“You good?” Ghost asks, but it’s not really a question.
“Functional,” I answer truthfully.
He studies me for a long moment. We’ve never discussed Syria in detail, but Ghost pulled my file when he recruited me. He knows about Mitchell. About the betrayal. About the seven teammates and seventeen kids who died because I trusted bad intel.
“Take the night,” he says finally. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Copy that.”
But we both know what he’s not saying. That the memories are getting worse, not better. Thatfunctionalmight not be enough forever.
Later, the walls of my apartment close in. The flashback left familiar tension crawling under my skin—that itch that demands either violence or sex to scratch. The gym’s closed. The heavy bag in my bedroom won’t be enough tonight.
I need something more immediate. More consuming.
I pull on dark jeans and a black button-down. The fabric stretches across my shoulders, sleeves rolled to expose forearms mapped with scars. The mirror reflects someone polished enough to blend in, dangerous enough to make people think twice.
Three bars within walking distance serve my purpose. Anonymous. Dark. Loud enough that conversation becomes impossible.
I choose the furthest one, letting the Seattle rain soak through my shirt. The cold grounds me in the present, washing away phantom blood and Syrian dust.
Titanium Bar throbs with bass heavy enough to feel in my bones. The air reeks of perfume, sweat, and desperation. Perfect. I scan automatically—exits, sight lines, potential threats. Old habits.
The bartender slides a whiskey neat across the bar without being asked. I’ve been here enough that my preferences are known, even if my name isn’t. The burn down my throat is familiar, necessary.
My gaze moves methodically through the crowd. Not hunting, exactly. More like target acquisition. Looking for someone who wants what I need—release without connection, control without consequences.
She’s at the end of the bar. Alone. Designer dress, expensive shoes, nursing a martini, like it personally offended her. Recent breakup, probably. The way she keeps checking her phone confirms it.
I slide onto the stool beside her. Close enough that she has to acknowledge me. Her perfume hits—floral, expensive, trying too hard. Mixed with the faint salt of fresh tears she’s covered well.
“Your date’s not coming.”
Her eyebrows lift. “How do you know I’m waiting for someone?”
“You’re not.” I hold her gaze steady. “But you’re waiting for something.”
“And what would that be?”
“Same thing I am.” No smile. This isn’t about charm. “Quick, simple, and very, very good.”
She laughs, low and interested. “Pretty sure of yourself.”
“Not sure. Certain.” I lean closer, voice dropping. “I can read your body like a blueprint. Every breath, every tell, everyresponse mapped and measured.” My fingers graze her wrist, feeling her pulse spike. “Right now, you’re pressing your thighs together under that dress. Your breathing just shifted. You’re wondering if I’m full of shit or if I can deliver.”
Her inhale catches. “That’s?—”
“Accurate. And I always deliver.” I pull back slightly, maintaining eye contact. “I know exactly how to take you apart. Which pressure points make you gasp. The precise angle that makes you forget your own name. How long to hold you on the edge before you break.”
“You’re either very good or very delusional.”
“First one.” I stand, extending my hand. “I don’t do names. I don’t do numbers. I don’t do breakfast. But I can make you come twice before we get to the main event. Your choice.”
Her pupils dilate. Most women would walk away from such bluntness. The ones I’m looking for never do.
She takes my hand. Her skin is warm, her pulse racing against my palm.
The bathroom is cramped but private. The lock clicks, and I press her against the wall, giving her a moment to reconsider.
