“I wondered if I’d see you here tonight,” he said. “Or if you’d sleep for a week after wrapping the Labyrinth investigation.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“My body isn’t ready to shut down,” he said. “That briefing this afternoon didn’t help.”
“Same here.”
We stood in silence, observing the club’s activity. This was our ritual—the first night after returning from a mission, we’d end up here, decompressing in the only place where we could fully be ourselves.
“Planning to scene tonight?” he asked.
“I already did.”
“That was quick. Even for you.” He paused, and his eyes scrunched. “You ended it early. You never end scenes early.”
I didn’t answer. Callen knew me well enough to read my silence.
“Should I be worried?” he asked. “Or just impressed that something has finally rattled the great Archon?”
The dry humor was quintessential Callen—deflecting concern with wit. He didn’t ask if this was about the past. He never did. That was the grace of old friendship—knowing which wounds to step around.
“Neither. I’m fine,” I said, not ready to think about what had happened with the couple I’d been scening with for close to two years, let alone talk about it.
He made a sound that suggested he believed that about as much as I did. But he let it go, because that’s what we did for each other.
I saidgood night and returned home through the tunnels that led from the club’s undercroft to mine. The silence was deafening when I emerged from my wine cellar into the main castle, then made my way to the library that was my sanctuary. It was dark except for the embersglowing in the massive stone fireplace. I added wood, poured three fingers of my favorite whiskey, and stood at the window overlooking my land—nine thousand acres of wilderness stretched into the darkness. And slowly, I allowed myself tobreathe.
During the Labyrinth investigation, I’d maintained the persona of my code name, Archon—the respectful “yes, boss” and “no, sir” deference, the quiet competence, the understated presence that made me practically invisible. The perfect operative. The man His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service could trust to get the job done without drama.
Little did they know who I was when I dropped the facade.
Each kilometer of my earlier five-hour drive from Tarbert here put distance between that version of me and Kiernan Lockhart, Viscount of Greymarch—the man I truly was.
The duality had become second nature over the years. It had to. When you were trained to kill with your bare hands, to eliminate targets in twelve countries across four continents, or to be a ghost who ended lives without leaving traces, you learned to compartmentalize.
Unit 23 recruited only the best, whether it was for intelligence gathering, covert ops, or when necessary, permanent solutions to threats against the Crown. Other operatives I served with wore their danger openly. I’d cultivated the opposite approach, playing the supportive and dependable team player who blended into the background. But inside, I was an entirely different animal.
As I stared into the fire, my mind drifted where it had been circling for days—to them. Their code names—the field designations we all used on operations—were Prima and Vanguard. But I couldn’t make myself think of them that way. Code names kept distance, reduced people to assets and objectives. In my head, where the wanting lived, they were Ophelia and Oliver.
Ophelia Okonkwo was the diplomat’s daughter who spoke eight languages and had a mind sharp enough to cut. She’d exhibited the epitome of polish during our recent mission—the Labyrinth investigation Callen had mentioned. But I’d studied her. Observed her with an intensity that would have alarmed her. And I’d recognized what she couldn’t see about herself.
She typically pulled her hair into a severe bun for briefings, but I’d caught her once in the corridor with itdown, its waves spilling past her shoulders. The transformation was remarkable.
Other tells revealed themselves too. How her expression softened when someone took charge, a subtle shift she probably didn’t realize she made. That her olive skin flushed easily was another tell. Color crept up her elegant neck whenever her boss spoke in a commanding tone, and she inhaled sharply when given a direct order, not from fear but from need. Her shoulders eased when someone else assumed control. She unconsciously deferred and yielded when authority was exerted.
She was a natural submissive who had no fucking clue.
Then there was Oliver Morse, the golden boy with the easy charm that came with knowing you were attractive.
I’d clocked him within fifteen minutes of meeting him. He tracked Ophelia during briefings with longing—no performance there—but his attention also lingered a fraction too long on certain male colleagues.
There were other telling details that suggested more than bisexuality.
When the Unit 23 commander entered a room, Oliver gave him space and deference that went beyond courtesy. This behavior showed not only with the commander, but with several of the more dominant personalities. He’dposition himself slightly behind and to the left of them, subtly yielding to their authority.
Oliver was a skilled, intelligent, and capable operative. But he didn’t want to be in charge. He craved someone else taking control, giving him orders, and letting him surrender the burden of command.
He was submissive. I was certain of it.
