LOGINOliverThe first strike lands across both shoulders and my brain stops working.Not figuratively. Properly. The thirty tails come down in a perfect heavy sweep that travels the full width of my upper back, and every coherent thought I had a second ago goes white. My weight pitches forward against the cuffs. My breath punches out of me. The sound I’ve been holding in my throat finally gets free, low and ragged, into the warm hush of the room.Kir is precise. He’s so fucking expertly precise.The next strike lands a fraction lower, parallel, perfectly stacked. Then a third, lower still, shading the meat between my shoulder blades. He’s laying down a foundation. He’s mapping me.The plug hums against the base of my spine in a low, steady note, and every time the leather lands the vibration ripples up through my pelvis like he’s playing me on two instruments at once.Behind me I hear the soft scrape of his boot on the hardwood as he repositions. The flogger reverses. The next str
KirOliver radios Evelyn at four in the afternoon.He keys the mike from the sofa, legs folded under him, a chipped plate balanced on his knee with the last of the bread and cheese from the safe house. He’s been quiet since we got back from Saint’s apartment. The team is back. The plan is set. Tomorrow we leave for Prague.Evelyn needs to be told."Mother hen," Oliver says into the handset.Static. Then a deep sigh before she responds, "Baby bird.""We’re moving tomorrow."A long pause. The kind that means she has questions she’s not going to ask."I would like to come over before you go," she says. "I won’t stay long. I have something for you."Oliver's mouth tightens. "When?""Within the hour.""Fine."He clicks off and sets the handset on the coffee table without looking at me."You do not have to see her," I tell him. "Yes, I do. If she has something useful, I want to know what it is. And if she has something useless, I want her gone before we leave."He stands up, picks up th
Oliver Dom comes up the stairs at ten past ten. She has a plain canvas tote slung over one shoulder and her dark curls are messier than her usual standards, falling loose down her back. Two weeks of not having to keep it braided back tightly when going into combat looks good on her.When she sees me, something in her steadies. Like she'd been bracing for the worst the whole walk over.There’s a flicker of relief so naked it’s almost painful to watch. She crosses the room without speaking and pulls me into a crushing hug.I return it with full force. I love everyone on the team. They’re my chosen family. But Dom’s special.She was my first friend among them. The one who took a chance on me long before the others were on board. She still acts like my over-protective older sister. Our bond’s only deepened over time.When she lets me go, she goes to Kir, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “Glad to see Oliver didn’t drive you completely crazy during our hiatus.”Kir rolls his e
OliverIt’s six-thirty in the morning and I can’t keep still. The anxiety’s eating me alive.What if everyone didn’t make it?Kir and I are tucked into a doorway off a cobbled alley.He’s shielding me with his body, reading the street while pretending to check his phone. My eyes cut past his shoulder to the wall opposite where he pointed out a marking.Third brick up from the foot of the drainpipe. Fourth brick in from the corner. A tiny blue chalk mark, no bigger than a thumbnail.Someone got here before us. Someone left a sign to let us know they’re alive."Watch for shadows," Kir murmurs.He crosses the alley in three easy strides. I follow him across, stand watch while he crouches and runs his gloved fingertips along the mortar below the marked brick. Something slides out of a crack. A crushed cigarette filter which he pulls apart with steady fingers.There’s a rolled strip of paper inside, a tiny square with words on it that I can’t make out from up here.Kir reads it witho
KirDay eight.The flat has not changed shape since breakfast, but Oliver is finding new ways to climb its walls. Ten minutes on the sofa. Up. Five minutes at the window. Up. The corner of the kitchen where he does his laptop work. Where he stands because sitting pulls at his stitches and he will not tell me.He is wearing my hoodie, sleeves rolled up twice because they still swallow his hands. From the sofa, my eyes track him drifting back to the window. His forehead rests against the glass and he closes his eyes."Oliver.""Hmm.""Put on a coat."His eyes open."Why?""We are going out."He turns from the window like he’s not sure he heard me correctly. "We’re what?""Going out.""Out where?""For coffee. I saw a cafe attached to a bakery when I was out hunting Vanguard. It looked like the kind of pretentious and overpriced place you would love.""You hate cafés.""I hate your pacing more."He stares. "Is this safe?""No. It is calculated.""Brilliant. Let me get my coat."
OliverThe kitchen smells like bleach.Kir cleaned the table this morning before he'd even made coffee. Vinegar first, then bleach, then a final rinse with saline. He laid down a fresh cotton sheet, tucked the corners and smoothed it with his palms. Over that, a wide sterile field cut from a paper pack he bought at the pharmacy.The tools are laid out in a row.It looks like a war crime in a kitchen magazine photoshoot."This is not helping," I tell the ceiling."What is not?""Seeing it all laid out like this.""I can blindfold you.""Don't you dare."He’s moving around behind me, pulling things from the duffel, checking the seal on a gauze pack. His bandage is fresh. Shirt off. The planes of him are distracting in a way that is probably inappropriate given the circumstances, and I’m leaning into it hard because the alternative is thinking.I consider offering to blow him again, but he’ll just say now’s not the time. "Pants," he says."Buy me dinner first.""Oliver.""Fine. Fin
OliverWaking up is a slow, heavy process.The first thing I register is the suffocating weight across my chest. Kir has his arm thrown over me, pinning me flat against the mattress. His large hand rests over my ribs, his fingers curled loosely against my skin. His front is pressed flush against
OliverThe wait is absolute fucking torture.I can’t see a thing. The padded silk blindfold blocks out every trace of light, plunging me into a thick, suffocating void. My hearing dials up to a terrifying degree, picking up the faint, rhythmic hum of the building's ventilation and the slow, delib
KirillMidnight passed hours ago, but neither of us has made a move toward the bedroom.The television casts a flickering, uneven glow across the dark living room. Another terrible action movie plays on the screen, full of muffled explosions and painfully bad dialogue. It serves as background noi
OliverSeven days of surviving the meat grinder has fundamentally changed the way my body functions.My world has shrunk to the square footage of the penthouse and the black foam mats in the basement. Every morning begins with two grueling hours of getting thrown around by highly trained assassins







