Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Now, tell me who you work for."

See, this is why I have trust issues.

Staring at Masen through the mirror, I clock the loose, lazy stance. It's the same cool, relaxed demeanor he feigned right before he took out Taeb in Vienna. The focus and intensity in his gaze give him away, though, just like the slabs of muscle flexing against my back. When he adjusts the grip on his weapon, I note the perfect trigger discipline of a long-time soldier with a grim kind of satisfaction. That discipline costs him time. His angle is off, too. It's not a lot, but enough that were he to fire, there's a solid chance he'd take a ricochet. At the very least, he'd get to wear my brains, and that's just bad form.

Still, even without all those little tells, I know there's no fucking way Masen's going to shoot me.

Not without a suppressor, not here in the middle of Aronov's compound, and not when he's been trying to get Cullen out for months.

He must think I'm an idiot.

Regardless, now that the initial shock has passed, this whole situation just pisses me off, and when I take a deep, steadying breath, my heart rate slows, and my muscles automatically begin to uncoil as years of beaten-in training kick in.

"You know," I say, and there's no possible way I can hide the irritation in my voice. "I really don't like it when people point guns at me."

Masen's palm flattens against my abdomen, pulling me tight against him. "Answer me."

"Seriously, you should rethink this."

Angry and severe, his eyes bore into mine as he damned near spits out the repeated command. "Goddamn you, ans–"

A hard elbow into his ribcage cuts him off.

Air punches out in a low, harsh grunt, ghosting across my still-damp skin, and Masen's chest instantly caves, peeling off my back. Before he can blink, I grab the barrel of his Glock. In a lightning-fast maneuver I've practiced a thousand times, I twist the weapon outward and away from my throat as I simultaneously break his hold on my stomach and spin to face him.

Stunned surprise flashes across Masen's features as the heel of my palm slams into his sternum, and then once more when I wrench his weapon arm, ramming his elbow into a rough, backward angle that joint's just not meant to handle. He grunts again when his forearm spasms against the abuse, and the momentary lapse is enough for me to swipe his weapon and flip it around.

"I told you, I really, really don't like that shit," I say, stepping back to put a little distance between us. Masen stills when he sees his own weapon tracking his movements, and I shoot him a pissed-off glare, just for good measure. "We were having such a nice time, too."

His hands ball by his sides, and his jaw rolls in aggravation.

Without warning, Masen lunges across the few feet between us. On instinct, I duck, right as his fist sails over my head. His left comes up just as quick, and before I know it, he bats my hand away, stealing his Glock back in a single move.

Motherfucker, he's fast.

But there's a deep furrow bisecting his forehead, and judging by the lack of power in his hit, it's clear that Masen's not used to fighting women. Whereas I rarely fight anything but men.

Well, men and Rosalie, but she doesn't count.

Before he can raise his sidearm, I rush him, dropping a shoulder and barreling into his midsection hard enough that he stumbles backward. Masen grabs me by the waist, pulling me with him, and this round, there's an annoying stab of pain when he squeezes.

Shoving out of his grasp, I take a jab at his ribs, aiming for a softball-sized bloom of purple and black sitting below the nautical design on his left pectoral. It's a nasty contusion that I missed when he stripped off his shirt, and Masen tenses right as my knuckles make contact. A low, jagged noise spills out – some blend of pain and frustration – so I go for the same spot again. When I rear back for a third, Masen moves like a whip, turning into me to absorb the force of the blow.

Before I can throw my forearms up to block, he counters with a right cross that glances off my bicep. Growling through clenched teeth, Masen swings a second time and then again. I dodge him easily, but I'm not stupid. He's pulling his punches, trying to hook around my chest to subdue me rather than take me out.

Asshole.

Darting out of the way, I draw him left. As soon as he steps in range, I rock back and throw a vicious shin kick to the backside of his thigh, targeting the nerve right above the knee.

"Fuck," he mutters, hopping as numbness skates down to his ankle. But he still has his weapon, and he's still pointing it at me. "Jesus, will you stop?"

