𝓁.

He was already deep inside you, sinking into your warmth with urgency. Each thrust was deep and unyielding, opening you up completely and making you feel every single inch while the leather groaned beneath his weight. In. Out. In. It was as if he needed to establish that you were real before breaking you.

The raw, red neon light from the window washed over his entire body, painting his pale, scarred skin a vivid crimson. The heavy glare caught the damp strands of his short blonde hair, turning the pale locks a dark, blood-red shade that pulsed in sync with the broken sign outside, throwing the living room into a flushed, humid shadow. Your dark skirt was bunched up at your waist, his heavy FBI trousers trapped around his knees as he fucked you.

He let out a rough, deep pant against your skin. His mouth dragged hungrily along your jawline, smearing your red lipstick everywhere, blending it with the hot, fresh blood weeping from a split on his lip and a cut across his cheek. When his mouth crashed against yours, the red of the lipstick mixed with the sharp, metallic taste of iron. He nipped at your bottom lip, letting out a dark, low groan before sliding down and sinking his teeth hard into your shoulder, a heavy, ragged exhale of pure need against your skin.

You slid your hands up and buried your fingers into his hair, pulling back with just enough force to make him lift his injured face. His eyes were half-lidded, hooded and dark with a devilish pleasure under the red light, completely consumed by the sensation of having you. Leaning in close, you tilted his head slightly, your gaze locking onto the prominent mark on his right cheek, that unmistakable scar from his past, now split open again from his latest fight.

Slowly, deliberately, you slid your tongue out and ran it flat against his skin, licking over the fresh blood weeping right through the scar.

Dex let out a rough, breathable gasp. His entire body shattered beneath yours, his jaw trembling so much that a deep grunt escaped his throat as he pushed his pelvis against yours, riding you so deep it filled you to the limit and tore another choked cry from you.

"Please... g-god, please... Just tell me how to fuck you, please... I just need the noise to stop."

He babbled, his voice breaking as a single hot tear spilled down his cheek, his hands claiming the leather cushions beside your head.

You wrapped your fingers tighter in his hair, pulling his face close until your lips brushed his, commanding his gaze.

"You know what to do, Dex." my pulse hammered against my ribs as I watched him. "Ruin me like a good boy. Show no mercy."

A deep, harsh groan tore from his chest. His large, calloused hand immediately flew straight to your throat, wrapping your neck with a heavy grip that stole your breath, and the speed changed instantly. He started slamming into you with furious force, a frantic, relentless pace, his cock hitting that exact spot with every thrust until the obscene sound of your bodies colliding filled the entire living room.

You could feel him all the way to the hilt, filling you, stretching you, pushing against your cervix with a brutality bordering on pain and crossing over into something much worse, something that made you squeeze your thighs against him, wanting more and wanting it to stop all at once. The old leather protested beneath you. The slaps echoed like an accusation.

As his grip tightened on your throat, you let out a choked moan. Your breath started to falter, your lungs burning slightly under his palm, the lack of oxygen sending a sharp wave of heat straight to your pussy. The friction and the restriction of air were pushing you right over the edge, making you contract around his cock as you started coming, completely trapped beneath his weight.

Dex noticed the strain, his chest heaving against yours.

"I'm sorry... ah, fuck, I'm... I'm sorry..." he muttered, his thrusts stuttering for a fraction of a second, his bloodied forehead resting against yours. "Is it too much? I just... this is what I need to do..."

You looked straight into his dark eyes and nodded, pushing him forward, accepting it completely because you knew exactly what he needed.

"I know, baby. I know. Don't stop. Do it."

He kept fucking you, his eyes locked onto yours. Between deep, brutal kisses, his teeth nipped at your lips, demanding everything from you, before his mouth slid back down to your neck. You groaned against his ear, praising him, your hands tracing the tense muscles of his broad shoulders.

"You feel so good, Dex. You're so big inside me."

He let out a low, gravelly sound, his pelvis grinding ruthlessly against yours as he hit that exact spot over and over with a frantic speed under the pulsing red light. His cock filled you until there was no room for anything else: no thoughts, no noise, no bad day for either of you.

"Please... g-god, it's too much... Tell me I can come inside. Let me come inside you. Please, let me fill you up."

"Come inside me, Dex. Fill me up."

The permission broke his last restraint. He hit that sweet spot with brutal, unhinged speed, his hand tightening firmly on your throat, cutting off your air just as you completely came, your body arching off the sofa. Dex let out a rough, shattered cry, his whole frame going rigid as his eyes rolled back slightly under his half-closed lids, his pelvis locking hard against yours as the wave of the orgasm consumed him completely.

"You feel amazing… fuck, mmph… that's it, keep squeezing me."

