The restaurant was too dim. The table wobbled whenever her knee brushed it, and a line of grease curled down the side of the cheap candleholder. Harper should've cared. But all she saw was Dante's grin—the way his eyes creased when he laughed at something she barely mumbled. His fingers drummed against his glass, tracing sweat rings into the chipped tabletop. Every motion felt familiar. Too familiar. Like muscle memory she didn't remember making. Outside, the city was a watercolor blur, sirens hushed, streetlight pooling soft through the window. She felt out of place and perfect all at once—alive in a way that was raw, exposed, real.
Dante leaned in, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. His voice was low, private. "You nervous?"
She shook her head—it was a lie. The moment felt breakable, glass-thin and glowing, but he was there. He was real. He laughed again, softer this time, gaze dipping to her mouth. She smiled before she could stop herself. The air tasted like promise. Like food she hadn't ordered. Like a future she wasn't allowed to want.
She opened her mouth—wanted to say something, anything, just to keep him there one second longer.
His foot brushed hers beneath the table. Then his hand slipped into hers—warm, familiar, like it had always belonged there.
A sound crept in—distant at first. Just a soft metallic grind, buried beneath Dante's laugh. She didn't notice it, not really. Not until it looped again. Louder. Sharper. Twisting through the air like a wire drawn too tight. The candlelight guttered. The table's legs warped sideways, bending like wax. His hand in hers turned clammy, weightless. She blinked. The restaurant stuttered, warped—chairs vanishing, walls bleeding into shadow. She held on. Clenched her fingers tighter.
The noise kept gnawing, tearing seams open. Dante's outline flickered, cut to shards like bad footage. His face fractured into a dozen angles, mouth moving but no sound coming through. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt heavy, her throat filled with static.
He reached out—slower now, the whole world dragging at his limbs—and brushed the side of her neck with his fingertips. She shivered at the contact, wanting to lean into it, to stay suspended in that warmth. But his skin cracked like glass under pressure. Light bled through the fissures. His hand dissolved into nothing, scattering into dust. His grin was the last thing to break.
Warmth lingered on her throat. A weight, steady, real.
Her lashes fluttered, heavy as lead. She didn't open her eyes all at once; awareness seeped in slow, fragile. She already knew it wasn't Dante. The shape of the hand, the callus of the thumb—familiar in a way the dream had only imitated.
Brock.
Concrete pressed against her cheek, rough enough to sting. The ache in her ribs ignited with every shallow breath, her chest still throbbing from where the vest had caught the round. She was on her side, arms cinched behind her, too weak to roll or rise. But the pressure on her neck anchored her—his fingers pressed to her pulse, counting out proof she was still here, still alive.
Her awareness sharpened, just enough for her body to betray her. She jerked beneath his touch—a small, instinctive recoil that made her ribs scream and her wrists bite tighter against the plastic.
The hand lifted at once. Absence where the warmth had been, leaving her pulse hammering on its own.
Brock's voice cut in, roughened by restraint. "Still alive." The words were flat, stripped of comfort, as if spoken only to confirm a fact.
A sound slipped out of her before she meant it—a thin whimper, raw in her throat as she tried to shift against the floor. Every rib ached like splintered glass, every breath shallow and sour. The concrete leeched the heat from her skin, scraping her raw. Her shoulder flared where the graze still burned, her chest heavy with every drag of air. Blood had dried stiff across her clothes, cracking whenever she moved, tacky against her skin. Her lip was torn, her swollen eye throbbed in rhythm with her pulse, and her hair was matted with sweat and clotted red. Even the smallest motion left her trembling.
She forced her gaze upward.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a different world. Street clothes now—dark jeans, a fitted black shirt, collar loose at the throat. His hair was still damp, carrying the clean bite of soap and citrus that drifted into the cell, fresh enough to make her stomach knot. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms, movements easy, unhurried, as though the stab in his side and the shot through his shoulder had been nothing but inconveniences—cleaned, patched, erased.
She could feel the contrast like a spotlight.
Her own clothes were stiff with dried blood, torn and hanging crooked on her frame. Sweat crusted in the creases of her elbows, dirt clung to every inch of exposed skin. Her wrists throbbed beneath the plastic ties, one knee pulsed with heat from where it had cracked the floor, her chest ached with every shallow breath. She stank of iron and failure. She was wreckage.
He met her eyes at last. Whatever flicker had been there when his hand was on her neck vanished, shuttered in an instant. His face smoothed to nothing, the kind of stillness that left no angle to grasp, no seam to pry apart. If he felt anything, he buried it deep, forcing her to stare into a wall she couldn't scale.