"Me?" I cock a pissed-off brow. "You're telling me to stop? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Masen opens his mouth, but I don't bother waiting on an answer. Without breaking eye contact, I feint right, then left, and then take out his knees, sweeping his legs out from under him. His shoulder smacks the floor with a dull thud, and his Glock clatters out of his hand. When he bolts up and dives to recover it, I kick his wrist, and then I kick the damned thing out of his reach before plucking it up myself and dancing away.

This time I add a few extra feet of distance.

"Get up, dick," I snap.

Slowly pushing off the floor, Masen rolls onto his knees and lifts his hands, palms out in a lazy, half-hearted surrender. There's a beat of indecision where I think he just might come at me again. His eyes flit to the Glock aimed at his chest before finally locking on mine. Whatever he sees changes his mind, however, and with a barely-there wince coupled with another soft punch of air, he finally starts to stand. By the time he straightens, he's right back to that cool, bored, disinterested mask that I'm beginning to despise.

Not kidding, I am this close to beating the shit out of him.

He knows it, too.

And because he either has no sense of self-preservation or has a really fucked up sense of humor, I swear, I catch that man's lips twitch.

"What's so goddamned funny?" I ask, scowling as I flick his sidearm in a quick, curt gesture for him to move.

Not daring to look away, Masen complies with a triplet of leisurely backward steps, stopping only when he bumps against the side of his bed. Palms still up and out, he eases back, half sitting on the edge of the mattress.

I don't know how long we stare at each other like that, not speaking a word, with him giving me that piss-poor, arrogant surrender as the air around us pulses in time to the steady thump of my heart. I blow a wild strand of hair out of my face, and his lips twitch again. When my scowl deepens in response, those dark, angry eyes shine an unexpectedly bright, amused emerald green.

It's a stupidly attractive look, too, especially since his shirt's wadded up somewhere on the floor behind us. Without a belt, Masen's pants ride low enough that every one of those pretty lines and valleys is on full display, and despite all better judgment, my fingers burn with the irrational urge to trace every one of them.

Damn it.

I need to beat my own ass.

"I have to admit," Masen drawls, waving at my general person. When his brows climb his forehead, nearly disappearing behind the mangled mess of his hair, I'm reminded that I'm basically naked. "This is a… new experience for me."

You and me both, buddy.

Rolling my eyes, I nod to his side. "What happened to you?"

Following my gaze, Masen glances down at his torso and studies the plum-black misshapen stain. "Lead pipe."

"Ouch."

His shoulders just lift in a loose, indifferent shrug.

"Your knuckles run into it, too?" I ask, motioning to the red, splotchy bruising and abrasions on his right.

"There was a minor disagreement when the pipe didn't do its job." Masen shrugs again. "I helped the guy on the other end of it recognize his mistake."

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "Anything broken?"

"Probably a fracture or two. Definitely not the worst I've ever had." Masen flashes me what I can only call a smirk before drily adding, "Acting as your personal punching bag isn't exactly helpful."

I laugh at that. "Yeah, there's no way I'm feeling guilty for that. That's all on you."

"Fair enough," he says, stretching his neck before peering down at his ribs again. "At least I know how you got away from Kaius' man back in Vienna." Looking back at me, his eyes narrow. "They still haven't found him, you know."

Now it's my turn to smirk. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Neither of us speak for another long minute, and as we watch each other across the distance, the clock out in the sitting room slowly ticks off the seconds, echoing in the silence. Compared to the last several hours, the contrasting tempo feels like a sedative, coaxing my muscles to release and unwind. I'm not the only one affected either. Masen's posture begins to relax with each steady beat, and he sinks a little more into the mattress.

"So…" His voice is soft, almost a murmur, as his focus betrays him and slips below my neckline. "Are you going to let me put my hands down, or are we going to do this all night?"

"I don't know," I counter as I blindly toe my dress out of the way. Stepping sideways, I skirt the low, cushioned dressing bench at the end of the bed to get a better angle, just in case he's fucking with me. "Are you going to be a dick again?"

Masen's cheeks crease. "I'll behave."

A snort comes out before I can stop it, and I mutter, "Somehow, I doubt that." Nonetheless, I grumble something resembling permission, and Masen eases his hands down to the mattress on either side of him.

"How do you want to do this?" he asks.

