Mitzy nods. “The USB confirms it. Reynolds has been facilitating weapons deals through his judicial position—sealed warrants, evidence ‘lost’ in transit, cases dismissed on technicalities.”
“Not just weapons,” Skye adds. “Human trafficking. Drug smuggling. Anything that pays.”
I watch Willow’s face as she absorbs this information. Ten days of suspicion confirmed. Three years of documenting his crimes while suffering his abuse. Her expression hardens, not with fear, but with righteous anger.
“We’ve discussed our options,” Forest says, his massive hands flat on the table. “But let’s be clear on how we’re proceeding. Option one: we build the case quietly. Feed information to trusted DOJ contacts. Let them handle the takedown.”
“Safer,” Ryan notes. “Less exposure for Willow.”
“But slower,” Jackson counters. “And more room for Reynolds to wriggle out.”
“Option two,” Forest continues, “direct testimony. Willow presents the evidence herself, publicly. No room for coverups. No bureaucratic delays.”
“But dangerous,” I say, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “Reynolds would know exactly where to strike.”
Cooper leans forward, wincing slightly. “What about Kostic? If we move on Reynolds, Kostic won’t sit idle.”
“Precisely the concern,” Forest rumbles. “We expose Reynolds, we potentially set off a reaction from everyone in his network—including an arms dealer with resources that rival small countries.”
“We’ve been monitoring Kostic’s movements,” CJ confirms. “If he gets wind that we’re moving on Reynolds, we need to be ready for him to activate his own assets.”
All eyes turn to Willow, who sits perfectly still, processing. The room falls silent, waiting for her to speak.
“I still want to testify,” she says finally, her voice firm. “Directtestimony. Public record. No shadowy dealings that can be dismissed as conspiracy theories.”
I take her hand under the table, squeezing gently in silent support. The pride I feel threatens to burst through my chest. I’ve seen men crumble under less pressure, seen hardened operators balk at half the risk she’s willingly taking on. Yet here she stands, bruised but unbroken, choosing to face her monster head-on.
“Then we prepare,” Forest declares, the matter settled. “Mitzy, full analysis of the USB contents. CJ, security protocols for a public appearance. Skye, medical and psychological prep.”
“And us?” Cooper asks, gesturing to our Cerberus team.
“Training,” I say, my eyes still on Willow. “Starting today. We’re officially on protective detail.”
TWENTY-ONE
Mason
The ensuingdays fall into a rhythm that feels both foreign and familiar. Mornings begin with Willow in my arms, our bodies learning each other with increasing intimacy. Sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce, always with a hunger that shows no signs of abating.
Breakfast with the team becomes a touchstone—Willow joking with Martinez, learning intel lingo from Skye, gradually integrating into this strange family of warriors and spies as if she’s always belonged.
Work sessions with Mitzy follow—legal analysis, reviewing evidence, and redacting sensitive names. Willow’s law degree emerges from the shadows of her abandoned career, her sharp mind finding connections and precedents that even Mitzy’s algorithms miss.
But as the days pass, her restlessness grows. The lodge, although spacious, remains a gilded cage. Security protocols mean she can’t set foot outside where surveillance might spot her. Some days, I find her at the window, staring at the mountains with such longing that it makes my chest ache.
“I have an idea,” I tell her one morning. “Meet me in the gym in fifteen.”
The training room is Forest’s pride and joy—a state-of-the-art facility with every piece of equipment an operator could want. Mats cover one half of the floor, weight machines and cardio equipment the other. A climbing wall dominates the far end, and reinforced glass separates a shooting range beyond.
Willow arrives precisely on time, dressed in the workout clothes Skye has acquired for her—leggings and a fitted tank top that reveal the subtle changes in her physique. Regular meals and reduced stress have filled out the hollows in her cheeks and added healthy curves to her frame.
“What’s all this?” she asks, eyeing the hand wraps I’m laying out on the mats.
“Training,” I say simply. “If you’re going to face Reynolds in court, you need to know you can face him anywhere.”
Fear flickers across her features, but she nods. “Okay. What do we start with?”
“Basics. Stance. Balance. How to fall.” I move behind her and adjust her posture with gentle hands. “Your center of gravity is here,” I place a palm against her abdomen. “Everything starts from this point.”