Her throat cinched, breath catching before she could smother it. She forced her gaze to hold steady, but her pulse thudded loud in her ears, impossible to hide. The stillness between them made her stomach knot tighter, every second stretching thin.
The silence thickened until It scraped against her nerves. Then his voice, low and without inflection: "Get up."
She dragged in air, tried to roll her weight forward. The motion barely shifted her hip before pain clenched her ribs tight, knocking the breath back out. Her bound arms scraped uselessly against the floor, offering no leverage. She braced a knee under her, but her leg buckled at once, sliding out from under her. Blood cracked at her lip when she grit her teeth, her vision swimming. She never made it higher than her elbow before she collapsed, cheek striking the concrete again with a dull thud.
His hand was already clamped around her arm. He shifted his weight and hauled, dragging her off the floor in one hard motion.
Pain ripped through her chest and ribs—she couldn't stop the sound that broke out of her, raw and cracked. Her knees buckled, legs folding under, and for a moment her whole body hung from his grip.
A flicker of strain cut across his face as the pull tugged at his shoulder, gone almost before it registered. His jaw tightened, and he bore the weight anyway, forcing her upright until her feet scraped against the floor and stayed there. She swayed, breath ragged, every joint screaming protest.
His grip stayed fast on her arm as he steered her toward the door. Her legs stumbled more than walked, every step sending fire through her ribs until her vision blurred. Her boots felt twice their weight, dragging across the floor, catching on uneven seams.
She faltered at the threshold, knees buckling. He jerked her up before she could crumple, his shoulder braced into hers as he forced her forward. The motion ripped through her chest and set bile rising fast. She gagged, choking it down, the taste of copper coating her tongue.
The hall stretched on, bare concrete and rusted hinges. Her breath broke in shallow bursts, ribs aching with every draw. The light seemed to spin around her, too bright, too close, the ground tilting beneath her feet.
She stumbled again—this time fully, boots catching, her body sagging sideways. Pain flared along her ribs as she hit the floor with a muffled cry.
He didn't pause. His grip locked harder, hauling her up in one harsh pull that wrenched her shoulder. Her legs quivered, useless under her, but he kept her moving, his pace unyielding.
They passed the stairwell she'd been dragged down what felt like minutes ago, though her body insisted it had been longer. She flicked one glance that way, a useless tether to escape, before his hand tightened and steered her past.
The elevator waited ahead, doors yawning open. He shoved her inside, keeping her upright with his hold as the doors slid shut. Stale air pressed in, thick and metallic. Fluorescent light carved her reflection into the steel—blood-caked, hollow-eyed, swaying against him.
Brock reached past, hit the button for the fifth floor, and let his arm drop without a word. The jolt of his movement knocked her sideways; she caught herself clumsily against the wall. The cab lurched upward, her stomach rolling with it. This wave was slower, heavier, leaving her jaw clenched and her skin damp with cold sweat as she swayed on her feet.
Brock glanced at her once, a flick of his eyes in the steel reflection, but said nothing. The hum of the motor filled the silence until the cab shuddered to a halt.
The doors parted with a muted chime. Light spilled in—warm, fluorescent, steadier than the harsh glare below. The floor stretched wide, carpeted in a dull gray that muffled their steps. Doors lined the hall on either side, marked with placards, some open to reveal conference tables, others shut tight. The air smelled faintly of recycled coffee and printer ink, ordinary scents that felt wrong against the dried blood crusted on her skin.
At the far end, one door stood apart—larger, darker wood than the rest, its frame set with a frosted panel that caught the light. No placard, no number. It didn't need one. The space around it was clear, as if the hallway itself had been built to funnel everything toward that single point.
Brock's grip stayed firm on her arm as he steered her down the corridor. Her boots dragged against the carpet, each step a tremor through her battered ribs. The door at the end loomed larger with every pace, its dark wood and frosted panel too polished for the rest of the hall. Something about it prickled along her spine—an unspoken weight that told her whatever waited inside mattered, and it was waiting for her.
Brock slowed as they reached the end of the hall. His hand tightened once on her arm, not to hurt, but like he had to ground himself. For a second he stood there, jaw set, eyes fixed on the door as though he were taking something in before he faced it. Then he shifted, the moment gone, and pulled her forward.
The handle turned with a quiet click.
The office beyond was nothing like the concrete and rust she'd come to expect. Fluorescent light gave way to a softer glow from recessed fixtures, warm against dark paneled walls. A broad desk dominated the far side, sleek steel legs and a matte black surface scattered with neat stacks of files. Behind it, a single high-backed chair faced them, turned slightly off-center as though its occupant had been studying the wall of monitors that lined one corner. Screens flickered with feeds—cameras, maps, live intel bleeding color into the dimness.