That's a good fucking question, but after tonight's nonsense, I have all of about zero patience for playing games, especially since there's no chance that either one of us is going to shoot the other. At least, not here. So, with an irritated huff, I drop the magazine, rack the slide, and eject the chambered round before chucking his Glock over onto the nearby chair. Tossing the magazine in the opposite direction, I cut him a pointed look. "Stay your ass over there."

"All right." His smile disappears. "You going to tell me who you work for?"

"Why do you think I work for anyone?"

A chuckle answers me, but after a second, Masen lifts his hands again, and without breaking eye contact, he slowly reaches over to his nightstand to grab his phone. He taps in a quick code, swipes, and then flips me the device. "How about you tell me where that was taken?"

Brows furrowed, I steal a quick peek at the screen, and my stomach takes a sharp, nauseating nosedive. "Shit."

Whitlock's going to stroke out when he finds out about this.

"Where'd you get this?" I ask, glancing down at the image again.

It's me, of course, only I'm eight years younger, lounging on the hood of a Humvee in full desert battle rattle with one of BSA's finest slung across my chest. Behind me, jagged, rocky mountains, dotted by sparse, pale green brush, climb a bright blue, cloudless sky.

To Masen's credit, he doesn't gloat. No, he just dips his chin in subtle acknowledgment. "You first."

Me being me, I debate answering at all, but instead, I blow out a loud, resigned breath, scrub my face, and prop against one of the burled wood cabinets by the wall. "Kunar Province."

"Thought so." Masen shifts and the motion makes all those pretty lines ripple and flex. "What were you doing there?"

Okay, at that, I really have to roll my eyes. "Where do you think I learned to hit very small targets from very long distances?"

"Army, then." Ignoring the sarcasm dripping from my voice, Masen nods to himself. "Which unit?"

"The Unit." I give him a small smile when he stills. His eyes widen ever so slightly, and as they travel my features, I can see the wheels turning. "Technically, I was assigned to G-Squadron, you know, because men, but I spent most of my time with the assault teams. And by most, I mean all."

At first, he doesn't react, but then a broad, genuine grin stretches his face, and his shoulders bounce in silent laughter. "Well… I guess that explains some things."

It's tempting to laugh along with him, but inside I'm still reeling over his little discovery. Crossing my arms over my chest, I frown. "You going to tell me how you managed to find that pic?"

"It's part of why I was late," Masen says, scratching the two-day scruff on his chin. "There's a guy I use sometimes. He's one of those eccentric, tin foil hat nutjobs. Flies under the radar. Not exactly easy to locate, but he's damned good at what he does." Forgetting our little standoff, Masen folds his hands in his lap and absently thumbs one of the darker abrasions. "Found out he was outside of Prague, so I convinced Aro to send me to visit Dobroshi after I scared the shit out of Retzos." He looks up at me then. "While I was there, I had him run some of his searches. Took him a while, but he finally managed to find that…" He pauses, motioning to his phone. "It was buried in some classified Pentagon file."

At least it wasn't on some dumbass's social media account. Still, I make a note to have Whitlock fix that shit real quick.

Shoving off the cabinet, I pace the length of the rug. "What were you expecting him to find?"

"Honestly? You were throwing so many mixed signals I wasn't sure what he'd find. Maybe Interpol. Maybe even FSB. Those fuckers spy on each other all the time anyway, and Markovsky's high enough to be a legitimate concern for them…" He hesitates. "But after you managed to get yourself into that meeting with Jacques and Laurent in Aro's office… I assumed one of his competitors had sent you. It wouldn't have been the first time." Masen's face tells me all I need to know about what happened to those women. His voice drops in both volume and pitch. "So, who was it?"

"Platt."

Masen's head jerks. "Bullshit." He shoves a rough hand through his hair. "No way you're CIA. I've seen those lists."

I stop in the middle of the rug and give him a withering glare. "Yes and no. You're correct I'm not CIA, but I used to be after I was discharged and before I went private… like someone else in this room." Resuming my slow pacing, I wave a random hand. "I don't normally do this kind of long game. Usually, I'm in and out and done. But I took this job as a personal favor, off the books."

