All Chapters of COLLATERAL DESIRE : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Porto leaned back against the couch, her head resting against his chest as he wrapped an arm around her. She was scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up to smile at something he murmured or to laugh softly at something one of the guys said from across the room. The other men lounged around, talking about recent jobs, laughing, and sipping on beers. Porto barely noticed them, lost in the warmth of his presence, his steady heartbeat beneath her ear.“Did you see what happened on the shipment last week?” one of the guys asked, launching into a story about a near-miss during one of their operations.Porto hummed along, listening, but her attention was still half on her phone, half on him. Porto couldn’t help it, he kept glancing down at her, tracing the curve of her jaw with his eyes, noting the way her hair fell across her face, the small smile that crept whenever she read something funny.He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “You’re cute when you’r

Lance didn’t know how long he had been out the second time.When he woke up again, the first thing he noticed was the light.The room was no longer dark. A harsh, pale light spilled in from a small, dirty window high up on the wall. Dust floated in the air, and the place smelled musty, like old wood, rust, and damp stone. His head still hurt, his wrists were sore from the ropes, and his mouth was dry.He groaned and shifted slightly, blinking a few times until his vision cleared.Then he remembered.The Enterprise.The attack.The darts.The dark room.Ragnar.Lance’s head snapped up immediately, his eyes searching the room.And then he saw him.Ragnar was sitting against the opposite wall, hands still tied behind his back, head slightly tilted forward. At first, Lance thought he was just unconscious again.Then he saw the blood.His eyes widened instantly.Blood was running down the side of Ragnar’s head, thick and dark, starting from somewhere in his hairline and trailing down past

Lance’s hands were shaking as he finally got the ropes off Ragnar’s wrists. The fibers were tight and rough, and his fingers were slippery with dried and fresh blood, but he managed to loosen the knots enough to pull Ragnar’s hands free.“Come on… come on…” Lance muttered under his breath, moving quickly to the ropes around Ragnar’s ankles.Ragnar still hadn’t moved, his head hanging slightly forward, blood dried along the side of his face and neck. Up close, Lance could see the bruise forming along his jaw and the swelling near the head wound.The moment Ragnar’s legs were free, Lance moved back up in front of him and carefully touched his shoulder.“Ragnar… hey… wake up,” he said softly, voice tight with worry.For a few seconds, nothing happened.Then Ragnar inhaled sharply.His head moved slightly, brows pulling together in pain. He made a low sound in his throat and slowly lifted his head. His eyes opened halfway, unfocused at first, then slowly trying to adjust to the light.Lan

Ragnar stood a few meters from the burning boat, the heat from the flames hitting his face and arms, but he didn’t move back.The fire roared loudly, wood cracking, metal groaning as the structure of the boat slowly began to weaken. Smoke rose into the night sky in thick, black clouds, and sparks floated through the air like burning snow.Behind him, his men were moving around, shouting orders, some trying to get water, others making sure the fire didn’t spread to nearby boats.But Ragnar wasn’t listening to any of it.His eyes were fixed on the flames.Waiting. He didn't even know what he was waiting for. He didn’t even fully realize he was waiting at first. He just stood there, staring at the burning wreck, his jaw tight, hands slightly clenched at his sides.He had lost men before.Many men.Men he had trained.Men he had fought beside.Men who had been with him for years. Men who was close enough to call family. He had watched people die. He had ordered men into dangerous situat

Lance lay on the hospital bed, the thin sheets tangled around his legs, the faint hum of machines the only sound in the room. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting stripes across the walls and across the scarred skin of his hand. He turned it over slowly, fingers grazing the rough texture, tracing the burn that had left its permanent mark.He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Not the scar itself, not the memory of fire and chaos, not the way it made him feel fragile, exposed, and, in a way, broken. He flexed his fingers, watching the skin shift, noting how it didn’t move the way it used to. A sharp sting ran through him as he clenched his fist. It was a small thing, a private wound, but it felt like the world had somehow shrunk around him.Ragnar hadn’t said anything about it. He hadn’t hovered like some caretaker, hadn’t even glanced at it with concern. That cold distance of his was almost… comforting. Almost. Lance didn’t want pity. He didn’t want to be reminded that he had