Bonus Scene: Code Name: Hunter

Bonus Scene - Vivian

     Steam still clings to my skin when I step out of the shower. I towel off and move to the vanity, running a brush through my hair before blow-drying it into loose waves, thinking Logan and I will probably go to dinner tonight, I want to be prepared for him. A little eyeliner, a sweep of shadow, a touch of lipstick—it’s almost a ritual, grounding and familiar.

     I’m still smiling faintly at the thought of a quiet night out when I step into the bedroom, twisting my hair into a loose knot—only to stop cold. Laid out on the bed like it’s been waiting for me forever: a slip of midnight silk negligee, delicate lace tracing the edges, and a folded note resting on top. The handwriting is unmistakable—Logan’s, precise but heavy, like every stroke is deliberate.

     You have fifteen minutes. A driver will collect you. Wear this. Come to Opus Noir. Time to accept your punishment.

     My pulse skips, then starts pounding harder, the carefully applied makeup and perfectly waved hair suddenly feeling like part of a completely different plan, one I wasn’t a part of. I trace the words with my fingertip, the earlier anticipation of dinner colliding with a sharp edge of apprehension. Punishment—for drugging him and for going after Adam alone. He’s kept that card close for days, and now he’s ready to play it, turning what I thought would be a quiet night into something far more dangerous and intimate.

     I lift the negligee. The silk slides over my fingers—cool, sinfully smooth—sending a shiver up my arm. It whispers over my skin as I draw it on, each glide of fabric a reminder that Logan’s choices are deliberate, calculated, and meant to affect me in ways I can already feel deep in my chest.

     There’s a matching thong, cut so small it’s little more than a whisper of silk, and a pair of black heels tall enough to put me eye-to-eye with his collarbone. The combination feels like a calculated weapon, lethal in its intent—crafted to make me feel impossibly powerful even as it leaves me utterly, deliciously exposed, every inch chosen to remind me this is his design, his stage, his game.

     Still, the note makes my throat tighten, a knot forming low in my chest. Public display has never been my arena—too many eyes, too much exposure—and the thought makes my pulse skip for an entirely different reason. I can already hear myself telling him that, quietly but firmly, as I slide my feet into the heels and reach for my coat, the cool fabric grounding me against the swirl of nerves and curiosity.

     The black sedan outside is sleek, windows tinted so dark I can’t see the driver’s face. The ride to Opus Noir is silent except for the thrum of the engine, my heartbeat matching its rhythm. I keep my gaze fixed on the city lights streaking past, the nervous flutter in my stomach threatening to undo the calm I’m trying to project.

     When the car stops, the driver opens my door without a word and gestures toward the discreet, unmarked doorway tucked into the building’s side. I step out, heels clicking against the pavement, and slip into the shadowed hall beyond. The air is warmer here, heavy with the layered scent of expensive liquor, polished leather, and the faint, smoky curl of cigars—a signature aroma that clings to Opus Noir like a second skin, wrapping around me and sinking deep until my pulse picks up.

     The receptionist greets me with a knowing smile and says softly as she takes my coat, “Logan is waiting for you in his office.”

     My heels click softly on the marble floor as I follow the receptionist’s directions down a wide corridor toward his office. The hallway is opulent—dark paneled walls polished to a mirror sheen, antique sconces casting pools of golden light over intricate crown molding. A runner rug in deep crimson muffles some of my steps, but I can still hear the echo in my head, a metronome to the racing of my pulse. Each step tightens the knot low in my belly, anticipation and nerves tangling as I imagine what’s waiting for me behind his door.

     When I knock, his voice calls me inside, smooth and commanding. He’s standing there—black dress shirt clinging to his frame, sleeves rolled to reveal the firm lines of his forearms, the top buttons of his shirt are undone just enough to suggest more than they show. His gaze follows every measured step I take toward him, a slow sweep that feels as much an assessment as an invitation. Gorgeous, yes—but there’s an edge to him tonight, a danger that tightens the air between us.

     “I’m ready to take my punishment,” I say before he can speak, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my pulse is skittering. “But not in public.” The words taste like both defiance and plea, my gaze locked on his as if willing him to understand the line I’m drawing.

     His mouth curves—not a smile, not exactly. “You don’t get to make demands, love. That's not how this works.”

     He comes around the desk, his presence swallowing the space between us. “You had no problem taking control when you drugged me, Archer and Darius. Now you will relinquish it to me.”

     He leads me through the side door, down another hall, and onto the main floor of Opus Noir. The lighting is low, shadows pooling between pools of warm amber from overhead fixtures. There’s a murmur of voices, the clink of glasses—but my focus narrows to the St. Andrew’s cross set on a raised stage at the far wall.

     My pulse thunders. He knows I don’t like an audience. He also knows I’ll follow his lead through hell and back. And this might be hell.