The floor was carpeted Thick enough to mute their entrance. A bar cart gleamed in one corner, glass catching the light. On another wall, framed prints—abstract swathes of red and gray—hung in a line, their angles too precise to be decoration. The room smelled faintly of leather and smoke, a sharp contrast to the sterile hallway.
Everything about it was deliberate, designed to project control. The kind of place where decisions were made that never needed to be written down.
She saw the window before she saw him. It spanned nearly the whole far wall, tinted glass casting the city in muted shapes—towers and floodlights blurred into a wash of night. For an instant she thought the office empty, just that dark pane swallowing the view.
Then movement.
A man stood before the glass, posture straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The reflection caught him first—sharp edges of a figure cut against the glow outside. When he turned, the room seemed to turn with him.
The suit he wore was immaculate, every line tailored close, the fabric catching the light with quiet authority. Hair slicked back in pale strands, controlled to the last inch. His gloves caught her attention next—black, polished, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. And then his eyes met hers.
Dark, depthless, without a trace of hesitation. They pinned her in place, the way a ledger pins down numbers, stripping away all but the calculation.
Her knees weakened under the weight of his stare, a stumble she couldn't hide. For a breath she tipped back, almost into Brock's chest. His grip steadied her, iron at her arm, holding her upright whether she wanted it or not.
Vex stepped forward from the window, closing the distance with measured ease, the sound of his shoes muted against the carpet. When he stopped before her, the faint curl of his mouth cut the distance sharper than any blade.
"Miss Voss," he purred, smooth as silk pulled taut.
The sound of it chilled her blood—her name, spoken like he'd been waiting for it.
"I told Lawson there were to be no survivors." His gaze slid sideways, landing on Brock, the weight of it heavy as a hand to the throat, before returning to her without pause. "And yet here you stand. Silas' daughter. Quite the catch." The smile deepened, though his eyes stayed black, unreadable. "I admit, I hadn't expected to see you still in the game—let alone running with the Vipers."
His gloved hand flexed once at his side before he shifted his attention back to Brock, voice edged with approval. "Well done."
Brock's jaw tightened, his tone clipped. "Wasn't an easy capture."
Vex's smile lingered, though it never reached his eyes. "So I've heard. Word is you required medical attention after tangling with her." His gaze cut back to Harper, dragging slow across her battered frame. "I'd expect nothing less from Silas' bloodline. Tenacity runs deep."
The words sank like hooks. She forced herself to stand straight in Brock's grip, even as the ache in her chest burned hotter.
Vex tilted his head, the smile fading to something thinner. "Tell me, Harper—did your father's last moments echo in your ears when you fought? Or have you managed to bury them under all this flailing for survival?"
She stiffened at the words, a ripple running through her shoulders before she forced herself still. Brock's hand tightened at her arm—subtle, steady, the kind of pressure that warned her not to move, not to give in to the urge burning in her chest.
Vex's eyes roamed, cataloguing her as though she were nothing more than another entry in his ledger. "Fascinating," he murmured. "I never thought I'd see you in the flesh. And yet…" His gaze sharpened, his smile returning in a cold curve. "You're the image of Silas. The hair. The eyes. It's uncanny."
He reached out, a gloved hand extending toward her face. Harper jerked back on instinct, her bound arms yanking against Brock's hold as she tried to turn away.
The pause was brief, measured. Then Vex's hand shot forward, rough this time, fingers clamping her chin and forcing it up. Her head wrenched under the grip, the leather biting against her skin.
"Look at you," he said softly, eyes glittering as he studied her like a specimen pinned to glass.
Her head quivered in his grip, a minute shake she couldn't control. The leather of his glove bit harder against her skin with the movement, and his eyes narrowed, catching it instantly.
"There it is," Vex murmured, voice low, savoring. "Not defiance. Not bravado." His thumb dragged slowly along the line of her jaw, the gesture more inspection than touch. "Exactly what I'd expect from Silas' bloodline. Resistance on the surface, terror underneath. I imagine he died with the same look in his eyes."
His thumb dragged slowly along the line of her jaw, the gesture more inspection than touch. He tilted her chin, turning her face toward the light as though studying every cut and bruise. The closeness was suffocating, his gaze hungry in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with possession.
"Silas gave me nothing but trouble," Vex said, eyes narrowing as he tilted her chin. "I'll be interested to see if his daughter proves more useful in my hands than he ever did."
Her throat worked In a hard swallow, the sound loud in the silence.
