Page 48 of Code Name: Hunter
I break into a sprint, my boots eating up the distance. The terrain is treacherous—snow-covered stone, uneven ground—but I’ve hunted in worse. The wind claws at my face, snatching at my breath as I push harder. He glances back once, just long enough to register that I’m closing in, then pivots into the ruins of a side chapel.
I follow him in; the world narrowing to the crunch of snow underfoot and the rasp of air in my lungs. The shadows inside are thicker, the moonlight bleeding in through broken stained glass, painting fractured shards of pale moonlight across the stone floor.
Wolfe stands in the middle of the chapel, posture taut and gaze fixed on me with the unblinking focus of a hunter who’s been shadowing my trail and instantly registers the moment I cross into his domain.
I don’t slow. We collide in a tangle of fists, elbows, and breathless curses, both of us still gripping our weapons butneither with the time or distance to aim. The clash drives us back a step, each of us gauging the other in that taut, dangerous space.
He jerks his chin toward the floor, voice a harsh rasp between blows. “We both know only one of us will walk away this time. What do you say we settle who the better operative is. No guns, just knives, wits and fists.”
My laugh is sharp, humorless. “You always were old school, but if you'd rather I slit your throat than put a bullet in your brain, fine by me.”
We let the pistols fall to the stone, the sound ringing like a starting bell, and close the distance. The first slash of his blade grazes my jaw, hot and shallow; the second punches into my ribs hard enough to tear the air from my lungs.
I ram my forearm into his knife arm, deflecting the edge, then drive my blade toward his temple. He twists, steel flashing between us, and I bring a knee up viciously into his midsection, folding him enough to slam him against the wall. The stone is rough under my palm as I press him there, our knives locked between us, edges biting at leather and skin.
He’s strong—always was—and determined enough to fight through pain. He jerks sideways, the sudden shift tearing the blade from our bind, and drives a slash toward my side. I catch his wrist, feel the tendons strain under my grip, and wrench hard. We break apart for the barest instant before surging back together, knives arcing in brutal, short strokes meant to maim or kill.
Cold bites through the soles of my boots as we skid across the snow--slick stone, edges grinding against rock, our shoulders smashing together with bone--deep force.
He gets a forearm under my chin, forcing my head back, the point of his knife angling for my throat. I shove his arm wide andrip my edge across his cheek, splitting skin. Blood streaks his teeth when he grins.
"You could never own her," he rasps, his breath metallic with venom.
I plant my hand against the wall beside his head, our blades trembling inches apart, my voice low, steady, lethal. "I don’t have to. She's chosen me. She submits to me. She wears my collar and will wear my ring."
The flicker in his eyes is there for just an instant—the shift from arrogance to something meaner. Then he lunges, knife slashing for my gut. I trap his wrist mid-swing, twist until I feel the grind of tendon, and force the blade toward him. He fights like a cornered animal, but he’s bleeding, slowing, his strikes losing their snap.
With a final brutal shove, I ram the blade in just below his sternum, the resistance of muscle and bone giving way with a sickening yield. His breath catches, wet and bubbling in his chest, each inhale a struggle. I hold the hilt steady, feeling the tremors in his body weaken, the heat of his blood seeping through my gloves until the last of his strength drains away, and the fight dies in him.
He coughs once, blood on his lips. "You think this matters?" His voice is ragged, but the malice is still there. “Klein’s already moved on to the next operative. Your girl? She’s just a lever. And Monte Carlo’s just the start. The Choir’s in deeper than you can imagine—finance, politics, the UN. You’ll never keep up.”
The words are meant to cut deeper than the knife, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I lower him to the ground, the light already dimming in his eyes, and pull the blade free.
His body slumps sideways, collapsing into the drift. The cold blanket of snow folds over him, muting the final rattle of breath as if the mountain itself is claiming what’s left.
I straighten, my breath sharp in the cold, and scan the chapel for movement. Nothing stirs—only the deep shadows and the faint spill of moonlight seeping through gaping window arches where glass gave way to centuries of weather, leaving jagged stone frames open to the night.
A soft chime in my earpiece—Vivian’s signal. I move fast, back through the cloister, boots crunching over the patchwork of snow and blood. She’s in the scriptorium, crouched over her tablet, the glow from the screen lighting the determined set of her jaw.
My relief is short--lived. “What the hell were you thinking?” The words come out harsher than I intend, anger sharpened by the image of her in Wolfe’s sights. “You could have been killed. You went in alone without backup. You left us behind, drugged... for god's sake, Vivian, you drugged us.”
Her eyes don’t waver. “Is he dead?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Logan.” Her tone cuts through my fury, cool and unyielding. “That's the first of two points. Is. He. Dead?”
I hold her gaze for a beat, jaw tight, and finally give the only answer that matters. “Yes. What's the second point?”
A serene smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. I've only seen it there when she submitted to me and found peace in that submission.
"That's easy. I love you, and that may be the most important point of all."
The strain in her shoulders and body fades away. She steps into my space, hands coming up to grip my face, and before I can say another word her mouth is on mine—heat flooding between us, fierce and unrelenting, her mouth moving over mine with the raw hunger of survival and victory.
Her kiss is all fire and possession, her lips demanding as surely as I take her in return, tongues tangling, breath mingling,the taste of her flooding my senses until I’m drowning in her, owning and being owned in the same breath. There’s no hesitation, no second--guessing, just the taste of victory and the knowledge that, for now, we’ve both survived.
The kiss crashes through me like an electric jolt—heat, hunger, and the fierce thrum of relief that she’s here, alive, in my arms. Her lips move over mine with a fierce, sensual certainty that strips away the cold and the carnage, flooding my senses with the taste of her, the slide of her tongue against mine, the intoxicating mix of breath and need. My hands find the curve of her back, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us, every inch a claim, every heartbeat a promise.
