled beneath my skin. But the mirror didn't lie--I looked wrecked. Not from fear. From the slow unraveling of something I couldn't afford to want.

Because it wasn't just a kiss. It wasn't just chemistry.

It was him. It was the way he always watched the exits, even in his sleep. The way he noticed what I didn't say more than what I did. The way he carried everything alone because he didn't know how to do anything else.

And somewhere along the line, I stopped wanting to be his partner.

I started wanting to be the person he let in.

I curled up under the covers, facing the door like I might see his shadow come back through it. But he didn't.

There was only the space between us.

And the ache of what it almost became.

====

(POV: Dexter)

The stars were sharp tonight. Cold and unblinking. They reminded me of the kind of nights you get during stakeouts in northern Afghanistan, when you're so far from light pollution and comfort that the sky looks too honest to be trusted.

I leaned against the railing outside our bungalow, coffee in one hand, sidearm holstered but always close. The perimeter lights cast long shadows across the vineyard. No movement. No threat.

Except the one inside my own chest.

I told her I'd take first watch. Truth is, I didn't trust myself to lie still next to her again. Not after that kiss. Not after she looked at me like I was worth something. Like I was more than the years, the regrets, the bodies I couldn't save and the people I had shut out.

You make me feel safe.

She said it like it was simple. Like it was a compliment.

But all I heard was a warning.

Because people who feel safe with me usually get hurt. Or worse--they start depending on me. And I know what happens when someone puts their trust in a man like me. I break things. I walk away. I build walls and call them "orders."

And the worst part? I wanted to say it back.

I wanted to tell her she made me feel like I wasn't drowning anymore. That when she looks at me, I remember who I used to be before the job ground me into someone unrecognizable. That for the first time in years, I felt something other than the mission.

And the only thing holding me back from taking her into my arms right now is the fact that she's my partner.

That line. I've never crossed it. Not once. Not in twenty years. Not even when it was offered.

But with her... God help me, it might be worth it.

But I didn't. Because if I said it, it would be real.

And real? Real gets messy. Real gets people killed.

So I stood there under the stars, letting silence fill the spaces where honesty should have lived. Guarding the night.

And everything I didn't say.

I slipped back into the suite. Riley was already up, dressed, and tying her boots without a word. She met my eyes with a nod, then clipped her sidearm into place.

"My turn," she said, brushing past me and heading for the door. "I'll sweep the perimeter."

I didn't argue. I just dropped into the chair by the desk, pulled out the flash drive from Vale's office, and powered up the laptop. Her footsteps faded down the hallway behind me as I started digging, finally alone with the truth we'd risked everything to steal.

Time disappeared. Minutes bled into hours as I scrolled through.

I sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, notebook in hand, pen tapping against my thigh. The vineyard morning sun cut across the room in clean angles, too bright, and too perfect. My eyes stayed fixed on the same three lines I'd written an hour ago, the ink smudged from where I'd rubbed my thumb over the page again and again. The numbers were too clean. Vale's flagged accounts, the wire transfers, the shell company that practically screamed "chase me." The problem was, I had.

At first, I chalked it up to hubris. Guys like Vale always got sloppy somewhere. Maybe he thought a retreat full of couples would keep him under the radar. Maybe the accounts were just the crack in the armor. But the more I stared at the pattern, the more something gnawed at me. It wasn't what Vale hid that bothered me. It was what he left out in the open. Obvious trails. Matching account numbers that didn't even try to obfuscate. It wasn't a mistake. It was a breadcrumb trail left out for us to follow.

I flipped through the rest of my notes, scanning Vale's investment fronts, matching them to retreat attendees. Every single couple here had ties to firms with buried financial irregularities. Not enough to act on, but enough to bait suspicion. It wasn't a coincidence. It was a lineup. This place wasn't a sanctuary--it was a filter. Vale wasn't just hiding from law enforcement. He was watching for them. For us. And we took the bait, hook, line, and sinker

A slow chill crawled up my spine. I cursed under my breath and stood, pacing the floor like it might shake loose the answer faster. How had I missed this? I'd been so focused on mapping his network that I never stopped to ask if the network wanted to be mapped. This whole thing, it wasn't cover. It was curation. Vale hadn't just built a retreat; he'd built a test. We were the rats in the maze, and he was watching who found the cheese.

