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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Well, you look like shit."

Collapsing onto the sofa closest to the fireplace, I kick my feet up on the coffee table, slump into the corner, and tip my head against the cushioned backrest.

With our early return to the compound, I have no clue when Aronov's staff came in to light the fire, but it's roaring, and the heat rolling out into the room feels like a dream. It's almost too hot, but I don't move an inch. No, I just sit here in the relative silence of our – strike that, Rosalie's – rooms and soak, and as the warmth penetrates the thin, clingy cotton of my top and sinks into sore, stiff muscles, I let out an exhausted sigh.

Of course, Rosalie just rolls her eyes at me and lets out an annoyed huff. When I still don't bite, she grabs a fresh bottle of sparkling water off the nearby tray and plops down at the opposite end of my sofa.

"So," she says, drawing it out, and I know that whatever's about to come out of her mouth isn't going to be pretty. "About those pills of yours..."

Okay, not exactly the direction I was expecting.

But, fine, color me intrigued.

Unwilling to move, I squint at her in my periphery. "Which ones?"

Huffing again, Rosalie wipes the icy sweat off her bottle, cracks it open, and then, surprisingly, passes it over. "The yellow ones, obviously."

I hesitate, sucking down a long drink of bubbles and static, and grimace at the trayed ceiling above.

Like the rest of Aronov's homes and properties, the detail here is just incredible. High overhead, where most people would never even look, delicate florals and curling vines travel the length of the room. It's a subtle effect, a shallow pattern etched into the plaster that shimmers in the light pouring in from the windows, but now that I've seen it, I can't stop staring.

"What about them?" I finally say as I follow a meandering line of leaves until it disappears into the molding.

"Those things are fucked up." Rosalie lets out some cross between a gag and a snicker. "No way that shit's even close to legal."

It takes me a second to register what she's saying, but when it dawns on me, my head swivels toward her, only to find her scowling at me and everything else.

I cock a brow. "Would you care to elaborate?"

Rosalie's shoulders roll, tugging on the threadbare fabric of her shirt. I don't know where she picked this one up, but she sporting yet another one of McCarty's old, ratty, olive drab tees. Coupled with the ancient, oversized sweats, freshly scrubbed cheeks, and wild, damp hair piled on top of her head, she should look like a hot mess. Instead, she manages to look like a model.

It's fucking absurd.

Her lips abruptly twitch, and her baby blue eyes glitter with mischief. "Let's just say Alex Retzos is one kinky motherfucker."

And now my lips twitch, threatening to spread into the first real smile I've worn all day. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, and I was not prepared." Spinning in her seat, Rosalie tucks an ankle under the opposite knee. Before I can blink, she stretches across the cushion, swipes her water, and slugs back half the bottle. "That little shit likes being topped... a lot."

"No."

She makes an ugly, ugly face. "Yes."

"And let me guess," I say, dry as the desert. "He has a thing for tall, leggy blondes with big tits."

"I mean, don't get me wrong. Obviously, I get it." Nodding, Rosalie sweeps a hand at her general person before throwing me an exaggerated wink. "I'd want to fuck me, too."

I laugh hard at that, and it's a loud, genuine laugh that cuts through the heaviness of the morning and all the shit that's been spinning through my head since I woke up caged in Aronov's arms. When I peek over, I catch Rosalie's features relax. It's a small thing, a slight easing of muscles and tendons strung too tight that I missed in my internal abstraction.

"Obviously," I tell her as something warm and familiar trickles into my chest. I grin when she throws a dirty, balled-up sock at me. "I bet McCarty would give his left nut to see you in some latex. He'd definitely be down for some whips and chains."

"Jesus Christ, you're worse than Spooky."

"What?" I give her my best innocent expression.

Unsurprisingly, she flips me off, levels me a hateful glare, and snaps out a pissy, "Fuck you, Swan." But I'm not fooled. Unlike her usual, there's no real bite to it, and that glare disappears a beat later. Rosalie's arms cross her chest, and when she speaks again, her voice drops to an almost-whisper. "You all right?"

Swinging back to the fire, I watch the flames flicker and dance as they lick up the blackened stone walls of the hearth. Hot and glowing, the logs at the bottom of the stack crackle and crumble, sending up a fan of ash and sparks. I inhale on instinct, and hints of evergreen scent the air, blending with the sprays of fresh-cut flowers dotting the tabletops.