At that, he released her, the sudden absence of pressure as jarring as the hold had been. He looked to Brock, his voice cool and deliberate. "Tomorrow, we'll discuss her… future. For now, get her to medical. She looks like she may not make it that long."
─•────
Dr. Lorna Graves sat beneath the hum of the fluorescents, pen scratching steadily across the report in front of her. Two days had passed since the Vipers raid, and the paperwork was still thick with aftermath. Minor injuries stacked like tally marks in the margins—but two names were circled in red: Kellar and Andrews. Dead on arrival.
She shifted in her chair, rubbing at the ache in her wrist from hours bent over the desk. The smell of antiseptic clung to everything in the bay, sharp enough to mask the copper traces of blood that never truly washed out. Across the room, trays gleamed with sterilized instruments, laid out in precise order, waiting.
Brock's file lay open on the corner of her desk. Gunshot wound to the shoulder, deep stab to the side, with another slash right under it. Stubborn bastard had been walking again within hours. Graves had patched him herself, watched him grit his teeth against the needle, and left the room with the same clipped silence he'd entered with.
She sighed, lifting the pen from the page.
Graves had been with the Syndicate nearly a decade, though sometimes it felt longer. Small, sharp-featured, late thirties with her blonde hair scraped into a no-nonsense knot—she didn't look like the kind of woman who stitched killers back together. Once, she'd been a trauma surgeon in a hospital where every life was meant to matter. That had ended the night she signed off on a Syndicate man under a false name, and they offered her a choice: prison, or a contract. She hadn't stepped into a legitimate ER since.
Now her patients bled for Vex, and she kept them alive so they could do it again.
She straightened the stack of reports, slipped Kellar and Andrews' files to the top, and set her pen down just as footsteps echoed down the corridor. Two sets. Heavy. Uneven. One dragging the other.
Graves rose, smoothed her gloves tight against her fingers, and turned toward the door.
The door swung open, and Brock stepped through with someone in tow. Graves' eyes caught the details in an instant—the girl half-dragged at his side, wrists cinched behind her with zipties, a vest hanging crooked on her narrow frame. Blood had dried in streaks down her face and neck, dark against bruises swelling beneath. Her shirt was ripped at the shoulder and bicep, fabric stiff with blood. She looked like hell.
Graves' brows knit, not at the injuries but at the incongruity. She'd heard talk after the raid—rumors that Brock had come back with a prisoner. That the same prisoner had cut him bad enough to send him to her table, maybe even accounted for Andrews and Kellar's deaths. Graves had expected a fighter, someone built to tear men apart. Instead, she found a young woman barely standing on her own two feet.
Her boots whispered across the tile as she closed the distance, studying the girl in silence. Restraints dug deep into raw wrists. Graves glanced at Brock, the question unspoken in her eyes.
"She's the prisoner," Brock said, flat, as if reading the thought. His hand tightened on the girl's arm, steadying her. "Vex wants her looked at."
Graves' eyes lingered on the torn shirt, the dried blood, the way the girl's knees shook just to keep her upright. She softened her voice, clinical but even. "What's your name?"
The prisoner hesitated, lips cracked, before she forced the word out. "Harper."
Graves nodded once. "All right, Harper." She reached toward her, but Harper recoiled at the motion, shoulders jerking tight, a sharp breath snagging in her throat.
Graves stopped short, hands still in the air. Her gaze flicked briefly to Brock before returning to Harper. "Easy," she said. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Graves lowered her hand again, slower this time, until her fingers rested lightly on Harper's uninjured shoulder. Even with the gentleness, Harper's muscles tightened, a faint wince breaking across her face as though the touch itself might bruise.
Graves shifted a step, angling herself until she could see Harper's arms twisted behind her back. The plastic ties bit so deep into her wrists that the skin around them had gone raw and swollen.
"These need to come off," she said, glancing at Brock. "They're cutting into her. And I can't examine her arms with them wrenched back like that."
Brock's grip tightened. "Not a good idea. She could come at you."
Graves straightened, her voice steady but firm. "She can barely stand, Brock. I doubt I'm the one in danger here. Now cut them off."
Brock didn't move at first. His grip stayed firm on Harper's arm, eyes fixed on her face like he was measuring what she might do. The silence stretched until it pressed heavy between them.
When he finally spoke, his voice dropped low, meant only for her. "Try anything, and you'll be dead before you hit the floor."
Harper swallowed hard, the sound rough in her throat, but didn't answer.
Brock reached to his belt, drew a knife, and sliced clean through the plastic. The ties snapped apart with a sharp crack, falling to the floor. Harper's arms sagged forward at once, blood rushing back into her hands in a painful flood. Needles of fire lit up her fingers, and she bit down hard, swallowing the cry that clawed up her throat.