I moved to the window, heart thudding in a quiet, steady panic that I couldn't afford to let show. My fingers pressed against the cold glass as I watched a gardener trim the hedges with mechanical precision. Below the surface hospitality, this place was locked down tighter than a federal black site. Surveillance points weren't just hidden--they were predictably hidden. Designed for detection. Like they wanted us to find them. My skin crawled. The realization landed hard: we hadn't infiltrated Vale's world. He had invited us into his playground.

I returned to the desk, palms flat, trying to map it out logically. If I was right, then everything we'd done-every message to Rourke, every move Riley and I made, was probably tracked, logged, and likely scored. I'd spent my career reading people, breaking down patterns, and identifying intent through action. Vale was doing the same thing to us. And I'd walked straight into it. Hell, I'd probably smiled while doing it.

My pen hovered over the page, hand tense. I should've seen it earlier. Melody had died trying to bring this down. And I was supposed to be the one who made sure her death meant something. Instead, I'd walked into a performance staged for us and called it progress. If Vale was testing us, we were running out of time to flip the script before we became the next data points in his algorithm.

The door creaked open. Riley stepped in, flushed from the walk, her casual stride betrayed by the slight edge in her eyes. She tossed her wristwatch onto the table like it had personally offended her. "Four cameras, maybe five. And I think the concierge is ex-military.

She dropped onto the edge of the bed, kicked off her shoes, and added with a deadpan glance toward the fruit bowl, "Also, I don't want to alarm you, but I'm pretty sure the grapes are listening. One of them blinked. What did I miss?" she asked.

I looked up slowly, the pieces clicking into place like the last tumbler of a lock. My voice was low, steady. "Everything."

============

Chapter -- "The Hard Ask"

(POV: Riley)

He didn't speak right away. Just stood by the window, arms folded, the kind of silence that weighed more than any words. I'd just gotten back from my second loop of the property, rattled off a half-joking report about how even the grapes looked suspicious, but he hadn't laughed. Not even a grunt. That's when I knew something was wrong.

I leaned against the table and gave him space. "You gonna tell me why you look like someone just handed you a loaded gun and told you to choose your target?"

He turned. Eyes sharp. "It's staged," he said. "The evidence. The trails. Everything we found? Too clean. Too convenient. Vale left it out for us like a welcome mat."

My stomach sank. "Wait. You're saying he wants us to find this?"

Dexter gave a tight nod. "It's bait. And we're the ones on the hook." He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. "This whole retreat? It's not just a front. It's a trap. A test. He's trying to see who takes the bait and what we do with it."

"That's a hell of a theory, Marshall," I said, trying to inject a little levity. But he didn't bite. So I asked the real question. "You sure?"

"No." He glanced back out the window. "But I'm sure something's wrong. The way the accounts were structured. The paper trail tied in a bow. Even the surveillance was visible, not hidden. Like he wanted us to notice."

I crossed the room slowly. "You think he knows who we are?"

"I think he suspects," Dexter said. "And he's watching how we play it. He's not just testing us. He's feeling out how much the government already knows. This isn't a shield. It's a spotlight."

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him. "So what do we do? Pack up, call Rourke, tell him it's blown?"

"No," he said, too fast. Then softer, "We stay."

My mouth opened. Closed. "You want to stay in a trap you just identified?"

"If we back out now, we'll never get this close again," he said. "This is the first time Vale's let anyone this far in. If we bail, he disappears. And we lose everything."

I folded my arms. "And the team? What, we just cut contact?"

He stepped closer, lowered his voice. "They can't know. Not yet. If Vale is watching us, he's watching everyone. We make a move the wrong way, we expose them too. So we go quiet. Deep cover. Just us."

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at him. Studied the man who had bled for this case. The man who'd buried more guilt behind his eyes than most people carried in a lifetime.

Finally, I said, "You're asking a lot."

"I know."

"You're asking me to risk everything."

"I know."

I took a step closer, close enough to see the lines at the corners of his eyes. "So trust me," I said. "If we do this, you have to trust that I can hold the line with him. That I won't break. That I won't blow it."

He met my gaze. "I do trust you, Quinn. With my life."

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

"I'm scared, Dex," I admitted quietly.

He nodded. "Me too."

I reached for his hand, just for a second. "Then let's be scared together."

There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of what we'd committed to settle in my chest.

Then I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, "Goddamn it."

It wasn't elegant, but it was honest. And it was the closest thing to a vow I'd ever given on a job like this.

Dexter didn't smile, but I saw the flicker of understanding in his eyes.