     “Face the cross,” he orders, his voice calm but edged with a command that stills the air. Behind me, I catch the low murmur of gathered onlookers, their anticipation a living thing pressing at my back. The crowd has thickened, drawn close enough that I can feel their attention like heat on my skin, every breath and shift reminding me that this stage is not ours alone. His tone leaves no room for argument, and the presence of so many silent witnesses only sharpens the weight of his order.

     I obey, my palms finding the cool wood. He works quickly, binding my wrists and ankles with wide leather cuffs. The restraints are snug, not painful, but the immobility is its own kind of thrill or hell. I can't decide. 

     Suddenly, the beautiful negligee is nothing more than torn silk scattered at my feet, delicate fragments pooling around my heels like fallen petals. The cool air skims across my newly bared skin, a shock that sends a tremor spiraling through me. Only the fragile thong clings stubbornly in place, a last whisper of modesty. Logan has angled me just enough toward the wall that the crowd won’t see every secret—but they’ll see enough to imagine the rest, and that knowledge burns hotter than the lights above me.

     I hear, not see, the sound of him selecting something—a faint metallic clink followed by the whisper of leather slicing through the air—and the rush of displaced air brushes over my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

     "Do you know why I’m doing this, Vivian?" His voice is low, threaded with authority and an almost playful cruelty, the kind that coils through me like a taunt meant to test how much I can take.

     "Yes."

     "Yes, what?" he asks, his tone low but edged with expectation, drawing the words out like he’s reeling me closer on an invisible line.

     "Yes, Sir." The words roll off my tongue with deliberate surrender, exactly what he wants to hear. I give them to him because he’s right, and the truth of my guilt burns in my chest like an ember I can’t put out.

     The first lash of the cat-o'-nine-tails is sharp, the strands biting across my back and ass in a quick succession that steals my breath. He sets a rhythm—measured, deliberate—each strike followed by a pause that’s worse than the impact, letting the anticipation coil tight inside me. My body rocks with each blow, but he never strikes lower than he means to, never exposes me fully.

     I focus on the sound of the leather cutting through the air, on his steady breathing behind me, on the heat blooming across my skin. The sting builds until it crests, then fades, replaced by the slow thrum of endorphins.

     When he finally stops, the silence roars in my ears. With a quick snap of the buckle, the cuffs release my hands. My knees threaten to give, but he’s there, catching me easily.

     He doesn’t set me down until we’re in one of the private rooms; the door closing behind us as the door clicks shut, muting the club’s pulse. The air here is cooler, quieter, scented faintly with leather and his cologne. He sets me on the bed, his gaze raking down my body like he’s cataloguing every mark he’s just left. My wrists are free, but I don’t move.

     His mouth claims mine before I can speak—hot, certain, tasting of heat and power. His hand slides under the silk, fingers skimming the line of my hip, tracing down to the lace edge of my thong.

     “Still want to tell me ‘not in public’?” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine.

     “No, Sir.” I breathe the words more softly this time, surrender layered with heat, reverence, and a shiver of relief that is only for his ears.

     The thong is gone in seconds, the fabric whispering to the floor. He lingers, letting his gaze consume me until my skin prickles with awareness, like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing. Then his hands frame my thighs, firm and insistent, parting me wider. His mouth follows, hot breath brushing over me before his tongue makes contact. 

     The first stroke is slow, deliberate, drawing a gasp from deep in my chest. He alternates between teasing flicks and long, demanding strokes, each one pulling me closer to unraveling. 

     My back arches, fingers clutching at the sheets as his mouth works me with patient, merciless precision, coaxing sounds from me I can’t hold back. Only when I’m trembling, on the edge of release, does he finally lift his head, his mouth glistening, his eyes dark and intent, before he climbs over me to claim more.

     He pauses above me, the weight of his body braced on his forearms, the thick head of his cock nudging at my entrance, parting me with slow, torturous intent. The anticipation builds in my stomach, every nerve stretched tight until I can hardly breathe. 

     When he finally pushes into me, it’s deep, unhurried, each deliberate thrust dragging out the ache until it builds into something sharp, all-consuming. His hand knots in my hair, tilting my head so his mouth can find the side of my throat. Teeth, tongue, the scrape of stubble—each sensation pulling me tighter, higher.

     My nails bite into his back, my legs locking around his hips. Every movement is controlled—his pace, his depth, the way he pulls back just enough to make me chase him.

     When I come, it’s with a shudder that steals the air from my lungs, my whole body tightening around him. He doesn’t stop until he follows me, his breath hot against my ear, his weight pressing me into the bed.

     He stays there, inside me, our pulses still pounding in time, before finally lifting his head to look at me.

     “I’ve loved you for years,” he whispers, voice low and raw, eyes softening as he stays joined with me. “Through every lie, every shadow, every mile between us—I never stopped. And now that I finally have you, now that we’re here, together and whole, I’m grateful for every second. I’m never letting you go, Vivian.”

     “I’m going to hold you to that.”