"I'm fine," I hear myself say, and it's an automatic, wooden response that's not even close to being believable. "Okay, no, not really."

When she doesn't press, my lungs deflate, and I shove an angry, aggravated hand through my hair, ruining the sleek, sophisticated ponytail I threw up when Aronov stalked back into the bedroom, full of bright, boiling fury, and ordered our immediate departure.

I suck in another breath, and this time, remnants of Aronov's sweet, musky cologne hit my nose. My stomach damned near revolts, even as I recognize that tiny, tiny pang of disconcerting sympathy for the lonely, yearning monster who's undeniably in love with me.

"Fuck, who knows anymore." I scrub my face, pushing the heels of my palms into the sockets of my aching eyes. "Everything is fucked."

And it is, too.

Cullen, Masen… the physical and emotional intimacy that I am not trained to handle, the war between duty and disgust, pity and guilt… the confusing, infuriating sense that I've somehow lost control of my own mind and body when that's the one thing I've always had – it's all totally fucked.

And that just pisses me off, making my fingers itch for the security and simplicity of my Glock.

Or preferably a rifle, long-range and high caliber, with my target's head pinned through the reticle.

"Do you want a hug or something?"

My head whips left, and the churn in both my gut and brain abruptly stills.

A wheezy "What?" spills out of my mouth, and not kidding, I almost lose it at the complete and utter discomfort written in every one of Rosalie's model-worthy features. She looks like she just sucked a lemon. "Are you seriously offer–"

"Or we could just fight," she cuts in before I can finish. A faint dusting of pink climbs her cheekbones, and then her nose wrinkles. "I might even let you get a few hits in... you know, because your job sucks."

Another laugh punches out before I can stop it, and as I chuck that dirty sock at her head, missing by a mile when she ducks, yet another layer of melancholy peels away.

"Nah, no need to go that far," I say, chuckling as I wave her off. "I'll be fine like I always am."

And I will be, too.

Rosalie's perfectly sculpted bitch brows arch in question, but I just shake my head at her and redirect to more important matters, especially since neither of us is built for heart-to-hearts.

"So, what'd you get off Retzos…" I flash her a row of teeth. "I mean, other than an eyeful of dick?"

That scowl comes roaring back, but she takes the bait.

"Well… while he was humping the mattress…" Something akin to horror creeps in, and Rosalie's voice rises in pitch and volume, taking on a distinct note of panic that I never thought I'd hear. "Seriously, Swan, as soon as that shit kicked in, that man lost his goddamned mind," she says, flinching. "And I had to sit there and watch him literally fuck a pile of pillows while begging me in Greek."

A shudder rolls down her spine, and her hair goes everywhere when she whips her head back and forth. "I have no idea what that asshole was saying. I think he was begging pillow-me to smack him around or some shit like that. Whatever it was, it was disturbing, and just so you know, I'm never, ever doing this shit again. Platt can go fuck herself."

Her eyes boggle, and, no lie, it takes everything in me to keep a straight face because I know.

Believe me, I fucking know.

"And?"

Another shudder races down her spine, but then she gives herself a hard, visible shake and throws back the rest of her water. "Yeah, so while that handsy motherfucker was busy, I ghosted his phone."

"Good work." I nod. "See anything obvious?"

"Unfortunately." Rosalie's lips mash together as her nails drum a tight staccato against the armrest. "They're already rerouting away from Rotterdam."

"Shit, they're fast," I mutter. In the background, I pick up the snap and crackle of another log crumbling, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glowing ember flutter up through the flames. "You know where?"

"They're spreading things out. Antwerp. Valencia. Istanbul. There's a big ass shipment going into Ambarli from Afghanistan, this one via Jiwani."

"When?"

"It's still two weeks out, but they'll transfer onto smaller vessels once it arrives. Some's going overland."

Kicking her feet up, Rosalie mimics my slouchy pose and yawns, telling me I'm not the only one running on empty. "One of Aronov's defense subsidiaries is moving a metric fuckton of weapons and equipment, too. It's supposedly arriving by rail from one of his manufacturing complexes near Saransk. It's all high-end precision shit and very, very expensive."

