50 Tints of ICE

Aunt Norma

Copyright 2026

Table of Contents

Chapter 1            Page 3

Chapter 2            Page 6

Chapter 3            Page 9

Chapter 4            Page 12

Chapter 5            Page 15

Chapter 6            Page 19

Chapter 7            Page 22            

Chapter 8            Page 25

Chapter 9            Page 28

Chapter 10            Page 33

Chapter 11            Page 38

Chapter 12            Page 41

Chapter 13            Page 43

Chapter 14            Page 46

Chapter 15            Page 49

Chapter 16            Page 51

Chapter 17            Page 54

Chapter 18            Page 5

Chapter 19            Page 5

Chapter 20            Page 6

Chapter 21            Page 6

Chapter 22            Page 6

Chapter 23            Page 6

Chapter 24            Page 7

Chapter 25            Page 7

Chapter 26            Page 7

Chapter 27            Page 7

Chapter 28            Page 8

Chapter 29            Page 8

Chapter 30            Page 8

Chapter 1

Diana's trembling fingers pushed against the heavy wooden door of El Refugio, its familiar weight resisting her touch before finally giving way with a groan that seemed to echo through her bones. The manila envelope pressed tight against her chest, its crisp edges digging into her ribs as she clutched it like armor—like the only thing standing between her and the storm she could already sense brewing in the smoky air beyond the threshold.

The scent hit her first: stale beer and cigarettes mixed with something sharper, more dangerous. Fear. It clung to the walls like smoke, thick and suffocating. Her stepfather's bar had always carried an undercurrent of menace beneath its cheerful facade, but tonight felt different. Tonight, the very air seemed to vibrate with violence waiting to unfold.

Diana hesitated in the doorway, her blue eyes scanning the dim interior that had been her second home for years. The envelope—Luis's precious paperwork that he'd demanded she retrieve from his office upstairs—suddenly felt heavier in her grip, its importance dwarfed by the electric tension crackling through the room like a live wire.

The regulars occupied their usual spots—old Jorge nursing his tequila in the corner booth, two men playing dominoes near the jukebox, their laughter punctuating the low murmur of Spanish conversation. Everything looked normal. Ordinary.

Diana exhaled, loosening her death grip on the envelope. Maybe she'd imagined that electric charge of wrongness. Maybe Luis's paranoia had finally infected her too, making her jump at shadows.

She started toward the back hallway that led to Luis's office, her sneakers squeaking against the sticky floor.

Then she saw them.

Three men she'd never seen before, positioned at intervals around the room like chess pieces. Too casual. Too aware. Their eyes tracked movements with predatory precision that made her stomach clench. One touched something at his hip—a radio maybe, or—

The door behind her exploded inward with a splintering crash that sent her stumbling forward. The envelope flew from her hands, papers scattering like startled birds.

"Immigration and Customs Enforcement! Nobody move!"

The words punched through the air as bodies flooded through the entrance. Black tactical gear. Badges. Guns drawn.

An ICE raid.

Oh God. Herman.

Chaos erupted around her like a hurricane given flesh and fury.

"¡No se muevan! Don't move!" The command thundered through the bar in both Spanish and English, delivered with the cold authority of absolute power.

Bodies slammed against walls with bone-jarring force, the sickening thuds echoing off the tin ceiling her stepfather had painted sky blue to remind him of home. Men in black tactical vests swept through the room like avenging angels, their movements precise and merciless as they navigated between overturned tables and scattered chairs. The three bright yellow letters blazed across their backs caught the dim light from the neon beer signs—ICE—each letter burning into Diana's vision like a brand.

The word punched through her chest with the force of a physical blow, stealing her breath and leaving her lungs burning with the sharp taste of terror. Her knees threatened to buckle as the reality crashed over her in waves. This wasn't just a bar fight or one of Luis's business disputes gone wrong. This was a raid. A federal raid on everything she'd ever known as home.

Glass exploded somewhere to her left—a mirror behind the bar, maybe, or one of the vintage beer signs Luis was so proud of. A woman screamed, her voice raw with terror that Diana recognized from her own nightmares.

"Hands where I can see them! Now!"