He pulsed violently inside you, letting out a long, trembling exhale of absolute relief. He emptied himself completely, filling you in hot waves, while his fingers weakly tangled in your hair and his hips gave small, involuntary spasms, completely defeated. His chest heaved with broken breaths, all his defenses pulverized.

Slowly, his hand slipped from your throat and his weight fell dead over you in an infinitely comfortable way. The muffled slaps of the sex died down, replaced by his heart beating a thousand miles an hour against your ribs, the sound of the rain outside, and the steam still whistling loudly from the kitchen. He was trembling, completely exhausted and exposed, but his arms wrapped around you with a tight, suffocating desperation, clutching your back as if you were the only real thing he had left in the world.

He pressed a soft, trembling, lingering kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder, his voice small, submissive, and deeply tender in the warm red dark of the living room.

The conference room on the fortieth floor was ridiculously huge, featuring a dark oak table that took up nearly the entire center as if someone had wanted to overstate the power of the place on purpose. At this hour in the dead of night, the floor-to-ceiling windows didn't serve to look out at New York City, but rather to reflect a tired, washed-out image of the team back at us.

Late-night meeting, they’d called it. Nobody liked the idea; we were operating on a bone-deep exhaustion that barely let us function. I sank a bit lower into my armchair, searching for a comfortable position that simply didn't exist. It looked cozy enough, but the moment you shifted, it reminded you that it wasn't built for someone with bruised and battered ribs.

At the far end of the table, the massive screen embedded in the wall showed Valentina in her own element of comfort, perfectly framed in what looked like an overly quiet living room in Washington: a flawless silk robe, a luxurious mug in hand, and an air of calm that always gave the impression she was one step ahead of everyone.

"Do you know what the most interesting thing about you guys is?" she spoke from the monitor. Her voice, filtered through the speakers, sounded crisp—unbearably peaceful in stark contrast to the room's atmosphere. "That you always find creative ways to ignore basic instructions."

Nobody said a word. To be honest, the sight in that room was nothing short of a disaster.

Some of us had already stripped out of our uniforms, wearing casual clothes or even pajamas, though nobody was actually relaxed. We were too close to the table, too exposed, as if instead of a meeting, this was some kind of trial where we already knew we were losing ground from minute one. Dex, Walker, and Yelena were right beside me, respectively, and it was obvious none of them were in a good mood. And of course, I wasn't far behind; I was freezing in my tracksuit, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from telling everyone to fuck off.

On the other side of the table sat the ones who hadn't gone on the mission, looking way too relaxed for what was going down. Alexei was sprawled out in his chair, shoving a handful of potato chips into his mouth, looking almost ridiculously entertained by the argument. And, in a way, I could understand the feeling—an exaggerated, stupid drama that set my nerves on edge but brought a faint smirk to my face at the same time. I felt like at any second, the whole thing could escalate into a scene from a bad movie, with everyone pulling out a gun and pointing it at each other.

"The plan was simple," Valentina continued, taking a sip of her tea. "Go in as maintenance staff, retrieve the goddamn file from the fourteenth floor, and get out without anyone noticing. It wasn't rocket science, guys. You're supposed to know how to do this."

"There were complications on the ground floor," Dex spoke up suddenly, his voice flat, cold, and cutting. The ex-FBI agent was still wearing his tactical pants from the mission, but he’d swapped his shirt for a black cotton one. His face was completely expressionless as he traced the rim of his water glass with an odd fixation. "The security protocol didn't match the intel you gave us. The guard wasn't buying our IDs. He was going to sound the alarm."

"So you decided the best way to handle it was to crush his larynx against the counter," Valentina retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Very subtle, Benjamin."

"The whole building turned into a goddamn shitshow," I chimed in, leaning my elbows on the table and earning a warning look from Yelena. "I had to stay behind while they went ahead with the extraction."

Valentina shook her head. "What a waste of time."

"I thought it was excellent work!" Alexei boomed with his mouth half-full. "Violent, fast... just like the old days. A solid hit cuts right through the bureaucracy."

"Shut up, Alexei, for God's sake," Ava sighed from the back. She was standing, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, clearly itching to bolt through the massive doors the second she got the chance.

"Relax. Just boosting team morale," the old man grunted, brushing crumbs out of his beard.

"Well, at least they got part of the job done," Bob piped up from the far end of the table, struggling to peel a tangerine with little success. "I mean, the file is here, isn't it? Could’ve been worse."

John Walker, who had been standing by the window, took a step toward the table. He was wearing a tight blue t-shirt, the tension in his shoulders glaringly obvious. "Look, I get that from the outside, it might look like everything went sideways," he intervened, trying to maintain that mediator tone that came almost automatically to him. "But internal security was completely dialed up to eleven. Kat reacted fast when things started going south, and if she hadn't, the mission would've been over long before we even reached the server."

Dex opened his mouth, likely to snap back, but Yelena talked right over him before it could escalate into another full-blown fight.