Shaking his head, Masen massages the bridge of his nose and shoves his palms into the dark hollows of his eyes. "And that job is?" he asks, although I suspect he already knows.

"Take out Aronov."

He straightens, and his hands drop back by his sides. "And?"

"Figure out what happened to Carlisle… and find out if you turned."

Tracking me like the predator he is, Masen's gaze turns dark, tinged with both insult and fury. "Un-fucking-believable."

If I didn't know it before, I certainly do now, but still, I have to ask. "So, have you?"

"Have I what?" He says it so quietly, and there's a dangerous edge to his voice that makes my stomach dip and churn. "Swapped sides? Been bought? Abandoned and betrayed everything I've bled and damned near died for? Is that what you're asking?"

When I don't reply, Masen chuffs an exasperated breath and tilts his face to the ceiling. "No, I haven't, despite what Esme Platt may think." He mutters something under his breath before the stiff line of his shoulders sags. "Just so we're all on the same page, I'm trying to shut down Aro's operation – all of it, not just him – and get Carl out." Another huff – this one tired and lonely – spills out. "That stubborn bastard won't let me move him until it's done, even if it kills him…" He stares at me. "And apparently, even if his wife has me killed, too."

I wonder if Masen realizes what he just revealed, but I don't go there, at least not yet. We'll talk about Cullen later. "What about those other CIA operatives?"

Masen laughs, and it's a bitter, bitter sound. "If Platt's looking for traitors, she needs to be looking a little closer to home." When I lift a brow in question, he flicks his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Her organization has a fucking problem. Aronov's had at least one of the division directors on his payroll for years."

Not surprising, but still. "Fuck."

"Tell me about it," he says as he slides a little further onto the bed and bends at the waist to prop his elbows on his knees. And fine, maybe I feel a little guilty for those rib shots, even if he deserved it. "Not a single one of those operatives had a clue what they were walking into. They were sent to die, and once they started targeting me, I didn't have another option." Masen's features pinch. "Kaius was the one who…"

"Arranged delivery?"

"That's one way to say it." His lips mash into a hard line. "Kaius enjoys that kind of shit."

Recalling that night in the Schönbrunn and the thick air of suspended violence between them, I tilt my head. "But he's wary of you," I say, and it's a statement, not a question.

"He's not used to having someone between him and Aro. To him, it's an insult, especially since I'm an outsider." Masen grimaces. "He's volatile and he's a sadistic son of a bitch, but he's not stupid."

"How do you mean?"

"As crazy as it sounds, Aro likes me, even though he uses Carl like a choke chain to keep me in check…" For a moment, Masen's gaze turns inward, seeing what I don't know. Before I can ask, he blinks and gives himself a little shake. "Anyway, more importantly, Kaius knows that I could take him out easy in a one-on-one situation, which is why he sent his enforcers after me in Prague." His lips curve. "Fucker was pissed when I showed back up."

As we continue our little tit-for-tat, drawn by that bizarre, innate electric connection we seem to share, I drift closer. The instant I'm in range, Masen's eyes seek out mine, and his long fingers loop around my wrist, giving me a little tug to guide me between his knees. With the stack of the mattress and my bare feet, we're almost the same height.

"So," he asks as his thumb slowly draws circles on the inside of my forearm. It's a gentle, intimate touch that pebbles my skin and sends tiny, fluttering currents all the way to my midsection. "How'd you get out of sleeping with Aronov?"

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "According to Alice, I roofied him."

His thumb loses its path before he catches himself. "Alice?"

"She's our resident head shrinker and interrogations specialist." An involuntary tremor skates down my spine because yeah. "She's… different."

"How many do you have?"

"Right now, there's five of us full-time." Without thinking, I thread my fingers between his, give his hand a subtle squeeze, and then shoot him a mischievous little grin. "Including Rosalie."

Masen's whole body tenses. "You're kidding me."

"Nope," I tell him, stepping in closer. His hands automatically fall to the flares of my hips, smoothing over the thin layer of delicate silk. "And just a fair warning, if you'd have pulled that shit a few minutes ago with her, she'd have deballed you."

"Noted." A low chuckle rumbles out, but then he abruptly turns serious.