Graves gestured toward the steel table. "Let's get you sitting."
Harper glanced at it, then at the space between—her knees nearly buckled at the thought of crossing it.
Graves turned to Brock. "Give me room."
His eyes narrowed, but after a beat he stepped aside, still close enough to lunge if he had to.
Graves slipped an arm under Harper's, guiding her forward. Each step was shaky, her boots dragging against the tile, her ribs seizing with the effort. By the time they reached the table, Harper was trembling outright. Graves braced her with calm efficiency, helping her onto the edge of the steel. The cold surface bled through the thin fabric, sending another shiver through her frame.
Graves pulled a stool close and sat eye-level with Harper. Her shoulders hunched, breathing shallow, but Graves kept her tone measured. "Let's start with your head."
She eased Harper's chin into the light. Dried blood crusted at her brow, matting her hairline. A jagged cut tracked just above her eye, the skin around it swollen and angry. Another slice scored along her cheek, thin but deep enough to leave its mark. Her lip was split, puffed to twice its size, and grit still clung to the raw skin around her jaw.
Graves brushed a thumb just beneath Harper's brow, tilting gently until the wound opened enough for inspection. Harper hissed through her teeth, flinching at even the lightest touch.
"Hold still," Graves murmured, unbothered, her eyes scanning the injury with practiced care. "Shrapnel, shallow. Needs cleaning before it festers."
She shifted lower, running a gloved hand along the line of Harper's jaw. The faintest pressure was enough to make Harper's chest stutter, pain sparking from the bruised bone beneath.
Graves' gaze flicked briefly toward Brock, then back to Harper. "Fracture's unlikely, but you've taken more than one hard strike." She noted the split lip, the swelling along the cheekbone. "Pupils slow to track, unsteady blink response—likely concussion.
Harper blinked slowly, as if the room swam when she tried to focus, and Graves logged it silently. She steadied Harper's chin again, her gloved fingers firm but not cruel, eyes cataloguing every cut and bruise as though recording an inventory.
Graves studied the bulletproof vest cinched awkwardly across Harper's chest. The straps were frayed, one nearly torn free. "This has to come off."
She glanced at Brock. "Help me with the buckles."
Harper tensed, lips parting as if to object, but no sound came. Her arms were sluggish from circulation loss; she couldn't have fought the vest off herself even if she'd wanted to. Brock stepped in, his movements brisk, unfastening the straps while Graves steadied Harper's shuddering frame. The vest came free with a heavy drag, thudding against the table when he dropped it aside.
Beneath, Harper's shirt was torn and bloodstained. Graves tugged at the fabric, then glanced up at Brock. "This too. Step outside—she deserves privacy."
Brock didn't so much as shift. "Not happening."
Graves held his stare for a moment, then exhaled sharply. She worked the shredded shirt carefully over Harper's shoulders, peeling it down her arms. Harper winced, jaw feathering as the fabric dragged across her wounds. The ruined cloth fell away in a stiff bundle, leaving her in a battered sports bra, skin mottled with bruises and streaked with blood.
That's when the ink showed—red scales coiling over Harper's right side, a viper etched from her shoulder down her ribs. The graze wound had split the serpent's head, dried blood bisecting the ink before the body disappeared beneath her waistband.
Graves clocked it with a flicker of surprise before returning to her task. Brock's eyes lingered on it too, unreadable, before settling back on Harper.
Graves leaned in again, clinical and composed. "Cut through the shoulder muscle," she said. "Hurts like hell, but the bone and joint are untouched. You'll still be able to use the arm."
She shifted to Harper's other arm, where dried blood had glued the torn edges of the wound shut. The bicep was worse—ragged, torn deep across the flesh, streaks of dried red trailing to her elbow. Harper sucked air through her teeth when Graves eased the skin apart, her chest knotting against the table's edge.
"Deeper tear," Graves said, her tone clipped. "Messier than the shoulder. It'll scar, but it hasn't hit the artery. She's lucky."
Graves' hand drifted to the dark bloom spreading across Harper's chest. A bruise swelled beneath the fabric of her bra, ribs rising uneven with each breath. She touched the edge gently; Harper's body spasmed at the contact, air stolen in an instant.
"Somebody put a bullet straight into your chest," Graves said, studying the mark. "Armor caught it, but it drove straight through to bone."
Graves continued along Harper's ribs, fingertips following the swelling and discoloration. Harper flinched with each touch, her breaths catching shallow. "Multiple contusions," Graves said, her tone even. "Painful, but no fracture."
Sweat glistened at Harper's hairline. Every word hung heavy in the air, each injury spoken aloud like another weight added to the tally.