"The file is in our hands, that's all that matters," Yelena blunted. "We had to improvise because your goddamn intel was trash, Valentina. If we had stuck to your plan, we'd be sitting in a cell right now or floating in the East River."

Valentina set her mug down, the sharp click echoing with a harsh crackle through the room's speakers. She stared at the group through the camera, her expression turning icy, entirely devoid of any shred of patience.

"I will not tolerate a team designed for covert ops leaving a trail of chaos behind every single mission. Whether you like it or not, you are a spectacle for outside eyes, and you are actively damaging your own branding." She paused, letting out a long, weary sigh. "And please… try to make the next operation look a little less personal. We won't sell many action figures if you keep cracking ribs."

"She’s got a point," Bob offered calmly from his spot. "It’s best to minimize collateral damage. The press can be a bit… sensationalist at times."

"Anyway, I want the report in two hours," Valentina declared, adjusting the silk fabric over her shoulders. She paused deliberately, letting the silence hang heavy over the room for a few long, dramatic seconds before speaking again. "And one last thing. Kane, you're suspended from active field operations for a month."

The words, of course, hit me like a physical blow. I froze for a second, feeling my stomach drop to the floor, but I masked it by letting out a short, dry laugh. "What?"

"Those decisions do not fall under your authority," Belova countered, her Russian accent thickening under the sheer hostility in her voice.

A small, knowing smile tugged at Valentina’s lips on the other side of the screen. "Of course they do. When something goes south, my name is the first one tied to this team," she replied smoothly. "I am the public face of this organization to the State. And that means following protocol, even if I don't particularly like it."

"This is ridiculous. I didn't kill anyone."

"I can't take that risk, Kane. In recent weeks, details from nearly every single one of our missions have leaked; the press is looking for any excuse to tear us apart, and we're under a microscope with the public. If any of this gets out—"

"There's nothing on the cameras, Valentina," Dex interjected from his chair, his words a slow, irritated drawl. "I wiped the files, the footage, and every last server before we even set foot outside. They have nothing."

"Journalists don't need footage, Benjamin," she cut him off, relentless. "I have a dozen civilians in the hospital. Men with broken ribs, missing teeth, and one in the ICU with severe trauma to his goddamn head." The sharp edge of her own voice seemed to catch her off guard. She closed her eyes for a second, swallowing hard to regain her composure, before continuing in a frigid whisper, "I don't need recordings when I have a line of victims ready to talk to the press."

Walker ran a hand over his jaw, his mouth tightening before he swore under his breath. "Fuck."

Valentina sighed and finished with a final: "Thirty days, Kane. Off active duty."

Suddenly, the screen cut out with a sharp click, plunging us into near-darkness. In its place remained that massive black rectangle, reflecting our grim expressions—everyone with slumped shoulders, itching to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

Yelena, who had remained rigid in her chair, let out a scoff before standing up. "I'll talk to her tomorrow," she muttered.

"Well," Bob sighed, pushing himself up from his chair with the half-peeled tangerine in one hand, his fingernails covered in that annoying white pith. "I'm leaving before anyone decides to use me as a punching bag. Goodnight, team."

Ava rose from her seat, stretching her arms lazily as she watched the rest of the room starting to pack up and get ready to finally get the hell out. She stared at the empty space at the far end of the table, scowling under the harsh, white glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"By the way, where the hell is Bucky?" she asked, crossing her arms. "I mean, it's weird that he didn't show up to watch Valentina rip us to shreds."

Alexei let out a gravelly belly laugh—the kind that shook his entire stomach—and shoved his hand back into the crumpled bag. The crunching sound as he chewed was insufferably loud.

"He’s with his woman," the old man drawled with heavy insinuation, wagging his bushy eyebrows and letting a couple of greasy crumbs drop onto the polished wood of the table. "Probably having a hell of a lot better time than any of us right now."

Ava rolled her eyes so hard I half-feared they’d get stuck that way. She muttered a curse under her breath and trailed out of the room right on Bob's heels. Alexei headed down the hallway right behind them, wiping his salt-covered fingers on his tracksuit and humming a melody that I only occasionally recognized as a Lady Gaga song. Yelena, for her part, snatched up her reports in a sharp, methodical motion and vanished without so much as a goodnight.

To be honest, I was completely stunned.

… it was the first time I'd ever been suspended.

I pushed myself up slowly and took a few steps toward the door, letting out a sharp grunt when my ribs reminded me of the knee I’d taken to the chest earlier this afternoon. The sharp twinge forced me to hunch over slightly the second I crossed the threshold, losing my footing and instinctively bracing myself against the hallway wall for support.

"Hey, careful," Walker said from behind me, closing the distance between us with long strides. Before I could even protest, he slid a firm arm under my shoulders, taking some of my weight while being careful not to press against the bruised area. "Drop the pride, Kat. You took a hell of a beating."