We didn't need more words. We just needed a plan and each other.

============

Chapter -- "Veil of Smoke"

(POV: Riley)

By day four, the air at the vineyard had changed. The stares weren't curious anymore--they were calculated. The smiles felt rehearsed. The longer we played our roles, the more convinced I became that someone was waiting for us to slip. I just didn't know who. Or why. Yet.

That morning, I wore a sundress that barely passed Vale's absurd dress code and let my hair fall like I didn't have a care in the world. I sipped overpriced cabernet like it was juice and laughed a little too easily. We were already surrounded by watchers. The trick was making them think we didn't notice.

Dexter hung back by the bocce court, the strong silent type. I moved through the crowd like smoke. I joined a couple from Santa Fe--an art dealer and her husband, both tan, both shallow. We chatted about vineyards in Sonoma, trading fake stories about fake properties we'd "looked into." The conversation was nothing, but the performance had to be everything.

When Vale appeared at the edge of the garden with Colt Maddox trailing him like a shadow, my stomach dropped. He didn't approach. He observed. And not casually. I could feel his eyes crawling over every micro-expression, every gesture. He didn't trust us yet. Or maybe he did. That was worse.

I pivoted the conversation quickly. "Investors have been intense lately," I said, casually to the Santa Fe couple but loud enough for Vale to hear. "They want updates on everything. Even our personal time. It's like babysitting toddlers with trust funds."

The art dealer laughed. "That's what you get for building something people want to buy into."

"True," I said, forcing a chuckle. "Still. The monitoring gets old."

That did the trick. Vale's shoulders eased. Not much, but enough. I watched him lean in to say something to Maddox before turning away, his expression unreadable. I kept talking, nodding at all the right moments, but inside I was counting seconds. I was still being watched. I just hoped now they thought they understood why.

Later that afternoon, Vale finally approached me on the terrace, alone. A test, no doubt. "You're composed," he said, voice smooth. "Not many people hold their posture here."

I smiled. "Composure's just improv with better posture."

He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. "I like that."

I held his gaze and didn't blink. "Most people do. Until they realize I'm not faking it."

He actually laughed. Just once. Then he nodded and walked off. And for the first time since we arrived, I felt like we had more than a thread. We had a hook.

I rejoined Dexter at the edge of the terrace, pulse still pounding. He said nothing, but I caught the flick of his eyes over my shoulder. He'd seen it. Felt it. Vale wasn't just tolerating us anymore. He was inviting us in.

But doors that opened too easily usually had tripwires. Whatever was waiting on the other side of this one, we'd have to dance over it together--no blinking, no flinching, and no breaking character.

============

Chapter -- "Burn Notice"

(POV: Dexter)

The moment the lights flickered in our suite, I moved. I'd rigged the socket an hour earlier, loosening the ground wire just enough to short the circuit without triggering the backup generator. The outage wouldn't last long, maybe ten minutes max, but it was enough. Enough to vanish.

The room dipped into dim twilight, soft shadows dancing against the walls as I pulled the blackout curtains shut and dropped to one knee beside the footlocker. The gear lay exactly where we stashed it: burner phones, encrypted drives, mini transmitters, concealed sidearms. All clean. All traceable. If Vale so much as ran a scanner or pulled a guest sweep, we'd be exposed.

I started with the burners. Crushed the SIMs under my heel, pulled the batteries, wiped the memory with a jacked cable to my tablet, then snapped the devices in half one by one. Every crack of plastic sounded louder in the silence. I tossed the pieces into a canvas bag. They weren't just tools anymore. They were liabilities.

The surveillance earpieces went next. I torched them over the bathroom sink using my field lighter, rotating each one like a marshmallow until the plastic bubbled and warped. The drives followed. I removed the casing and fed them into the small incinerator canister I'd hidden in the vent panel. They hissed as the data sizzled away, every planted bank transaction and digital breadcrumb Vale wanted us to find. Evidence of a trap we'd almost walked straight into.

The weapons were the hardest. I disassembled each sidearm, removed the slides, and wrapped the components in foil. I'd already found a vineyard crate destined for offsite composting, a shipment labeled "organic waste only." I stashed the dismantled parts deep under a pile of cork mulch and grape stem clippings, then sealed the crate and left it near the kitchen loading dock. Out of sight. Gone by morning.

By the time Riley returned from her staged wine tour, the lights were back on. She stepped into the suite, sunglasses still on, and froze. "What happened?" she asked, instantly on edge.