"I wasn't lying when I said I hate seeing him touch you," he says, barely above a whisper. Staring at me with that unnerving, probing intensity of his, Masen's fingertips spread, digging into my skin. His Adam's apple dips when he swallows, and then his forehead tips down to my breastbone. I don't know if it's defeat or surrender or just sheer exhaustion, but it makes my chest swell and squeeze. I run my fingers through the messy hair at his nape, scratching his scalp, and his grip tightens. "But, Bella, when he puts his mouth on you… goddamn… I want to kill him so badly I can barely breathe from it."

Understand, I'm not used to this level of candor from people like us. By and large, we're all a bunch of cagey, untrusting motherfuckers who deal in secrets and trade information like currency. It's a necessary trait to do what we do and stay alive.

Maybe that explains it. Maybe that explains why my heart hammers inside my rib cage when he looks at me and says the things he does.

"I know," I tell him as I wind my fingers tighter into his hair, holding him to my chest. "And all I can think about is that he's not you."

Masen looks back up at me, and the air between us thickens and eddies. Like before, everything else fades into the background as his palm leaves my hip and glides across my abdomen, only to travel up my chest, following the line between my breasts to cup the back of my neck.

Giving me all the time in the world to object, he pulls my mouth to his, and this time when we kiss, it's a slow, wet, languid exploration that fries my brain and leaves me breathless.

It feels like I'm drowning, like he's oxygen, and I'll die if he stops.

Warm, sure hands touch me everywhere, squeezing and kneading and stroking in time with the sensual slide of his tongue against mine. His skin burns hot, yet as I walk my fingertips along the black and gray lines of his ink, I leave gooseflesh in my wake.

Eventually, he leaves my mouth, and a strangled noise comes out of me before I can stop it. But Masen just flashes me an oh-so-sexy grin and moves down to my throat while he plumps and pets my breasts. When my back arches and begs for more, his lips clamp around my nipple, and then he plays with me like that for God knows how long, sucking and tonguing me in that same slow, teasing rhythm until my body completely forgets its earlier orgasm. Arousal and need punch through my veins, pooling in the juncture of my thighs.

He releases my nipple with a wet, sucking sound, and as Masen's lips capture mine once more, I register the tickle of silk peeling down my legs and falling to the floor. A low, masculine groan spills out when his fingers curl inside me and thrust. Lips never leaving mine, he whispers, "Tell me you want this."

Half delirious, I answer by reaching down to his waistband. With a quick flip of my wrist, I pop the button, and then he's right there with me, impatiently shoving the rest of his clothing down his legs and out of the way.

"I want you," I say, blindly kneeing my way onto the mattress to straddle him.

Vaguely, I recall that he has a cracked rib or two, but Masen takes my weight like it's nothing, and his arms snake around me in a tight embrace. One hand immediately goes to my ass, while the other slips underneath my arm and up my back, gripping the top of my shoulder. Between my thighs, he's already hard as a rock, and like the rest of him, he's pretty there, too.

"I want this." I squeeze and stroke him, swallowing another low, gravelly groan as a shiver rolls through his frame. I do it again and again, rubbing myself against him until we're both wet and wanting.

"Then for God's sake, stop torturing me and fuck me already."

My movements cease, and we just stare at each other for a second. His eyes burn bright and green, and a wickedly playful smile plays across his lips. There's no way I can resist grinning back at him when he's looking at me like that. But I still throw in a little bite when I lift a brow and reply, "Hey, we could have been here an hour ago. I'm not the Glockblocker here."

A laugh vibrates his chest and his shoulders shake. Before he has time to argue, I rock against him one last time and sink down on his cock.

"Jesus Christ." Warm, humid air whistles across my skin, and Masen's grip on my ass and shoulder clenches.

Lean, hard muscle flexes and strains beneath me, and there's a beat of utter stillness where tiny shockwaves dart through my lower half.

But then we're moving, and I ride him until sweat slicks our skin, and we're both panting and shaking. His hips buck off the mattress, meeting me stroke for stroke, and not once do his lips leave my body, sucking and tasting, licking and biting.

"I want you to come again," he says, kissing a path from my chin to my ear. "How do I get you there?"