Graves took Harper's arm again, turning it palm-up. Deep grooves circled both wrists, skin abraded and swollen where the ties had cut in. Harper winced as her hands flexed under the pressure of examination.
"Circulation's intact," Graves noted, "but the soft tissue's badly damaged."
Her hand paused near Harper's waistband, fingers brushing the bloodstained fabric. She debated stripping it back—protocol said she should—but Brock's shadow loomed too close. Her jaw tightened; she let the thought go.
Instead, she sat back, gloves flexing once against her palms. Her tone shifted, quieter, carrying something heavier than simple cataloguing. "Harper," she said carefully, "has anyone touched you in a way I need to know about?"
The air changed. Brock's eyes lifted at the question, though he said nothing.
Harper's throat tightened. She couldn't force words past the knot there, but after a moment she shook her head, small and stiff.
Graves studied her, eyes steady, searching the tremor in her expression for any sign of falsehood. At last she gave a short nod, accepting it, though doubt lingered in the set of her jaw.
Graves stripped off her gloves with a snap and reached for a fresh pair. She'd already learned Brock wasn't going anywhere; there was no point in wasting breath asking again.
"Hold her steady," she said instead, tone clipped back to business. She pulled a tray closer, bottles clinking against steel.
The sting of antiseptic hit the air as she uncapped a vial and soaked a wad of gauze. "This will burn," she warned, not unkindly, before bringing it to Harper's brow.
Harper jerked the moment it touched, pain spiking sharp through the cut, but Brock's grip locked around her arm, keeping her still. The gauze came away red, the scent of blood rising metallic against the alcohol. Graves didn't pause—wound to wound, she worked with steady precision, cleaning each cut and scrape in turn.
Harper clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, swallowing the sounds that threatened to break loose. Every twitch felt magnified under Brock's watch, his frame never leaving her periphery.
Graves reached for a syringe, drew the liquid slow, tapped the barrel, and slid the needle home into Harper's upper arm with practiced ease. "Antibiotic," she said simply.
Harper barely flinched—her body was too wrung out to resist more than a twitch.
The second syringe came next, the liquid clear, colder in the light. Graves glanced at her as she prepped the injection. "Pain relief. It'll help, but you may feel lightheaded. Empty stomach doesn't make it easier."
Brock's hand steadied Harper's arm as Graves slid the needle in. Warmth spread under her skin, loosening the tightest edges of pain, though dizziness swept in close behind.
Graves disposed of the syringe and stripped off her gloves, gesturing toward a side door off the bay. "She needs a proper wash before anything else. Shower's through there—supplies are stocked, and I left scrubs folded on the bench." Her eyes flicked to Brock. "Bring her back if anything worsens."
Graves lingered for a moment after stripping off her gloves, her gaze steady on Harper. There was no softness in her voice, no promise in her hands, but something flickered behind her eyes—an acknowledgment, sharp and fleeting, that this girl was both enemy and already broken. Graves said nothing; whatever waited beyond the bay wasn't hers to interfere with.
Brock shifted, grip firming as Harper slid forward on the table's edge. Her legs met the floor and nearly gave, knees shaking under her weight. She stumbled, the pain in her ribs searing hot as she tried to right herself. Brock caught her arm before she crumpled, holding her upright whether she wanted it or not.
The door shut behind them with a hollow clang, sealing them into the tiled washroom. The air was heavy with damp and the sharp bite of cleaning agents, a smell that clung to the walls and the drain.
Brock's hand loosened on her arm just enough for her to sway on her own. His voice came flat, stripped of patience. "Strip."
Heat burned her face, hotter than the ache in her abdomen. She didn't move at first, her fists balled weak at her sides. She wanted to say no, but the word wouldn't form—not when his shadow filled the room, not when she knew there was no choice.
Her boots were first. She bent, hands shaking as she fumbled with the laces, her body screaming at the fold. A groan slipped out before she could choke it back, and she caught herself against the wall to keep from pitching forward. The leather came free unevenly, one boot thudding to the floor, then the other.
The pants were worse. Dried blood had stiffened the fabric, clinging to the cuts at her knees. She tugged at the waistband with shaking fingers, dragging the material down an inch at a time. Each shift wrenched at her ribs, sent nausea rising in her throat. By the time she managed them to mid-thigh, she was breathless, her vision swimming. She froze there, shoulders trembling, unable to finish.
But there was no stopping. With a shuddering exhale she forced them lower, the fabric scraping over torn skin until she kicked free. She stood there, shivering on bare feet, stripped down to the battered bra, every bruise and cut laid bare under the fluorescent wash.