Shit.

"Any idea on where it's eventually heading?"

"Syria, Yemen, who knows, but I'm assuming it's some kind of apology order from Taeb's minders in Tehran." She shrugs. "Either way, with all the bullshit going on, Dobroshi's supposed to be there to deal with everything… in person."

My fists clench, and now I'm really itching for a rifle. "Do you know where he's going to be specifically? And when?"

Rosalie looks over, eying the skin stretched white across my knuckles. "Whitlock's got the details. Said he'd start working it with Interpol and Platt's people ASAP." She tuts. "You thinking of taking him out yourself?"

I stare into the flames. I don't know why I can't let go of that girl last night – maybe it's because she's so young, maybe it's because the whole thing just pisses me off, and she's a proxy – but I'd pay to put a bullet or three in that motherfucker's skull. "We'll see."

"Good. That's another asshole who needs to die like yesterday, and Interpol takes for-fucking-ever to move on anything." One corner of her mouth abruptly pulls up into a sly smile. "By the way, I don't know if you've noticed it, but Whitlock's an irritable little bitch these days."

I startle at the change in direction, but then my whole body shakes with silent laughter because she is not wrong. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know. Maybe Spooky turned him down."

Before Rosalie can respond, a low buzz vibrates my thigh. Digging into the stretchy pocket of my leggings, I extract my phone, and the second I swipe over to the encrypted app, a broad grin stretches my entire face.

Dayan: Hello, beautiful

I signal Rosalie, and as I tap out a quick reply, she jumps off the couch and targets the elaborate spread of snacks one of Maria's minions left on the tray. She grabs a piece of chocolate cake, albeit it's a fancy dark chocolate cake, complete with delicately curled shavings and some kind of raspberry compote that Maria whipped up from scratch. I make yet another mental note to beg and bribe that woman to come back with us to the farm when this is all said and done. McCarty would worship her.

Shalom to you, too, handsome

Mah nishma?

El'azar comes back immediately, and when I spy his retort, my eyes threaten to roll to the back of my head.

Dayan: I hear one of my least favorite people ate a bullet last night

Dayan: Evidently, it was quite the spectacle

You know Basayev?

Dayan: *Knew

I snicker and toss my phone over to Rosalie when she shoves an extra piece of cake under my nose. She takes one look, lets out a peal of throaty laughter, and chucks my phone back in my lap so she can attack her cake.

Dayan: But, yes. I ran into that waste of space some years ago. Very bad news. I look forward to hearing how you orchestrated his demise

I don't know what you're talking about… I didn't do a thing

And I didn't.

That was all Sasha, and I still can't figure out that guy's angle. Considering Basayev's political connections, it was a high-profile, very public hit.

Aronov wasn't kidding when he ordered Masen to drag his corpse through the ballroom… much to the screaming delight of his guests.

But even though this is Aronov we're talking about, I'm assuming someone will have to answer for that shit.

Dayan: Whatever you say. I hear that bullet had your name written all over it… even if your finger wasn't on the trigger

Dayan: But that's not why we're talking… Daniella bids me tell you that she located that young red-head of yours

I freeze and then tap a lightning-fast response.

Daniella?

Dayan: Come now, neshama, do you think I wouldn't have my people keeping watch over you?

Of course, that doe-eyed server was Dayan's.

I cram a bite of fluffy chocolate into my mouth and almost swoon. Like everything else she does, Maria's cake is a masterpiece, rich and decadent, with just a hint of spicy rum, and I'm pretty sure I'd sacrifice my firstborn for another piece.

Sneaky bastard

Dayan: Ah, and now you flatter me!

Dayan: But in seriousness, unfortunately, your fears were well founded. Jovan Dobroshi damaged that girl… badly

And just like that, my bite of heaven morphs into lead and lodges in my esophagus. My fingers grip the rim of my plate hard enough that it's a wonder that the delicate porcelain doesn't crack. When I go to reply, my thumb trembles, but Eli's back before I can type out the single word.

Dayan: Do not fret… Or break anything, if I know you... The girl is safe in one of our houses in the city and is being treated even now

Dayan: We'll make sure she recovers and we'll ensure those bastards can't find her once she's well enough to move

I swallow past the heavy lump in my chest and curse under my breath.