"Touch me."

Almost instantly, his thumb finds the spot that makes me tremble. Rubbing me there, he flattens the rest of his hand against my abdomen, and that little bit of extra pressure against my abdominal wall makes me moan and lose my rhythm.

He curses when I grind against him. "Fuck, I can feel that."

I can, too.

Sparks of shimmery heat flash through me.

And it feels… so, so good.

"Keep doing that," I tell him, riding him a little harder, a little faster.

"Like this?" he asks, pushing up as his thumb continues its mind-bending circling. Masen's grip tightens around my shoulder, and every time I come down, he pulls me into his lap, using the leverage to hit even deeper.

Masen's lips slant over mine, and that's all it takes. My thighs quiver for what feels like forever, and for the second time tonight, I close my eyes and see the universe.

Before I can catch my breath or even blink, Masen lifts me like I'm nothing and somehow flips us over without even pulling out. And then he starts fucking pounding me into the mattress. Laughing because holy fuck, I wrap my legs around his trim waist and hold on, rolling my hips in time with his thrusts as we damned near climb the bed.

Beads of sweat trail down his temples, and his voice comes out hoarse and raspy. "Do you want me to pull out?"

Shaking my head, I drag his lips back to mine one last time and murmur, "IUD."

"Thank God." Burying his face in the crook of my neck, Masen curses against my skin, and then his movements turn jerky before his entire body tenses as he spills inside me.

A minute – or who knows, maybe it's an hour – later, Masen finally rolls off of me. He doesn't let me go, though. No, he hauls me against his side and drapes my arm across his stomach. His fingertips skim along my back, tracing slow, nonsensical patterns, and the effect is as good as any tranquilizer.

I must drift off at some point because I wake to the rustle and weight of a settling blanket. "What time do you need to get up?" he asks, tapping his watch to pull up an alarm.

"Get me up at four-thirty." I yawn but otherwise don't move an inch. He's space heater warm, and I'm pretty sure that tomorrow I'm going to need some ibuprofen after tonight's little adventure.

"Are you serious?" he asks, glaring, even as he sets the time. "Don't tell me you're still going running."

"Of course, I am," I say, stretching up to peck him on his stupidly attractive, frowning lips. "That is, after round two."

That grimace turns into something else altogether. "Round two, huh?"

"And then we figure out how to kill every last one of these assholes."

.

.

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Notes:

Dear FB ladies, thank you for "Glockblock". It was just too good to resist.

Glossary:

Battle Rattle: slang for full combat gear, including tactical vest, plates, Kevlar helmet, rifle/carbine, ammo, water, rations, etc

G-Squadron: this is one of the squadrons within Delta Force. A – D are saber squadrons (assault). Historically and currently, A – D have been all-male (hence Bella's quip about "men"). While not commonly known, Delta Force has also been recruiting and deploying women for decades. Top-performing women are rigorously recruited from other units and branches and then placed in what's known as "G-Squadron," which is technically an advanced force operations squadron. The women from G-Squadron accompany and serve alongside the A-D operators for reconnaissance, espionage, and even direct-action operations.

Kunar Province: province in Afghanistan, located in the rugged northeastern region along the Afghanistan–Pakistan border. With its impenetrable terrain and extensive cave networks and access to Pakistan, Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters used the province for bases and hiding. It was the location of some of the deadliest fighting and battles during the War in Afghanistan. Special Operations Forces operated extensively throughout the area.

The Unit: recall this is a nickname for 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta (1st SFOD-D), also referred to as Delta Force. The unit's missions primarily involve counter-terrorism, hostage rescue, direct action, and special reconnaissance, often against high-value targets. Delta Force and its Navy and Air Force counterparts, DEVGRU (SEAL Team Six) and the 24th Special Tactics Squadron, are among the U.S. military's Tier 1 special mission units tasked with performing the most complex, covert, and dangerous missions.

Trigger discipline: refers to a fundamental concept and mindset in firearm safety that you never "rest" your finger on the trigger until you are 100% ready to fire at your target. If you ever see pics of soldiers, Marines, etc, you'll note their forefinger extended straight against the frame of the weapon instead of inside the trigger guard.