Her hands rose, faltered, then pushed the bra up and over. The straps scraped against her shoulders, sticky with dried blood, before she wrenched it free. She was naked now, nothing left between her and his eyes.
The serpent was no longer half-hidden. It began at her shoulder, its jaw split where the bullet graze had torn the inked head in two. From there, the viper coiled down her collarbone, curved beneath her arm, and banded across her ribs in loops of red and black. The coils spiraled over her waist, each scale etched with obsessive care, then wound over her hip and down the length of her thigh. It tapered just above her knee, tail forking like it might strike from the bruised skin itself.
It wasn't just decoration. It was a claim.
Brock's arms were crossed, his weight braced back against the wall. He didn't move, didn't speak. His eyes catalogued her body the way a soldier measures damage—bruises mottling her jaw, lacerations still crusted with blood, chest rising uneven, wrists raw, legs streaked with grit and cuts. But it was the ink that held him. His gaze tracked it from the ruined head to the tail, the pause stretching until the silence felt too heavy to breathe through. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the mark—the viper coiled around her like a banner she could never shed.
Something shifted behind his eyes. Not hunger. Not pity. Recognition—the way soldiers clock enemy colors or kill marks. A language he understood without words.
The mask slid back into place as he exhaled, slow and quiet. His voice carried low across the tiles. "Big statement. Not easy to walk away from that."
Harper's arms came up instinctively, folding tight across her midsection. It didn't hide the bruises, the cuts, or the serpent winding down her skin, but it gave her something to hold onto, a thin shield against the weight of his eyes. Her shoulders curved inward, chest hitching as if she could make herself smaller, but there was nowhere to go.
"Shower," Brock said, his tone flat as concrete.
Her head lifted, disbelief flickering for a second before she saw he wasn't moving, wasn't turning away. His arms stayed crossed, his stance fixed in the corner of the room like he had all the time in the world.
The meaning pressed cold into her gut—he wasn't leaving. Her chin dipped again, shoulders curling inward as her arms cinched tighter around her stomach. She stayed rooted to the tile, waiting for something—mercy, privacy, anything.
Brock's eyes narrowed. "Now." The word cracked the air, sharp, final.
The stream hit her in a rush, lukewarm at best, drumming against battered skin. Pain flared everywhere it touched—cuts reopening, bruises igniting, raw wrists burning as blood and grime washed away. She sucked air through her teeth, one hand catching the wall for balance when her knees nearly buckled.
Pink ribbons streaked down her legs, circling the drain. Dried blood dissolved from her hair, strands clinging across her face before slipping free. She tilted her head back, the sting flooding the cuts along her brow and cheek until she couldn't tell where water ended and pain began.
Her ribs protested every breath, the ache swelling as the steam pressed in. Dizzy, she braced both palms against the tile, arms trembling under her weight, forcing herself upright until the filth peeled away in slow streaks.
Behind her, Brock didn't move. His shadow stayed fixed through the glass, arms crossed, unyielding.
The water ran until her strength thinned to nothing. Her arms shook against the wall, her body sagging as the stream beat down in relentless sheets. At last she reached for the knob, twisting it off. Silence dropped heavy in its place, broken only by the drip of water from her hair and the rasp of her breath.
She turned slowly, one hand braced for balance, and stepped out. Water tracked down her skin, pooling at her feet as she swayed in the fluorescent light.
A towel struck her chest the moment she cleared the threshold, rough fabric heavy with the force of the throw. She caught it clumsily, her fingers almost losing it, then pressed it to her face and shoulders, wiping what she could with hands that barely obeyed. Her ribs screamed with each movement, but she forced herself dry, inch by inch, until the worst of the water was gone.
When she lowered the towel, Brock was there, one hand holding out a folded bundle of pale fabric. Scrubs. Too big, but clean.
Her fingers fumbled with the waistband as she stepped into them, the fabric dragging over bruised knees. The shirt slipped loose over her shoulders, sleeves hanging long past her hands. They swallowed her frame whole, the hem brushing her thighs, but at least they covered her—cloth between her body and his eyes.
She stood there quivering, drowned in fabric, the towel still clutched to her chest.
Brock's hand shot out, snatching the towel from her grip before she could clutch it tighter. "That's enough." His voice carried no edge of patience left.
Her arms sagged uselessly at her sides, the thin scrubs clinging damp against her skin. She swayed where she stood, the drugs already humming warm through her veins, softening the edges of pain but leaving her legs heavier than lead.
Metal glinted as Brock drew a pair of cuffs from his belt. "Hands."
For a heartbeat she froze, the order rattling against the fog in her head. But when his jaw set, she lifted her wrists, and let the steel bite shut around them. Cold, solid, final.