I didn't look up. I was sealing the trash bag with the last of the melted earpieces. "We're on our own now," I said. "Everything's gone. Phones. Comms. Guns. The drives too. I dumped the last of it in the compost bins."

Her mouth opened, then closed. She took a breath like she wanted to argue but didn't. "You're serious," she said finally.

I met her eyes. "If Vale's baiting us, we can't leave a trail. We survive this clean, or we don't survive it at all."

She stood there a long second. Then, softly, just loud enough for me to hear, she muttered, "Shit," and ran a hand through her hair. "Okay. Okay. From here on out, we survive this as ghosts, figuratively, Dexter. But if I die, I swear I'm haunting your ass."

I nodded once. Then I took the final bag, the last of the destroyed equipment, and walked out to the vineyard's stone firepit. The embers were still warm from the nightly bonfire. I added kindling, then tossed the bag in and watched as flames devoured what was left of our mission. No more safety net. No way back.

Just smoke. And whatever waited on the other side.

The last of the gear hissed in the firepit, plastic curling, metal snapping as it gave way to heat. I watched until there was nothing left, no trace of who we really were, or how close we'd come to blowing this operation. When it was done, I turned away without ceremony.

We cleaned up. Changed. Put on the faces they expected to see. A happy couple in tailored clothes and well-polished shoes, gliding through the vineyard grounds like we belonged here. Like the fire behind us hadn't been a funeral pyre for our safety net.

The tasting was already in full swing when we arrived. Soft music, curated smiles, perfectly poured glasses. Vale's people made it feel effortless. That was the point.

Riley touched my arm as we stepped into the courtyard. Just a light graze, meant for the onlookers. But I caught the flick of her eyes, sharp, calculating. She was reading the crowd, same as I was. We weren't on the edge of the cliff anymore. We were mid-fall, hoping we'd chosen the right direction to jump.

We played our parts. We laughed. Swirled wine. Talked to people we knew were watching. All the while, I kept one eye on Vale.

And then he came to us.

Not with fanfare. Not with suspicion.

Vale's eyes lingered on Riley for a beat too long.

He was holding a wine glass like it meant something, like it said something about who he was. He smiled, calculated and charming, and then he said the words that set every nerve in my body on edge.

"We're having a small dinner tomorrow evening. Just a few of the more... engaged guests. Private setting. Off-property. I'd like you two to join us."

He didn't phrase it like a question.

My first instinct was to say no. Every inch of me screamed trap. But I didn't move. I nodded once, careful, measured. Riley didn't hesitate either. She smiled with just enough warmth to be polite and murmured something about looking forward to it. I caught the flicker in her eye though. She was already recalibrating.

As soon as Vale turned his back, I exhaled through my nose. Not relief. Something darker. Something heavier.

This was the moment I'd been dreading and expecting. The shift from observation to engagement. We weren't just being watched now. We were being vetted. Invited deeper. Which meant one of two things. Either he was ready to use us, or he was ready to remove us.

Riley stayed in character effortlessly, laughing lightly with one of the other couples by the tasting bar. I slipped outside, past the perimeter trail and around the back edge of the south terrace. Just needed a few minutes to think. To breathe. To run the math in my head.

Vale knew. Maybe not everything. Maybe not our names or our cover's thin edges. But enough. Enough to put us under closer scrutiny. Enough to get us alone.

And I was the one who pushed for this. The one who said we couldn't walk away. I told Riley we needed to see how deep the rot went. Now we were past the roots. Past the dirt. This was the part where it started to bleed.

I tapped the inside of my wrist, the reflex motion for a comm link that no longer existed. Ghosts don't get backups.

She found me later on the edge of the terrace, her voice quiet. "They gave me the time and address," she said. "Tomorrow. Seven. Dress formal. Vale's driver will pick us up."

I looked at her, not saying anything.

She met my eyes and nodded once, just slightly. "We're in."

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and gave the only answer I had left.

"Then it's time to see what the devil serves for dinner."

We didn't say much on the way back from the tasting.

The laughter, the glasses clinking, the soft orchestral playlist echoing through the vineyard had faded behind us like a scene from someone else's life. Riley kept her expression neutral, polished. I matched it. But underneath, we both knew the performance hadn't ended. If anything, it had only deepened. Vale watched her. Listened when she spoke. And for the first time, I saw something dangerous flicker behind his smile--interest.

Back in our room, the lock clicked softly behind us.