My eyes rolled before I could help it, though I only managed a half-hearted gesture. "I hate when the adrenaline wears off and suddenly you feel everything."

Walker let out a short breath through his nose—almost a chuckle—and fell into step beside me down the hallway. The harsh white lights of the building made him look even more exhausted, colder than usual. He wasn't an easy person, and it showed from a mile away; the kind of hardness that people misread as hostility before ever taking the trouble to look any deeper. Even so, I had come to understand him almost without realizing it—in that way you sometimes gravitate toward someone precisely because you recognize yourself in their worst parts.

And I knew he felt the exact same way about me.

He had told me that once. About three weeks after I’d joined the team, during that phase when I was still trying to find my footing. He showed up at my room door with two small containers of Chinese takeout. I knew exactly why he was there, and I knew the reason behind his persistence when he walked in almost without asking and sat on the edge of my desk.

He was a bit evasive at first, almost clumsy as he tried to get to the point of the conversation while I watched him with a raised eyebrow. I cut straight to the chase; I thanked him for dinner but asked him bluntly what he had really come for.

He looked down at his takeout box for a second before answering. Earlier that day, I’d had a mission that hadn't gone as planned. I'll admit it: one of the biggest mistakes was my lack of trust in the team. When he pointed out the flaw, I immediately went on the defensive, but John tried to reassure me, saying it was completely normal to feel that way at the beginning.

"It’s like looking in a mirror from a few years ago," he had told me that night. He was sitting on the edge of my desk, one of the cardboard boxes in his hand, moving the noodles around with his chopsticks. I remembered that right then, for the first time all day, the tension in his face had softened a bit. "You remind me so much of myself: competitive, always on the defensive, waiting for the blow… and pretty pissed off at life in general."

"I'm not pissed off at life," I had cut him off, my throat tight with anger. Back then, I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, using my own chopsticks more to stab at my food in frustration than to actually eat it.

I had been expecting a military lecture, not cheap psychology.

"Yes, you are," he countered, locking his eyes onto mine calmly before taking a bite. "And you have your reasons, but I don't like you taking it out on the team."

"I just… don't like being told what to do," I shot back. "Least of all by people who were trying to kill me two months ago."

He let out a short laugh that made me raise my eyebrows, a bit offended by the reaction.

"Yelena wasn't going to kill you, just… beat the information out of you," he finally admitted. "In her defense, she went after you because it looked like you were mixed up in something shady," he tried to explain, rolling his eyes and barely relaxing his shoulders as he made a vague gesture with his chopsticks, as if all that were long since water under the bridge. "But that's not the point… the point is that today you almost got Dex killed."

I had tensed up immediately. "Dex can take care of himself. Besides, if a ceiling fell on him, it'd be doing a favor to the team's collective IQ."

John let out a short huff through his nose, dropping his head for a second. The corner of his mouth was still upturned when he looked back at me. "You're right about that. The guy is a massive headache, but Valentina saw something in him, and we have to respect that."

I clenched my jaw, searching for a biting comeback—a counterattack that would make him leave my room—but instead, I just let the silence stretch between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my food getting cold, then looked down at the floor, and finally exhaled the breath I'd been holding. My shoulders slumped, losing all traces of my combat stance. "I know I messed up, Walker," I admitted in a whisper. "I don't need you coming in here to remind me. If they're going to suspend me, just do it already and get it over with."

"Who said anything about suspending you?" he questioned. "Besides, that's not my job."

"Then what are you here for? Moral support? Don't give me that shit."

John set the takeout box down on the desk before shifting a little closer to where I sat, holding my gaze with a calmness that infuriated me in that moment because I was entirely incapable of matching it. There was an honesty so raw and clean in his eyes that it forced me to drop my guard, if only for a second.

"I came because I know what it feels like," he explained, his voice dropping a register. "You think if you lower your guard for five minutes, they're going to run right over you. You think being the toughest person in the room is the only way to keep from getting hurt, but you're going to end up breaking. I tried to carry the weight of everything all on my own, and I ended up… well, you know how I turned out in the papers."

I shook my head as I spoke again. "You had super soldier serum in your veins, John. I just… feel like breaking things."

And the worst part was that, even as I said it, I knew exactly how it sounded: immature, defensive, not even a real justification for his situation or mine. But I didn't know how to function any other way; when you spend half your life getting used to people waiting for you to fail, you end up learning to bare your teeth before they ever get the chance.

"The serum doesn't take away the fear of failing, Kat. It just makes you hit harder when you panic."

I pressed my lips together as I realized I'd swallowed my urge to reply. I had no counterargument for that.

"You don't trust them, fine," he continued. "They have a terrible track record, but you're going to have to start trusting someone if you don't want to go crazy in here. I made every single goddamn mistake you're making right now. I just… don't want to see you go through the same thing."