He hooked his hand Into the chain, guiding her forward. She stumbled at the first step, the floor tilting beneath her, but his grip snapped her upright before she could fall. The pace he set left no room for hesitation.
They crossed the washroom, the echo of their footsteps hard against the tile, then back into the hall. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, making her vision swim. Each jerk on the chain reminded her of how little strength she had left.
The elevator yawned open ahead. He steered her inside, the cuffs tugging her in step with him. The cab hummed as it descended, her reflection catching in the steel walls—scrubs too big, eyes hollow, wrists bound, Brock's shadow fixed at her side.
The meds dulled the pain but left her heavy, dreamlike, the world tilting whenever she tried to focus. The elevator doors parted with a dull chime, spilling them back into the basement hall. Harper's steps dragged, the weight of the cuffs biting into her wrists, each tug pulling her forward whether she managed her footing or not.
Brock didn't slow. His stride was steady, forcing her into a stumbling rhythm beside him until the black steel door loomed ahead. The scanner pulsed green, a hiss split the silence, and the hydraulic lock broke with a sound like an old lung giving out. The slab shuddered open.
Brock shoved her inside and followed, dragging her toward the back wall. He yanked the chain high, hooking the cuffs into a steel loop sunk above her head. Her arms stretched awkward, shoulders flaring with white-hot pain as the pull lifted her onto her toes.
Her sternum seized at the angle, every inhale ragged and burning. The bruises across her chest felt split wide open; her knees quaked, but there was nowhere to sink, no way to rest. The metal bit into raw wrists until fresh blood welled beneath the steel.
Brock stepped back, his eyes flat as he checked the restraint, the way a man checks a weapon's safety. No softness. No hesitation. Just efficiency.
He turned without a word, pulling the door shut behind him. The clang reverberated through her chest, louder than her own heartbeat.
Silence pressed in. The bulb buzzed overhead, its sickly light cutting shadows into the stains on the wall. Her legs quivered beneath her, the cuffs holding her upright—pinned like another mark on the Syndicate's ledger.
Time didn't pass. It dragged.
The strain dug deeper with every tremor, fire spreading down her arms until her hands went numb, fingers swelling against the steel. Her breathing grew thinner, each inhale caught sharp in her chest, the bruises tightening with the pull of the chain.
Minutes—hours—she couldn't tell. The bulb flickered, shadows twitching across the walls, then steadied again. The air grew thicker, sourer, until her head swam. The meds left her heavy, dreamlike, but not enough to quiet the ache grinding through her body.
Her knees gave out more than once, legs buckling, only for the cuffs to wrench her upright again. Pain shot white across her chest, her breath catching in a wet gasp as her body sagged against the restraints. She clung to the thin edge of consciousness, rocking between blackness and the sting of every nerve.
At some point she started shivering, her damp hair leeching cold down her back. Hunger gnawed sharp in her stomach, a twisting hollow that made her nauseous. Her tongue felt thick, dry.
The bulb flickered again.
She lost track of how many times.
Her head lolled forward, chin dragging toward her chest as her legs buckled again. The cuffs wrenched her upright, tearing fresh fire through her shoulders. A broken sound scraped from her throat—half sob, half whine—as she sagged against the steel.
Darkness pressed at the edges of her vision, thick and closing. She swayed, eyes fluttering shut, every tremor in her body threatening to send her under.
The door clanged open.
The sound ripped her eyes wide, her body jerking on instinct against the restraints. Pain knifed through her chest, her breath tearing raw as she blinked into the light spilling in.
Brock's silhouette filled the frame. His eyes tracked her, flat and measuring.
"Still standing."
He stepped close, unhooked the chain from the wall, and hauled her down. Her arms dropped but the cuffs stayed on, wrists slick with blood, shoulders screaming from the sudden shift. She stumbled, legs barely catching, and his grip dragged her upright before she could crumple.
"Move."
The word cracked like an order on a firing line.
The hall stretched out before them, concrete echoing beneath her unsteady steps. Brock kept her pace steady with the pull of the chain, each jerk a reminder that her body was no longer hers. Her knees wavered, her ribs lit with every breath, the meds fogging her vision until the walls blurred into one long smear of gray.
Then the door loomed ahead.
Solid steel. No window this time. Just a black placard bolted into the frame, white stenciled letters stark against the dark:
INTERROGATION ROOM I
Her stomach turned, hollow and twisting, a fear too sharp for the drugs to blunt.
Brock stopped only long enough to press his fingers to the scanner. The light blinked green. The lock hissed.
The door shuddered, then began to open.