Thank you. I owe you

Dayan: There is no debt between us for this

Dayan: On a much lighter note, Seth and Leah also send you their thanks. They enjoyed themselves immensely last evening. Your Spooky is… fun

I swear, I can hear that man's dry commentary, and despite the anger pounding in my chest and the absolute need to put Dobroshi down like the rabid animal he is, I let out something resembling a laugh.

Dayan: Do you need an out?

Dayan: Just say the word, and I'll come after you myself

I laugh again, even as another wave of warmth threads through my veins. When I glance at the brightly lit bank of windows lining the far wall, Masen's face flashes through my head, and I can't begin to imagine what the last several months have been like for him, alone and stuck with the enemy he was sent to destroy.

Do you even know how to shoot anymore, old man?

Dayan: Pfft, what I lack in aim, I make up for with experience, not to mention wit and personality

Dayan: But next time you visit me, I'll show you how well I still shoot. Let's wager a crate of BSA's newest toys

All I can do is shake my head and smile at my screen before typing a final response.

Deal

Get ready to lose… Lahav

Maybe an hour later, the clock chimes three.

Still sprawled out on my couch and soaking in the glorious heat, I'm riding that fine, drunken edge between wakefulness and sleep. While I've snuck in a few restless hours in Aronov's bed, this is the first real rest I've had for days. I gradually unwind, and with each breath of warm, pleasantly scented air, my heart rate drifts down to a slow, steady thump.

About the time I lose consciousness, a soft knock on the door startles me awake.

Stretching, I peek over the top of the couch, only to find the room now empty. I have no clue where Rosalie went, but after a moment of irritated hesitation, I haul myself up and silently pad over to the door. Out of habit, I stop a few feet short to listen, slipping to the side and out of the line of fire… just in case.

Of course, it's an unnecessary precaution because, like always, that deathly stillness gives him away.

The second I crack the door, a pair of dark, probing eyes find mine. Slowly, they trace my features, searching and lingering on the light gray fingerprint bruises on my cheek and chin.

Masen doesn't say a word as he steps inside the room. Flipping the lock behind him, he follows me, only to halt in the dead center of the rug.

Halfway to the couches, I peer over my shoulder just in time to catch him ramming an angry hand into his hair. That bronze mop is already a mess, and as I study the sharp, angular planes of his face, I pick up the telltale grind of his jaw. The faint creases bracketing his eyes are deeper, too, and my fingertips burn with the irrational urge to wipe those lines of stress and anger away.

"Are you okay?" Masen asks. He's so very, very quiet – too quiet – and while the rest of him might as well be a statue, those eyes of his, intense and so very alive, never stop moving. They roam my face and body in a non-stop, repeating circuit.

The air inside my chest turns solid, and I don't answer him at first. But when his Adam's apple dips, my mouth opens and closes, and words rush out before I even know what I'm saying. "I didn't fuck him."

A muscle jumps in his cheek.

Images and impressions from this morning spin through my head like a carousel. A fine layer of cool sweat dampens my palms, and my shoulders sag as I stare past him to the wall of windows. Warm yellow light from the late afternoon sun streams in between panels of heavy silk brocade, now angling deeper inside the room.

This time when I speak – because I figure I owe him at least the truth – even to my ears, my voice sounds… off, distant and hollow. "But your timing was… impeccable."

"Don't." Masen bites out the command.

His cheek twitches again, and his fists ball into tight hammers and fall to his hips. The movement tugs at my gaze, and I pick up the dark, crimson bruises and scrapes decorating the knuckles of his right. The older, healing injuries from Prague camouflage them well enough, but even from here, I can tell these are fresh and still gleaming wet.

"Don't what?" I ask him, though I suspect I already know.

"That's not what I asked you," he says. Beneath his usual plain black tee, muscle flexes and rolls. "I asked if you were okay."

My chin lifts, and my arms cross over my chest. "Then why are you looking at me like that?"

Because I don't need this shit right now.

And I really, really don't want to lose my temper, not here, not now, when the entire house is buzzing with agitated suspicion.