"Save the pity," I spat with a bitter smile that left my face feeling tight. "It's a little late for that."

"No, it's not. Because you aren't broken, no matter how hard you try to seem like you are."

Fuck.

"You don't know me that well, Walker," I snapped, trying to salvage some of my bruised pride.

He stared at me for a second. He didn't get angry; on the contrary, he let out a soft breath, almost a resigned sigh, and gave a slight nod. I didn't know it at the time, but that gesture was his way of accepting that some things I was just going to have to learn the hard way.

Then he took a step back, grabbed his takeout box from the desk, and turned toward the door. "Finish that up. We train first thing tomorrow, and don't expect me to go easy on you."

A particularly sharp stab of pain in my ribs yanked me right out of the memory. I let out a choked gasp, and John’s arm immediately tensed under my shoulders, taking on more of my weight to force me to straighten my stride. He slowed his pace to match my sluggish steps, looking down at me as he asked, "Did you go to medical?"

I nodded, shrugging, and instantly regretted the movement. "Rest, painkillers… I'm fine. Trust me, I've been worse. Besides, look on the bright side—now I've got nothing but time to recover."

John stared at me in silence as we waited for the elevator to climb the forty floors. His brow furrowed slightly with a quiet seriousness he didn't show very often. "Are you going to be okay with all of this?" he asked finally.

And I hated it.

I hated that he asked, or simply that he took it so seriously… because it made everything feel too real. For a second, I wanted to fire back with one of my usual sharp remarks to brush it off. But I was so damn tired; my brain was moving too slowly to come up with anything clever, and I didn't have the strength left to keep up the act.

Besides, much to my annoyance, I knew exactly where that question was coming from. He wasn't looking for weaknesses or trying to be condescending; he was doing it because, in his rigid, predictable way, he was a friend.

"Yeah. Not like I have much of a choice."

The elevator doors slid open in front of us with a soft chime. We stepped into the car, and John nodded slowly, running a hand over the short beard along his jawline. "Well, at least you'll get to sleep for a whole month," he teased. "You were starting to look a bit scary."

The comment managed to coax a small smile out of me. "How considerate of you."

He reached out to hit the button for the residential floors and mumbled a vague response, but I didn't even register his words because my attention snapped completely toward the hallway outside.

The whole thing happened in barely five seconds.

Dex was crossing the corridor toward the lounge, hands shoved deep into his pockets, walking with an easy stride. But the moment he passed the elevator, his eyes locked onto us through the open doors. He sized us up in a heartbeat, registering Walker by my side and the smile still playing on my lips.

Suddenly, one corner of his mouth curled into a smirk of pure, smug mockery. Without breaking stride, the bastard pulled his hands out of his pockets, brought them up to the sides of his head with his palms facing forward, and bent his fingers a couple of times, mimicking dog ears in the stupidest way possible. He held my gaze just long enough to ensure I’d seen him before dropping his arms and keeping right on going like it was nothing.

“He looks at you like a dog looking at a bone.”

Behind me, John’s voice and laughter had already faded into a dull hum. He was in his own world, completely oblivious to what had just gone down right under his nose.

With heat rushing up my neck and the smile dying on my lips, I stared straight ahead, watching the metal panels slide together slowly until the doors sealed shut. I couldn't even fire back; the words and any possible reaction got hopelessly stuck in my throat. For some reason, my goddamn brain had just completely short-circuited.

"Fuck."

The left sleeve of my tactical suit was completely soaked in something thick and warm that was already starting to turn sticky, clinging to my skin like tar. The uniform Valentina had saddled us with was made of a reinforced synthetic fabric that was supposed to wick away sweat, but it didn't work the same with someone else's blood; the fabric became stiff, heavy, and smelled like pure iron, like a fucking slaughterhouse.

The left sleeve of my tactical suit was completely soaked with something thick and hot that was already starting to turn pasty, sticking to my arms like tar. The uniform Valentina had foisted on us was made of a reinforced synthetic fabric that was supposed to wick away sweat, but it didn't work the same way with other people's blood; the fabric became stiff, heavy, and smelled of pure iron, like a fucking slaughterhouse.

The eleventh floor was a disaster: a labyrinth of construction plastic hanging from the ceiling and bare concrete everywhere that echoed the sound of my own gasps, growing louder and louder. The air was stagnant: cement dust that made my eyes sting and mixed with that bitter taste of gunpowder that was stuck to the back of my throat.

At my feet, the fourth man was still trying to crawl across the gray floor. He was a head taller than me and wore black military gear, with no patches or flags; he stretched his fingers toward the submachine gun with a purely animal desperation, dragging his knees across the concrete. I didn't give him time to touch the metal; I kicked him straight in the ribs, using the exact angle to maximize the impact. It sounded exactly like stepping on an old wooden crate; his chest caved inward with a wet, dull crack, and the guy lost consciousness on the cement.