The room was quiet, like it was waiting for something to break. I lay on the bed, half in shadow, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan turning above me. My body was still, but my thoughts wouldn't stop spinning. Surveillance gone, phones crushed, guns dumped, and somehow, the danger felt closer than ever.

The bathroom door opened.

I heard it before I saw her--bare feet on tile, the soft pull of breath. Then Riley stepped out. Naked. No towel. No pretense. Just her. Her skin caught the low light like a secret and she didn't look away.

I sat up. "What are you doing?"

She didn't move. "Tomorrow might be the end," she said. "Vale could kill us. Or find out everything. I don't know what's waiting, but I'm done pretending I don't care. I want one night, Dexter. Just one. It doesn't have to mean anything."

Her voice was even, but there was something raw in it. Not desperation. Clarity.

"I'm not trying to make this complicated," she added. "I just want to feel something real. I need this to be real." She paused. "But only if you want it too."

I didn't speak. I didn't have to.

I stood and crossed the room, closing the space between us. I cupped her jaw, brushing my thumb along her cheekbone. Her eyes searched mine and in them, I saw it. What had once been lust, sharp and defensive, was softer now. Still fire, but tempered by something deeper.

When I kissed her, there was no hesitation, just heat, hunger, and a kind of desperation that felt like survival. She was already bare, her skin warm against mine, eyes lit with something fierce and unspoken. My hands shook as I peeled off my clothes, not from nerves but from the sheer intensity between us. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, grounding me, guiding me, dragging me forward until my knees hit the edge of the bed.

We fell together, tangled and breathless, mouths searching, teeth grazing, skin to skin with no space left between us. Her breath hitched against my neck as I pressed into her, not just with want but with something deeper, like we were trying to erase the lines between who we'd been and who we might still be. The air was thick with heat and urgency, the room spinning around the point where we met.

She looked down at me, eyes flashing with mischief. Then she tilted her head and smirked, that same crooked grin she wore whenever she was about to say something that would get her into trouble.

"Is that thing licensed?" she asked, voice low and teasing, her gaze dropping pointedly.

I let out a breath, half amusement, half warning. "Shut up," I said, and kissed her before she could say anything else.

She didn't resist. She pulled me in like she was starving for it, hands locking behind my neck, mouth parting under mine. The heat between us wasn't new, but this? This was different. No more masks, no more pretending. It wasn't about cover anymore. It was about us.

Her moan was sharp and real, no sarcasm in it, just need. Raw, open need. She arched beneath me, her fingers tightening against my back as her breath hitched, then she gasped, voice breaking as she cried out, "Dex..." like it was the only word that still made sense.

A low groan rumbled from my chest as I buried myself in her, the heat of her body pulling a sound from me I hadn't made in years, raw, unfiltered, and completely out of my control.

I wasn't thinking about the mission or Vale or the goddamn listening devices we'd burned. I was thinking about how her breath hitched when I touched her. How her nails dug into my back like she needed something to hold onto.

And I wanted to be that for her. Just for this night. Just for now.

If tomorrow went sideways, this was what I'd take with me. Not regrets and not missed chances.

It was something more.

And when it was over, we didn't say a word.

We just stayed there, tangled in silence, listening to the world outside pretend nothing had changed.

But we knew better.

============

Chapter -- "The Collection"

(POV: Riley)

I woke to the soft shift of light and the rustle of clothes. The space beside me was empty, still warm. Dexter stood near the window, already dressed, checking the line of his shirt cuffs like we had somewhere to be. Maybe we did.

For a moment, I just lay there, wrapped in the quiet, letting the memory of the night before settle over me like the sheets. My body still hummed with the weight of it, not just the sex, but what we hadn't said afterward. The way his hand lingered against mine. The way I didn't want to sleep, just breathe next to him.

"So," I said, voice still thick with sleep, "you always this quick to suit up and pretend last night didn't happen?"

He didn't look back. "We need to be ready."

I sat up, letting the sheet fall. "Wow. Not even a cup of coffee before we skip the pillow talk?"

Dexter turned then, face unreadable but not unkind. "There's a time and place. This isn't it."

The words weren't harsh, but they landed with a weight that left bruises anyway. Not rejection. Reality. I sighed and swung my legs out of bed, gathered my outfit I was planning to wear, and headed to the bathroom. The tiles were cold. The water hotter than I expected. I let it run over me until my skin stung, as if the heat might burn off the weight of what we'd done, what we were about to do.