Masen's lips part in mute surprise. I don't know what he sees when he looks at me – if it's the anger simmering just beneath the surface, or the lingering numbness from this morning that I don't want to think about, let alone admit, or if it's something else altogether – but his fingers ram into his hair once more. He lets out a low, gravelly, frustrated noise. Sucking in a harsh breath, he dry-washes his tired face, spits out a muffled, "Fuck," and then his long stride eats up the distance between us.

Before I can react, warm palms frame my face. "Tell me this is okay," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as his forehead tips against mine. "Tell me if you don't want me touching you right now."

Every bit of the mounting defensive irritation vanishes instantly, and I grab his wrists like a lifeline as I swallow past a sudden, inexplicable knot at the base of my throat. Something inside me, that same hidden place that threatened to crack mere hours ago, floods with relief so visceral and intense that all I can manage is a shaky nod.

But that's all it takes.

That's all he needs.

I blink again, and Masen's mouth descends on mine.

And this man kisses me for days.

Hot and desperate, fueled by pent-up, helpless fury, Masen's lips move against mine like he's starving. His chest heaves, and as his tongue licks inside my mouth, his fingers spasm against my cheeks.

But he's not alone.

No, I'm right there with him.

Even though there's not an inch between us, it feels like I can't get close enough. It feels like I need him like my body needs air, and I match every bit of the desperation he throws at me, finally surrendering to the anger, bitterness, and irrational guilt that plagues me every time that son of a bitch on the other side of the castle puts his hands on me.

Masen's fingers knot into my hair as his pace gradually slows, deepening the kiss into a wet, languid mimicry of his body pushing into mine that leaves me breathless. With each stroke of his tongue, sparks skitter beneath my skin, zinging and pooling low in my abdomen as my body melts into him.

He spins us, and at some point, I vaguely register my spine hitting the back of the couch. Never leaving my mouth, Masen lifts me like I'm nothing and sets me on top of the backrest so we're at the same height. Nudging my legs apart, he steps between my thighs, grunting when I lock my ankles around his waist, and his palms slide up and down my leggings, rubbing and kneading until I'm gasping and panting like I've just run sprints.

I sneak beneath the hem of his shirt. Like always, he's burning hot despite the cool façade, yet as I trace the dips and valleys of a body carved by combat, gooseflesh erupts across his skin. I run my nails near the long-slung waistband of his jeans, following the downward V of his abdominals. A low, masculine groan spills into my mouth, but then he just grins against my lips, even as he squeezes my thighs.

"Are you okay?" Masen asks me again, dragging his lips along my jaw. It's another quietly spoken question, but it lacks that hard, razor-blade edge. It's softer, more like a caress.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I whisper back, arching into him. I swallow a moan as he slowly kisses a path back to my mouth. "Sorry you had to see that."

Beneath me, he tenses, but his mouth doesn't stop its leisurely perusal. "I don't care."

My shoulders shake as I gently touch the raw, tacky skin covering his knuckles that I assume ran into a wall sometime earlier this morning. "Liar."

Masen pulls away, only to stare at me with that unnerving intensity and focus of his.

"Fine," he says as his palms climb up my thighs to frame my hips. "I do care – about you." Angling his head, he leans in until his lips hover over mine. I inhale, and now all I smell is him. "And fine, I can barely breathe thinking about that fucker's hands on you."

"I know–"

"But like I told you before," he adds, cutting in as I abandon the wonderland of his chest and stomach to wind my arms around his neck. "No matter what you have to do, that shit doesn't change a damned thing between you and me, and I mean that."

I study the faint bruising in the hollows of his eyes. "Are you sure about that?"

Masen lets out a slow, heavy lungful of air. "Do you know what I've had to do for this job? You really think I have any room to talk?" His thumbs slowly follow the curves of my ribs. "I'm a lot of things, Bella, but the one thing I'm not is a hypocrite."

But he's right, though.

While I don't know the details, I do have some idea what he's had to do.

And that doesn't matter to me, either.

We stare at each other for another long, silent moment, interrupted only by the snapping and crackling of the fire behind us. There's no judgment. There's no friction or tension between us.

We're just two people who've stared deep into the abyss and who know what kind of monsters lurk at the bottom.

Later, after finally settling on the couch, Masen asks me, "How is he?"