"Kane. Report in—and please, stop playing with them, I can hear you breaking them from all the way over here."

Yelena’s voice in my comms was an instant headache. I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my glove, leaving a sticky smear on the leather. My temples were pounding like crazy from the adrenaline.

"Eleven is clear," I said, completely blowing off her order. "Four down, they're not gonna be a problem anymore."

I heard a sigh on the other end—a long, drawn-out one that crawled right into my ear and grated on my eardrum.

"I told you to hold your position, not clear out the entire damn building," Yelena snapped. "Do your job, or next time you're getting benched."

I was about to reply, but the sound of heavy boots on the floor above made me kill the line instantly. I forgot all about my comms and took the stairs to the twelfth floor three at a time, flying up the steps with my short knife gripped tight in my right hand, my racing pulse pounding like crazy in my ears.

I didn't even have time to peek into the hallway as I cleared the stairwell.

Three guys burst out from who knows where. The first one grabbed my right arm before I could even do a thing; he wrenched the knife out of my hand and threw it aside. A two-hundred-pound slab of muscle that smelled like rancid sweat threw his entire weight into me, slamming my back against the concrete wall. The air knocked right out of me with a sharp grunt. The next second, multiple gloved hands, hard as rock, pinned my wrists against the wall, locking my legs down so I couldn't fight back with my knees.

One of them, the guy pinning me from above, jammed his forearm hard into my throat, crushing my windpipe.

"We've got her," he barked into his radio before turning to face me, his face so close I could feel his damp breath hitting my skin. "You fucking bitch, you've given us so much trouble. Now it's our turn to have a little fun, don't you think?" he sneered, and then suddenly, without warning, he spat right on my cheek. He didn't even blink afterward.

A sickening heat clouded my vision and, apparently, my senses as well. When I joined the team, I made two promises: no killing without orders, and no use of force beyond what was absolutely necessary. Valentina had been crystal clear about that, and I had agreed with all the conviction in the world. But three guys on top of me, breathing in my face and pressing themselves against me, with that still-warm spit sliding down my cheek...

This was a whole different story.

I dropped all my dead weight, bending my knees violently to completely throw off their center of gravity. In that fraction of an inch I gained, I yanked my head back and headbutted the guy on the left; his nose bone shattered against my forehead with a sickeningly soft crunch, splattering my face with hot blood that tasted like pure iron on my lips. The guy choked out a scream, strings of red dripping from his mouth as his grip loosened. I twisted my hips and drove my right elbow straight into the big guy's solar plexus, crushing his diaphragm until I heard the air catch in his throat with a sharp wheeze.

I yanked myself free from the last one, the blade of my own knife that he was holding leaving a clean slice across my wrist—but I wasn't even thinking anymore; rage was completely piloting my body. Before the guy with the broken nose could bring his hands to his face, I grabbed him by his uniform collar and slammed him into the concrete. I brought my boot down right on his mouth. My heel crushed his front teeth into his gums with a sound like snapping chalk; I felt every single piece of enamel embedding into his tongue as he choked, crawling backward, half-unconscious.

I was going after the third one—the one who spat on me—my hands curled into fists, ready to keep on breaking him, when the sound of heavy strides echoed through the room. Two seconds later, a massive figure in the faded stars-and-stripes uniform of corporate America burst down the hallway.

John Walker charged in like a pissed-off bull, leading with his shield. The impact against the last guard sounded like a train wreck; the metal of the shield caved the guy’s chest in, snapping several ribs on impact. The man was thrown ten feet back, slamming spine-first into an iron beam. He dropped to his knees on the floor, doubled over, groaning in pain and clutching his side as he tried to force air into his lungs. He wasn't getting up for a week.

"Kat, behind me!" he barked, panting. "I've got you!"

I leaned against the wall, my hands shaking from the adrenaline. I wiped the back of my wrist across my cheek and looked at John. He had that look on his face—the usual one, like a kicked puppy, with poorly hidden worry written all over him. Apparently, he had abandoned his post just because he thought I was getting into trouble. And I’m not exactly the type to say thank you, but something about that completely unnecessary gesture took the edge off my anger.

I walked over and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. I felt his back loosen up under his suit. "That was all of them," I told him, trying to get him to let his guard down. "By the way, I didn't ask for your help, Walker."

He squared his shoulders and shot me a sideways glance, crowding my space with an uncalled-for amount of confidence. Seeing him like that, trying to play the hero with me, was almost kind of cute.

"I could've helped you with those last ones."

"Didn't need it."

"I know," he sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. "But you were having too much fun on your own, and I thought you might want some company."

I frowned. "Company?"

"Company," he repeated.

