Page 55 of Code Name: Ghost

Logan doesn’t blink, but something in his jaw ticks.

“Let’s just hope that’s enough,” he mutters, turning away and picking up his mug again like nothing happened. “Because if it’s not… we’ll all be ash.”

I hear it before I see it—the soft ding.

Nick.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and Nick steps into the ops room like gravity bends around him. Everything inside me braces. My breath stalls in my chest. Logan glances over his shoulder but doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

Nick’s gaze sweeps the room in one cool, calculated pass—first Logan, then me. His eyes linger when they land on me, taking in the shirt I’m still wearing, the tension in my shoulders, the heat still clinging to the air like something happened and neither of us has said it out loud yet.

I expect fury. Reprimand. That low growl he uses when he’s two seconds from dragging me back upstairs and reminding me who’s in charge.

But instead… I get stillness.

Nick doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t accuse. He just closes the distance with that unshakeable calm that always throws me off more than his anger ever could.

When he stops in front of me, his fingers slide gently behind my neck—warm, firm, anchoring me with a single touch. It’s not punishing, not possessive, but it carries weight. Like a signal. Like a tether made of skin and trust, reminding me exactly who I belong to and who’s still in control, even without a single word.

Just there.

“Didn’t expect you up so early,” he says quietly, but there’s something behind the words—something layered and watchful. It’s not just surprise. It’s assessment. Like he’s cataloging every flicker in my posture, every edge in my voice, measuring if this is independence or rebellion. A heartbeat passes before he speaks again, but I feel the weight of his silence like a test I didn’t realize I was taking.

I lift my chin, forcing my voice to stay even despite the tight coil of tension still knotted in my spine. “I needed space to think,” I say, the words sharper than I intended, more armor than explanation. My pulse skips, waiting for the reprimand I half expect—but all I see in Nick’s eyes is that maddening, patient calm that unnerves me more than any fury ever could.

His thumb brushes just beneath my ear—slow and deliberate, the barest hint of possession in the gesture.

“I would’ve given it to you,” he says, voice pitched low, rich with that dangerous calm that always seems to settle over him when I expect the opposite. There’s no anger, no heat—just quiet understanding threaded through something heavier. Something that feels like a promise.

My throat tightens. I know he means it. Knows me well enough to realize that even silence, when it comes from him, can feel like sanctuary. But the way his eyes pin mine now? It’s not silence. It’s a vow not to pull away. A vow to see me—even when I don’t want to be seen.

His gaze flickers over my face, lingering there for a beat too long—like he’s reading the cracks I can’t quite seal shut—then drops to the subtle tremble in my hands, the one I thought I was hiding. The kind of tremble that betrays more than fear. It exposes the weight of everything I’m holding back—adrenaline, defiance, need. And he sees all of it. Not just the tremble, but the war waging just beneath my skin. His eyes darken, not with anger, but with something deeper. Something that says, I see you. I see all of you. And I’ve got you.

Then he turns, eases himself down into the chair I’d been hovering behind, and without a word—without asking—pulls me gently into his lap.

My knees hit his thighs, and I freeze for half a heartbeat. Not because I’m embarrassed. But because everything about the moment is so deliberate—so commanding in its calm, so unshakably certain. Like his quiet control has wrapped itself around me in front of God and Logan and a wall of high-tech surveillance equipment, and he’s making one thing perfectly clear without saying a word: I belong to him. Here. Now. In this war room. In this mission. In this life, he lives in the shadows. And whether or not Logan likes it, I’m not just in the room—I’m part of the equation.

His arm slides around my waist, guiding me against his chest like this is exactly where I belong. And I feel it—that quiet reinforcement. Not punishment, not humiliation. Just… clarity. I’m here. I’m still his. And he’s not letting the room, or Logan, or the mission, take that away.

Across the table, Logan watches without comment. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or wariness.

Nick leans forward slightly and taps a few keys on the terminal. “What did I miss?”

Logan clears his throat. “We confirmed Duval had help. Someone inside Monaco PD. A leak in the surveillance chain, probably embedded months ago.”

Nick’s body tenses beneath me. “Confirmed?”

“Not by name. But we pulled intercepted comms. Whoever helped him is high enough to redirect field ops. Too precise to be a fluke.” Logan pauses, then hits a key. The main screen flickers, loading a string of raw intercepted data. “Alias used is Rouge Zero. No visual. No ID. Just encrypted bursts from a burner we haven’t traced yet.”

“Local or international?” Nick asks.

“Monaco jurisdiction,” Logan confirms, his voice clipped. “Internal Affairs has their hands tied—too many eyes, too much risk. If we go through official channels, we’ll lose the element of surprise. Which means we need to root them out ourselves—quietly—before they realize we’re hunting and cover their tracks.”

I glance between them, pulse tightening. “You think they’re still feeding Vallois?” My voice is steady, but the weight of the question lingers in the space between us, pressing into the already-fraught air. Because if Logan’s right, and there's a mole inside the Monaco police—someone actively undermining Cerberus from the inside—then it means we’re not just being hunted. We’re being watched.

“We don’t think,” Logan says. “We know.”

Nick exhales through his nose, then turns his attention to a second screen. “Pull up the comm scrub overlay.”

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