I flip him my phone to show him Whitlock's latest update. "They've got him in some bolt hole at the edge of the city. We're waiting to transfer him to Platt's people." When Masen's features pinch, I give him a small, reassuring smile. "He's in bad shape, but McCarty says you were right. He's stable enough to handle it."

Masen nods, and his gaze turns inward and thoughtful. "He wouldn't have made it much longer." I don't ask, but he sighs when I trail a fingertip along a vein on the back of his hand. "Aro kept him alive, but that was about it."

"Why, though?" I frown. "I mean, I know Aronov's a tyrant, but what was he trying to get out of keeping him like that?"

"Insurance." Relaxed in a way few ever see him, Masen's shoulders collapse, and his head tips back against the cushion. "I've done enough shit that Aro trusts me, and like I said before, he generally likes me… but with him, it's always only to a point. He used Carl to make sure I stayed in line."

My nose crinkles. "I have no doubt you're a handful and all, but that's a lot of fucking effort and risk just to manage one person."

Masen chuckles, but there's not a lick of humor there. "It's just what he does and who he is… Aro likes using people as leverage. He likes playing the game." Hesitating, he scratches the scruff on his chin. "I'm fairly certain that's at least one of the reasons why Sasha keeps his wife and kids back home."

"You think Aro would use his own sister against Markovsky?"

Masen looks over, and wry amusement brightens his expression. "Did you really ask me that?"

Of course, he's right.

That's precisely the kind of bullshit Aronov would do.

I blow out a loud breath and flick a dismissive hand. "Yeah, okay, fine. Never mind."

"Anyway. But with Carl, I think Aro just wanted to make a point." Sighing again, Masen massages the bridge of his nose and then pushes his thumbs into his eyes. "He's been increasingly annoyed with the CIA and the Treasury Department, and Platt really pissed him off when she interfered with some of his business activities in the Middle East last year."

My lips clamp together in a hard line. "That doesn't sound familiar at all."

"You ain't kidding." His fingertips drum against his thigh. "But he was losing patience." His throat dips as he stares into the hearth, and before I can reply, he quietly adds, "You have no idea how relieved I am that your team got him out."

Masen abruptly bends at the waist, propping his elbows on his knees as his chin drops to his chest. When I reach over and clasp his hand in mine, he squeezes, and this isn't the light, sensual squeeze I get from Aronov. This is the grip of a man holding on for dear life, and his voice goes raw and paper thin. "I will never be able to thank you enough for that."

An ache blooms in my chest, because I know that relief all too well. Just like I know exactly what it feels like for someone to have your back when it counts.

But there's nothing I can say that won't sound maudlin or cliché, so I just lean into Masen's side, lay my head on his shoulder, and stare into the flames right along with him. And after a few minutes, when he turns and his lips press against my temple, I just tighten my hold and give him another small smile.

A few minutes later, we lean back into a loose, lazy sprawl that feels as natural as breathing. Draping an arm over his stomach, I listen to the strong, steady thump of his heart and debate how long we can get away with being together like this.

Not long.

Not here, not now.

Like always, duty wins out, and as I picture the furious, raging man I saw last night and again this morning, something akin to dread seeps into my veins and makes my skin turn cold despite the heat of the fire. "As much as I hate to ask, where is he?"

"They're in his study," Masen says, knowing exactly who I'm talking about, as he slowly rubs my bicep. "Which is where I need to be in a few minutes… I'm probably already going to catch shit for being late."

Shifting, I rest my chin against his sternum. "What's he doing?"

Something resembling a smile plays across his lips, and Masen's irises darken with a predator's intent.

"He doesn't know it yet, but he's getting ready to question Kaius."

.

.

.

Notes:

Hebrew (transliterated):

Shalom: a greeting, meaning peace, hello, goodbye

Mah nishma: What do you hear / what's up

Neshama: term of endearment, meaning "soul" and used kind of like darling

Lahav: blade; just a little nod to El'azar in OPERATION: Break the Dawn. You might recall, for giggles, I transplanted his character from that fic to this one and gave him a new job in the Mossad. Lahav was his call sign.

Glossary:

[Port of] Ambarli: cargo port in Istanbul, 11th busiest port in Europe for container shipments

Jiwani: western port city in Pakistan, located between the Iranian border and Gwadar

Saransk: capital city of the Republic of Mordovia, Russia