I didn't say anything for a second. I looked down the hallway, at the bodies, the blood on the floor, and the guy who was still crawling toward the wall, getting nowhere. Then I looked back at John, who was watching me with that infuriating patience he had sometimes.

"Fine," I sighed, tapping him lightly on the chest a couple of times, a smirk tugging at my lips. "I owe you a beer."

"That works for me."

We headed up the last two floors at a fast pace. Or well, at least I tried to; my legs were already burning a bit from the effort, and the sound of our boots on the concrete stairs was putting me seriously on edge. In a place like this, any noise feels like a damn gunshot. Finally, on the fourteenth floor, the air changed: it turned cold, dry, with that constant electrical hum that drills straight into your head.

John stopped for a second on the landing to rip his helmet off. His hair was matted down and his breathing was heavy, but his eyes were locked behind us when he spoke again. "Go inside and make sure you have everything before we leave," he whispered, adjusting the shield on his arm. "I've got your back."

"Don't trust Dex?"

He shot me a sideways glance, smirking with one eyebrow raised. I knew that answer all too well. In the end, it didn't matter how many times he saved our asses; to most people, Benjamin was still just an ex-FBI agent that nobody fully trusted to have their back.

Leaving the Cap behind, I stepped into the server room. The office was pitch black, packed with computer towers that made an unbearable racket with their old, dusty fans.

Dex was already inside. He had taken his mask off, revealing that short but thick blonde hair, neatly combed to one side. From behind, he looked massive—I couldn't even deny it. He held a hard, perfectly straight posture, looking like a soldier who was physically incapable of fully relaxing, and in a way, I could understand him.

His arms were crossed over his chest, his broad shoulders stretching the black fabric of his uniform, clearly defined even under the harsh, sickly green glow of the monitors. There was something ridiculously intimidating about him just standing still... I knew all that violence was still in there, just waiting for a reason to snap. Luckily for me, he didn’t move when I walked in; he stayed glued to the computer, eyes locked on the loading bar as the file finished downloading, the screen washing half of his face in green.

"You took your sweet time, Katherine," he drawled, his voice carrying this tone I was positive he was faking. It was rough, deep, raspy... I don't know; it could get right under your skin, making you feel like you'd done something wrong and were a second away from being ripped apart.

"Mmh," I flatly replied, copying him and crossing my arms too. I wasn't about to give him any explanations.

But he apparently ignored my attitude, because he immediately opened his mouth again. "Walker took off running the second he saw you surrounded on the cameras," he let drop, hitting a few keys to bring up a grid of security feeds across the monitors.

The lobby and several of the building's hallways appeared from different angles, still littered with bodies, shattered glass, and blood smeared by boots. In one of the feeds, I caught a glimpse of myself for just a second, fighting off three guys at once, before Dex moved his fingers across the keyboard again and wiped the footage clean, leaving the screens completely black.

"He likes you."

"Don't be stupid," I muttered, the frown on my face making it pretty clear how I felt about his words. "He's a mess over his divorce."

I shot a quick glance over my shoulder toward the door before opening my mouth. John was still out there, steady as an oak; the last thing I needed was for him to overhear this. I liked the guy, and honestly, I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Divorce? And how do you know so much about him?"

The question made me blink for a second. Actually... everyone knew. Walker had let it slip during a dinner weeks ago, half-drunk and clearly regretting it the second he started talking. Nobody had made fun of him, either; not even Alexei with two bottles in him warming up his veins. Bucky had just clapped him on the shoulder, Yelena refilled his glass, and the rest of us simply let him spill his guts for hours on end.

"Because he literally told everyone," I replied, looking at him like the answer was completely obvious. He barely reacted; he kept his eyes glued to the screen, scrolling through data as if the conversation were going in one ear and out the other. "You could at least try to fake some empathy."

"Mmh," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "That must have been really hard."

"You're an asshole."

Of course, he didn't take me seriously. He never did. He immediately flashed a crooked grin that showed his teeth, crossing his arms and leaning back a bit. This time he actually turned his head toward me, holding my gaze with those light eyes that were impossible to fully read, way too cold for a normal person.

"Admit it. He looks at you like a dog looks at a bone."

I sighed, already getting a little tired of the conversation. "He just needs a friend... someone to listen to him for a bit."

Dex raised his eyebrows slightly, looking genuinely interested for the first time in anything I’d said. "And do you listen to him?"

"That's what a friend does, isn't it?"

I held his gaze without backing down. The rest of the team always kept a certain distance from Dex—an invisible line that nobody really crossed—but with me, it was different. I guess it had to do with us being the new ones. He’d been the last to join the team until I arrived a few months later, and since then, there had been this strange kind of understanding between us that I couldn't quite explain.

Competition. Pride. Curiosity. Violence, or maybe, something like recognition.

