The system notification chimed like a hidden bell in Jack's mind. He glanced at the glowing text only he could see—Combat Skill: Master. Another five gold coins earned, this time not through shortcuts but sweat. That mattered. The grind, the bruises, the sting of sparring—those victories tasted real.
A grin pulled at his lips.
Hannah caught the flicker of distraction, and her eyes narrowed with playful malice. She feinted left, then her leg snapped out in a blur, catching Jack squarely on the outer thigh.
The strike hit the nerve bundle dead-on. Pain exploded, the kind that dropped men twice his size.
Jack's breath hitched, but he didn't fall. Twenty points of Constitution burned the pain into nothing but a dull throb. He clamped down, seized her ankle in one hand, and yanked.
Hannah crashed onto her back—but she wasn't panicked. If anything, she smirked. She let her body roll with the pull, hooking her other leg forward, aiming viciously at his groin.
The move was fast, dirty, practiced.
Normally, Jack wouldn't have stood a chance. But he was faster now. His reflexes kept up with his eyes. His right hand shot out, snaring her second ankle before it landed. He twisted, kicked her knee, and folded her small, furious body into a knot.
"Give up?" he said, his voice tight with laughter, pinning her with one hand as if she weighed nothing. After three months of her torment, this moment was sweet.
"Not a chance!" Hannah wriggled, her toned frame twisting, but her struggles only made her look like a trapped flame—wild, burning, refusing to be contained.
Jack released her with a frustrated sigh. He'd learned his lesson about letting sparring blur into something else. Her gasps filled the room as she collapsed beside him, chest heaving. Silence stretched, heavy and intimate.
Then she moved. In a single roll she was on top of him, her hair spilling down, her lips pressing into his. Jack froze, eyes wide. She'd never initiated. Not once. His rule—no romance between colleagues—shattered in an instant.
Her kiss tasted of sweat and defiance.
"I've submitted my resignation," she whispered against his mouth. "I'll be at Quantico next month."
Jack's breath caught. "So soon? Don't they do interviews, physicals, the whole drill?"
Hannah's gaze burned into his. "Zoe pulled strings. Friends in the Bureau. They saw my file—special admission. Five months of training, then the Los Angeles field office."
Relief flickered through him, though a twinge of loss followed close behind. Five months wasn't forever, but it wasn't nothing.
"So… I'll see you again?"
Hannah nodded, her body still pressed against his. Then her tone shifted, heavier. "But before that, I need you to come with me. To face something. My past. The reason I chose the FBI."
Jack stilled. Finally. She was opening the door she'd kept locked, the one shadowing her eyes when she thought no one noticed.
"You know I don't always follow the rules," he said softly.
A bitter smile tugged at her lips. "Neither do I."
Her voice trembled as she began. "I'm from Texas. Brent Stephens was my father. Jennifer Carlisle, my mom. We lived on a ranch, out west near the New Mexico border."
Jack didn't move. He let her words unravel.
"I had a normal childhood. Happy. Until one night…" Her eyes clouded, and her voice cracked. Tears slid down, hot against Jack's skin. "Someone torched our stable. Inside were pregnant mares. My pony too—the one Dad gave me."
Jack's jaw tightened.
"Dad ran in first. Mom followed. By the time the fire trucks got there…" Her throat closed. "They found two bodies huddled together."
Silence pressed down, thick as smoke. Jack brushed her tears away with his thumb, fighting the ache in his chest.
"Then came my father's brother. From Georgia. Moved in with his family. Said he'd be my guardian."
Jack's blood chilled.
Hannah's eyes hardened, no longer watery but hollow, sharp with old fury. "At first, I thought they cared. But one day, I found out the truth."
Her lips trembled, but the words forced themselves free.
"Both of them. Him. And his son."
Jack's breath caught. Rage surged like a storm, his vision tunneling. He'd read about monsters like that, hidden behind suburban smiles and Southern charm. He'd mocked this country's hypocrisy before. But this wasn't abstract. This was Hannah.
His Hannah.
His teeth ground audibly. "So that's why…"
Hannah gave a small, broken laugh. "Yes. But not in the way you think."
Her hand rose, brushing his jaw, calming the fury storming inside him. "They never touched me. I stopped it before they could. That's why I hate men. All men—except you."
The kiss she gave him this time wasn't fiery. It was soft. Fragile.
She pulled back, her whisper trembling. "Under my pillow, I kept the gift my father gave me for my tenth birthday. A Smith & Wesson M36 revolver. My lifeline. My reminder."
Jack held her tighter. No words came. None could.
(End of this chapter)