The training grounds of the Vane Estate were located three levels beneath the basalt foundation, a stark world of poured concrete, humming fluorescent lights, and the scent of ozone. It was a place where Caspian Vane forged his elite units, far removed from the velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and vintage champagne flutes of the upper floors. Up there, he was a husband and a nobleman; down here, he was a god of war.
Linnea stood in the center of the reinforced mat, the air-conditioning humming a low, mechanical tune that vibrated in her bones. She was no longer wearing the midnight velvet gown. Instead, she wore a charcoal-gray tactical suit that Caspian had sent to her quarters at five o'clock that morning. It was high-compression, fire-resistant, and left nothing to the imagination—a second skin that made her feel exposed in a way nudity never could.
Across from her, Caspian was stripping off his dress shirt. He didn't do it for vanity; it was a ritual of transition. Without the stiff fabric of his uniform, his torso was revealed as a map of the Federation's bloody history. There were jagged scars from shrapnel across his ribs, a faint circular pockmark from a sniper's bullet near his collarbone, and muscles that moved with the fluid, heavy lethality of a predator.
"In my world, there is no such thing as a 'pretty wife,'" Caspian said, his voice echoing off the sterile walls like rolling thunder. He began wrapping his hands in white athletic tape, his movements rhythmic and mesmerizing. "There is only an asset or a liability. Last night, you proved you aren't a liability. Today, I find out exactly what kind of asset you are."
Linnea maintained her "soft" posture—the slightly hunched shoulders, the wide, blinking eyes of a woman out of her depth. "Commander, I told you, I only know what I was taught in those self-defense classes in the capital. My father was paranoid. I was just... lucky. Adrenaline does strange things."
Caspian finished the last wrap and stepped onto the blue mat. He was a head taller than her, a wall of disciplined violence. "Luck is the excuse of the unprepared, Linnea. Julian spent all night analyzing the hallway footage from the North Study. He told me your footwork was 'irregular.' Too precise for an amateur, too quiet for a civilian. He thinks you're a ghost. I think you're a liar."
He moved without warning.
It wasn't a full-force strike, but a probing jab—a heavy-handed test of her reflexes. Linnea had a split second to make a choice that would define her survival: Do I take the hit to keep my cover, or do I defend myself?
The instinct for survival, honed by years in the shadows as "The Ghost," won. As the fist whistled toward her face, she didn't flinch or close her eyes. She slipped the punch by a hair's breadth, the wind of his glove ruffling her hair. She pivoted on her heel, her hand coming up instinctively to guard her chin in a perfect boxer's stance.
Caspian's eyes lit up with a dangerous, predatory spark. A slow, dark smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Self-defense classes for socialites don't teach a slip-pivot, Linnea. They teach you to scream, claw at eyes, and run. You just moved like a woman who has spent a thousand hours in a ring."
"I'm a fast learner," she hissed, her voice losing its breathy, feminine lilt.
"Prove it," he commanded.
He pressed the attack. It was a barrage of strikes—hooks, crosses, and low kicks—that forced her to move. Linnea danced backward, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was used to shadows, digital encryption, and silent takedowns in the dark. She wasn't used to a direct, bruising confrontation with the most decorated combatant in the Empire. Caspian was fast, but more than that, he was heavy. Every movement he made carried the weight of a man who expected to break whatever he touched.
"Hit me!" he roared, his voice bouncing off the concrete. "If you don't start fighting back, I'll stop pulling my punches. And I promise you, Linnea, you won't like the way the floor tastes."
He lunged, a grappling move intended to pin her to the mat. Linnea dropped low, her center of gravity shifting instantly. She swept her leg out in a wide, punishing arc. Caspian saw it coming and jumped back, narrowly avoiding the trip, but the sheer speed of her movement forced him to reset.
He didn't wait. He surged forward again, and this time, Linnea didn't retreat. She stepped into his space, her elbow aiming for the soft tissue of his ribs. He caught her arm, his grip like a steel vise, and used her momentum to twist her around. In a heartbeat, her back was pressed against his bare, sweat-slicked chest. He locked his arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.
"You're fast," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. The scent of him—cedarwood, salt, and raw power—filled her senses, making her head spin. "But you're fighting like someone who's afraid to be seen. You're hiding your reach. You're holding back fifty percent of your strength."
"Let go of me, Caspian," she snapped, the "fragile wife" act finally shattering into a thousand pieces.
"Make me," he challenged, his grip tightening.
Linnea didn't hesitate. She slammed her heel into his instep with enough force to crack bone and used the momentary flinch to throw her weight forward. She grabbed his arm, ducked her head, and flipped him over her shoulder. It was a high-level judo throw, executed with the cold precision of a professional assassin.
Caspian hit the mat with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. For a second, he didn't move. Linnea stood over him, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with a fierce, untamed light.
Then, Caspian began to laugh. It was a low, dark sound that vibrated with genuine amusement. He rolled to his feet in a single fluid motion, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Julian was right. You're a masterpiece of deception. Tell me, Linnea... who trained you? The Blackwood Academy? The Syndicate? Or is 'The Ghost' a title you inherited?"
The mention of her codename sent a chill down her spine. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Caspian walked toward her, but this time, he didn't raise his hands. He stopped inches away, his presence overwhelming—a physical pressure that demanded submission. He reached out, his gloved fingers tracing the line of her jaw, lingering on the pulse point at her neck. It was racing—not from fear, but from the sheer electric tension between them.
"I'm going to spoil you, Linnea," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive rasp. "I'm going to give you the best weapons in the Federation. I'll give you access to the most expensive secrets and the most powerful men. I'll make the world bow to you. But in exchange, I want total transparency. No more ghosts in my house. No more lies in my bed."
Linnea looked into his stormy gray eyes and felt a pull she hadn't expected. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to be his partner, his equal, his queen. But then she remembered the encrypted drive hidden in her floorboards. She remembered the mission that had brought her here.
"You can't buy the truth, Caspian," she said softly, her voice steady. "Even with all the diamonds in the North."
The tension was shattered by the sharp, electronic chime of the intercom. Julian's voice came through, sounding uncharacteristically strained. "Commander, you need to see this. The interrogation of the waiter... it took an unexpected turn. He had a secondary cyanide capsule triggered by a remote frequency. But before he died, he left a message. It's for her."
Caspian's hand dropped from her face, his expression hardening into a mask of ice. "For Linnea?"
"Yes, sir," Julian replied. "It's a digital cipher scrawled in blood. One that only a specific type of operative would recognize."
Linnea's blood ran cold. It was a trap. Someone was forcing her hand, trying to blow her cover before she could finish Phase Two. She looked at Caspian and saw the suspicion returning to his eyes—sharper and more lethal than it had been the night before.
"It seems," Caspian said, reaching for his discarded shirt, "that our honeymoon period is officially over. Get upstairs, Linnea. Let's see what your friends have to say."