To cut through the weird moment that was frying my brain, I stepped away and tapped my earpiece, clinging to the mission as an excuse to change the subject. "It makes no sense for three agents to come out here for a fucking file, Yelena. It’s ridiculous."

One second. Two. Three. Belova was probably rolling her eyes on the other end of the comms, gathering enough patience not to tell me to fuck off. I knew she had very little to spare for me… not that I lost any sleep over it.

"It's called precaution, Kane," Yelena piped in with a huff. "We were supposed to go in quiet, not turn this into a joke."

A joke? I'm just being cautious.

"The loading bar is only halfway through, Belova. Relax."

Next to me, Dex didn't even flinch, but a smirk tugged slightly at the corners of his mouth. For some reason completely beyond my understanding, this son of a bitch was actually enjoying the moment. "You should listen to her," he whispered, tilting his head slightly toward me. His voice dropped an octave again, carrying this amused tone that left me stunned. "You're the rookie. You should behave."

"Behave? Like you do?" I shot back, locking eyes with him—defiant, confident, and absolutely unbearable. If I’d learned anything about Dex, it was that the second you took a step back, he took two steps forward. "I know exactly what you do when Valentina isn't looking."

I wanted to prick his pride just like he’d just done to me; to wipe that smug look off his face once and for all, though with Dex, it was never that easy. And sure enough, instead of getting annoyed, his smirk widened just a fraction more. He held my gaze with a strange, almost amused satisfaction, as if he’d been waiting for exactly that reaction from me.

"I know what you do, too."

I let out a soft huff through my nose, more like a tired sigh than anything else. "Oh, so now you're gonna play saint?"

My response didn't even phase him.

He tore his eyes from mine and began to slowly lower them down my face, taking his sweet time. I felt the gaze even before I fully understood it. He ended up stopping at my neck, right where one of the guards had grabbed me downstairs during the struggle. I could still feel my skin burning there, sensitive, my pulse throbbing beneath the red mark they’d left behind.

I didn't back down. On the contrary, I tilted my chin up a bit to give him a clear view of the mark, holding my ground to make it obvious that a few bruises were nothing to me.

Dex brought his gaze back up to mine. "I'm just saying... think about the consequences."

Consequences? Seriously? Was he really saying that to me?

I almost laughed in his face, and I know he notices it the second my eyebrows raise at the shock—or rather, the absolute nerve of what he’d just said. God, just what I needed. He should take a look in the mirror before talking to me about consequences; with that scar running across half his cheek, not to mention the fact that underneath his skin, half his spine was reinforced with adamantium because Wilson Fisk came damn close to putting him six feet under. If anyone lived on the edge of consequences, it was him.

But of course, the problem with him was that it was too easy to forget how fucking dangerous he was until he was standing right in front of you.

There he was, standing right in front of me with a relaxed posture that was scarier than any threat. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a massive, solid build that completely filled my field of vision beneath his black t-shirt. He had a commanding presence, moving with a precision you wouldn't expect from someone his size. And his eyes—light and predatory when he wanted them to be—holding my gaze in a way that worked up my nerves because I never knew what the hell he was actually thinking. Sometimes he looked completely empty, and other times, I had the strangest feeling that he was reading me way too well.

I parted my lips slightly to reply, ready to snap back with some mockery, but a sharp beep cut my train of thought instantly. The monitor flashed green: download complete.

Neither of us budged an inch. In fact, we just stood there, facing each other with an absurd amount of pride. Suddenly, we were locked in an unexpected, bold-faced staring contest—a silent agreement to see who would break first.

Dex was the first to move, though… only technically. He reached out toward the terminal, his hand passing dangerously close to my hip—way too close to be a coincidence. He didn't actually brush against me, though he easily could have. It took me a second to realize he was dragging out the moment on purpose, forcing me to hold his gaze as he crowded into my space, as if waiting for a reaction from me. One that would give him the win.

So before giving him that satisfaction, I stepped barely half a foot to the side and raised my eyebrows with a slight smirk. Defiant, almost mocking—or, if I was being entirely honest with myself, as if wanting to see just how far he was planning to take this shit.

The corner of Dex’s mouth hitched up barely a millimeter. It was subtle, but enough to know he’d caught the gesture perfectly.

"The file is ready," he reported into the comms.

He didn't back away; he just stood there, waiting patiently. Proud and competitive, I refused to yield, of course. I stood my ground, solid as a rock, even though inside, my heart was hammering against my chest in a completely absurd way that had absolutely nothing to do with the adrenaline from the fight downstairs anymore. Doing this was certainly… exhausting. It was like standing too close to something you know damn well can destroy you, and yet, refusing to step away.

In the end, seeing that I wasn't going to budge, Dex let out a low chuckle through his nose—barely a short exhale. His expression softened just enough to make it clear that he was finding this a hell of a lot more entertaining than he should.