Page 22 of The Lasso Master

He flexed his fingers once, cracked his knuckles, and got to work. It took him less than a minute to bypass the encryption—a simple firewall laced with just enough complexity to keep out amateurs. But not him.

She'd wanted him to find it. And only him.

Inside: a video. A confession. And pages of encrypted data dumps she’d clearly been collecting for months—bank transfers, shell company registries, names with no faces, and locations circled in red. It was a digital blood trail, and she’d followed it without him, leaving behind a roadmap that screamed both precision and desperation. Each file was time-stamped, her digital fingerprints layered in the metadata like breadcrumbs left for the one person she trusted to understand it.

The camera flickered on to Harper’s face, her features dimly lit but unmistakably hers. At first, her expression was blank,guarded—the mask she wore when she didn’t know how deep the blade would cut.

Then, slowly, it shifted. Her lips curved into a rueful smile, one that didn't reach her eyes but carried weight all the same. A glint of pain flickered through her gaze, quickly buried beneath something harder—resolve. This wasn’t just an update. It was a goodbye laced with unfinished business and unspoken truths.

"If you’re watching this, I’m already gone. And I know what you're thinking, boss man. Shame on you," she teased. "But I didn’t run. Not from you."

Reed's throat tightened. Relief hit him hard and fast, like a sucker punch to the chest. He hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear those words until they were out of her mouth. Not from you. It dragged him back to that moment last night—her in his arms, stripped of defenses, whispering his name like it was more than a sound. Like it was safe.

And in that split second, he saw her again—not just the woman who challenged him at every turn, but the one who’d let herself fall apart in his arms. Who had trusted him to catch her. Who had kissed him like she meant it.

She hadn’t run. Not from him.

And now, there was no way in hell he was letting her go. She hadn’t run—not from him. That one simple truth cracked the pressure in his chest wide open. And for a moment, just one, he could breathe.

Then the rest followed: fury, longing, the sharp bite of arousal. Because when he got his hands on her—when he found her—he was going to make damn sure she remembered exactly who she belonged to. He’d put her over his knee, make it so she couldn’t sit down for at least a week, bury his fingers until she begged, then tie her so tight she couldn’t move without feeling him everywhere.

She’d left him high and hard, heart and cock both aching.

And Harper? Harper was going to pay for that. Inch by inch.

"I had to go," she said. "He’s too close. Stuart knows we’re onto him. If I don’t do this now, it ends with you in a body bag. And I can’t—won’t—let that happen."

She paused, eyes flicking downward as if searching for the words she hadn’t quite figured out how to say. Her shoulders rose and fell with a shallow breath, fingers twitching where they rested just out of frame. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze back to the lens, and this time there was no mask, no veil. Just Harper—raw, defiant, and scared as hell. But resolute. The truth of what she was about to do was written across her face in every tight line and shadowed curve.

"I left everything I know on here. Every account I traced, every handler he used. I think there’s an auction happening in Mexico, and Stuart may deliver the artifact there. I’m going to try to intercept."

Reed didn’t realize his hands had clenched into fists until his knuckles throbbed. The pressure had crept in slow and steady, so complete he didn’t register it—until pain lanced through his joints and he felt the bite of his own nails digging into his palms. A sharp anchor against the fury roaring through his chest. The urge to move, to act, to chase after her surged beneath his skin like a scream. He forced his hands open, shaking them out until the blood returned to his fingers, but the ache stayed—just like the truth: she’d gone into the fire alone.

"You told me not to run. So I’m not... at least not from him, but rather toward him. Toward the thing I’ve been avoiding my whole damn life. Maybe I’ll come back. Maybe I won’t make it out alive. But you deserve to know that last night wasn't a game. Not for me. I love you, Reed. You always accuse me of being a thief... well, it seems you stole my heart when I wasn't looking."

The screen went dark.

But the echo of her voice didn’t fade. It stayed with him, curling around his ribs and anchoring itself in the hollowed-out part of his chest. Reed leaned back in the chair, breath locked in his lungs, heart pounding in a rhythm made of rage, resolve, and something deeper—love, raw and unrelenting. She loved him. Said it like it mattered. Like it was a fact she couldn’t steal back.

And now she was out there alone, chasing a ghost with nothing but grit and desperation. It was brave. Reckless. So Harper.

He’d let her walk once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. The next time he had her in his arms, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Or maybe he’d get more creative. A delicate chain fastened to her ankle, the other end clipped to his belt loop, so she couldn’t take a step without brushing against him.

She’d tease him about it, fight it with that wicked little grin—but she’d melt under his hands like she always did.

And when she finally surrendered, when she finally understood that he wasn’t letting her out of his sight again, he’d mark her with more than just his mouth.

She’d wake up tangled in his sheets, chained to his heat, and she’d know he was hers. And she was his.

Harper hadn’t betrayed him. She’d protected him. Trusted him enough to leave her secrets in his hands, her fate tangled in his judgment. She’d risked everything—her life, her body, whatever fragile peace they’d started to build—to finish what Stuart had begun and maybe finally bury the ghost that haunted them both. She had walked into the fire not to escape him, but to shield him. And that truth twisted deep, sharp and unforgiving, carving the last of his doubts from his chest.

His. She was his.

Not just in body—but in every reckless choice and stubborn heartbeat. His to protect. His to punish. His to pleasure until she remembered exactly where she belonged.

He could already see her tied to their bed—maybe not silk this time, but leather cuffs, snug and secure, the kind that creaked when she pulled against them. Her body spread out beneath him, every inch of her flushed and waiting, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with helplessness and everything to do with trust. A rush of heat flared in his gut at the thought. His little thief, bound for him and no one else, giving herself over not just in submission but in defiance of everything she'd once run from.

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