Viper.
A fucking warrior—one that got under his skin.
The bastard had been all command and ice since they’d hit Nevada—every order clipped, every glance measured. It shouldn’t have mattered. Titus told himself that a dozen times on the drive up. But the truth sat like grit under his skin: that calm, controlled son of a bitch made him want to break his nose.
Memphis took charge of the asset and put him in the back bedroom with a collection of DVDs to watch and the promise of food before locking the door.
“Orders, in the kitchen,” Viper growled, stalking down the hallway.
Titus followed, striding around the man’s big frame toward the other side of the room.
Wrath took up a spot against the counter. Phoenix turned from the fridge, a roll stuffed in his mouth, another in his hand. Memphis stalked over, big and quiet, settling near the window. Law, Rhett, and Ramsey gathered close.
Titus chose to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed—casual on the surface.
Viper stood at the counter, phone in hand, jaw tight—the kind of tension that didn’t waste motion.
“Go ahead, Savage,” Viper said, hitting the speaker.
Static crackled, then Savage’s voice filled the kitchen—low, rough, all business. “Marshals are delayed. Short-staffed. You’ll have to hold the asset for maybe two nights. I’ll know more later.”
Figures. Nothing ever ran smoothly. He glanced toward the hall where the bedroom door stayed shut—asset secure, for now.
Savage kept talking. “Pick who stays. Send the rest home.”
“Copy that,” Viper said.
The call ended with a dull beep. Silence settled—heavy and waiting.
Viper’s gaze swept the room. “You heard him, the Marshals are stuck. Whoever stays, we hold here.”
Law nodded once. Memphis muttered something under his breath. Wrath just huffed.
“Who stays?” Phoenix asked around a bite of roll.
“Law, Memphis, Titus, and Phoenix—you stay with me,” Viper said. “Wrath, Rhett, Ramsey—head out.”
Titus squinted. “You’re keeping me?”
Viper didn’t even glance over. “You’re already here.”
The words hit wrong—too casual, too dismissive. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to breathe, Colonel.”
Viper looked up then, calm as ever. “Nobody said you did.”
Titus squinted, rubbing at the sudden burn in his chest. “Good. Because I don’t take orders from you.”
Memphis snorted. “You two need separate cages.”
Law smirked without looking up. “Wouldn’t last a night.”
“On this op, you do,” Viper growled, brushing past on his way out of the room—close enough for Titus to catch a flash of heat, the scent of gun oil and dust. It crawled under his skin and wouldn’t let go.
Just leftover tension, he told himself.
The sooner this op was done, the better.
The second night came quietly and cold. Titus didn’t mind the quiet—he just didn’t trust it.