By the time I stepped out, toweled off, and dressed, Dexter was finishing his prep. His movements were methodical and focused. I mirrored him in the mirror, brushing my hair, applying just enough makeup to match the persona. The quiet between us held its own kind of intimacy.

I pulled my jacket on and met his eyes in the reflection. "Yeah. Okay. Right. Time to be ghosts again."

He moved to the door, gave a small glance back. "We get through this, Riley... then we talk."

That wasn't a promise. But it was enough for now.

Maddox showed up without warning. No knock. No announcement. Just the mechanical click of the door unlocking and the soft tread of boots on polished floors. I was halfway through tying my hair back when I caught sight of him in the mirror, expression unreadable, posture military. Behind me, Dexter stood, already still, already watching.

Maddox didn't speak. He went to work, methodical and silent. The vents. The outlets. Behind every painting. Under the mattress. He moved like someone trained to find secrets, not ask about them. I sat on the edge of the bed and made a point of looking bored. Irritated. Like my privacy was being violated and I didn't care enough to stop it. Dexter mirrored me with practiced indifference, but I could feel the weight of his tension across the room.

Nothing. Maddox found nothing. Just a perfectly curated lie where the truth used to be.

He gave one curt nod and finally spoke. "Pack your bags. Just clothes. Vale wants to see you." The edge in his tone said everything he wasn't allowed to say out loud. This wasn't a request. It was a final checkpoint.

The SUV was already waiting outside, blacked-out windows, quiet engine. Maddox drove without comment through winding vineyard roads until the forest thinned and the sharp lines of a private airfield emerged from the mist. A sleek jet gleamed under the morning sun, its stairs already extended. Staff in matching uniforms smiled too widely, holding out flutes of champagne to arriving guests.

There were others. Three couples besides us. One pair looked giddy, whispering excitedly and clinging to each other. Another stood stiff and uncertain, their eyes darting like they'd just realized the price of admission. The third was harder to read. Polished. Quiet. Maybe too quiet.

Dexter clocked the cameras immediately. A man with a tablet scanned each couple's ID, while another took photos under the guise of hospitality. I watched the guests react. Some smiled, some didn't notice. None of them knew what we were walking into. Neither did we.

Vale wasn't here. Of course not. This wasn't his stage. This was his curtain call. And we'd just stepped into the wings.

As we ascended the jet stairs, I turned to Dexter. The breeze caught my hair, the metal handrail cool beneath my fingers. "We're in now," I said quietly. "No way out but through."

He didn't argue. Just followed me up. Silent. Steady. And burning with resolve.

To be continued in Melody's Silence: Circle of Fire.

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Notes from the Wyld:

Sorry this took so long, but the inspiration to work on it just wasn't there for a while. Then my wife dropped an idea on me that was so sinister, what I had originally planned just looked like a toddler's crayon drawing by comparison. All I wanted to do after that was work on that story, but I'd already sunk so much time into this earlier version that the Concorde fallacy was in full effect. My brain: "You've come this far, might as well limp across the finish line."

It took some valuable feedback from a few people to inspire me to take this story to a whole new level as the people I thank below can contest to.

To strikesandballs, thank you for the QA and for dealing with my BS. Mad props. The story would have been so full of inconsistencies you could drive a Mack truck through it and still have room to parallel park. So once again, my thanks.

To WollyBuffalo, dude has mad typeset skills, and he got me thinking about how the original ending felt rushed. He's basically the voice in my head saying, "Do better," but in a slightly less judgmental font.

And to Beardog325, thanks for catching the time of day issues. LOL, wine tasting at 2:00am. Sorry, everyone, last call is 1:00am. Apparently, I thought I was writing a vampire romance for a hot minute there.

As for what I'm currently working on... well, to no one's surprise, the sequel to Ides of March. It's so close. The current version is good, but I think it needs more meat for the readers. After that, I'm going to work on a story called One Morning. Its a what happened in Vegas didn't stay in Vegas.

Now we come to this, Beardog325 asked if I was thinking of working on a version of Just Once. Answer is yes and no. I did a while back. I wrote a chapter where Rick reacts to Marcy's letter. It's a very entertaining interaction with Leslie, but I stopped because logically, Rick should just divorce Marcy and move on. That's it. Nothing else. Then Beardog mentions it and I was like, dammit.

Anyway, back to the grind. Appreciate all of you for keeping this chaos vaguely organized.