An agent shoved past her with brutal efficiency, tackling a man in a grease-stained kitchen apron who'd bolted for the back exit. They hit the floor hard, the agent's knee driving into the man's spine. The crack of bone on tile made Diana flinch, her stomach lurching with memories other nights when her world had exploded into violence.

Her stepfather's bar. Luis's bar now, ever since the cancer had taken the old man six months ago. The realization crawled down her spine like ice water, settling in her chest with the weight of dread.

She scanned the pandemonium with desperate eyes, heart hammering against her ribs. Where was Herman? Her younger stepbrother worked Friday nights without fail, always restocking beer behind the mahogany bar her stepfather had imported from Caracas, always counting tips with that crooked smile that reminded her so painfully of childhood games in empty lots.

There. By the bar's far end, Herman's slender frame ducked low behind the register, his tattooed face stark with terror as he edged toward the kitchen doors. The gang markings that Luis had forced him to get stood out like brands against his dark skin. Their eyes met across the chaos, and she saw the same fear that had lived in both their hearts since they were children—the fear of men with guns and badges and the power to destroy everything.

Run, she mouthed, her lips barely moving.

But an agent cut left with predatory precision, blocking Herman's path to safety. Herman pivoted like a cornered animal, scrambling over the bar top with desperate grace. Bottles crashed in his wake—the expensive rum Luis kept for special customers, the local beer that reminded him of home.

Diana moved without thinking, muscle memory from a dozen childhood emergencies taking over. She lurched forward, weaving through the mayhem toward her stepbrother, dodging grasping hands and overturned furniture. "Herman!"

"Get down! Everyone down!"

Hands grabbed at her shoulders with bruising force. She wrenched away, the thin fabric of her t-shirt tearing off her shoulder. She nearly tripped over an overturned chair that scraped against the scarred wooden floor. The air reeked of spilled alcohol and fear-sweat, mixing with the familiar scents of fried plantains and cigarette smoke that usually made this place feel like home.

Someone sobbed in rapid Spanish near the bathroom hallway—prayers or pleas, she couldn't tell which.

Herman hit the kitchen doors with both palms, his face tight with concentration. They swung wide, revealing the cluttered prep space beyond where steam still rose from the abandoned grill.

"Stop him!" An agent's voice boomed above the rest—deeper, colder, with an edge of absolute authority that made her skin prickle with recognition. She'd heard that tone before, in courtrooms and police stations, from men who held her family's fate in their hands.

Diana threw herself between Herman and the pursuing agents without hesitation, her arms spread wide. "He's just a kid! He didn't do anything wrong!"

Herman disappeared through the kitchen like smoke, the doors still swinging behind him.

Strong hands locked around her wrist, spinning her back with controlled force. She looked up into eyes the color of winter steel, sharp and unforgiving. The man towered over her, easily six-foot-three to her five-foot-four, his jaw set hard beneath a black mask that made him look dangerous in the strobing emergency lights. His grip didn't hurt, but it didn't yield either—the kind of restraint that spoke of training and experience and absolute confidence.

"Bad choice," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos around them like a blade.

Chapter 2

"You're coming with me." His voice carried no emotion, flat as desert hardpack under a merciless sun.

"I didn't do anything." Diana clawed desperately at his iron grip with her free hand, her fingernails scraping uselessly against the rough fabric of his tactical vest. She couldn't find purchase, couldn't find skin to dig into. "I was just—"

"Interfering with a federal operation." He twisted her around with movements that were both professional and precise, like he'd done this a thousand times before. Her shoulder blade pressed hard against the solid wall of his chest, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, controlled and calm while hers came in panicked gasps. "Aiding and abetting a suspect's escape."

The metal bit cold and unforgiving into her left wrist, the steel teeth locking with a finality that made her stomach lurch. Click. Then her right wrist was captured just as efficiently. Click. The sound punched straight through her ribs like a physical blow, settling like a chunk of ice in the pit of her stomach. The handcuffs were heavier than she'd imagined, their weight foreign and terrifying against her skin.

His hands started at her shoulders, patting down with clinical efficiency that somehow made it worse than if he'd been rough. Diana's breath hitched as his palms swept along her sides, over the thin, torn cotton of her t-shirt. She'd never been searched before. Never had a man's hands move over her body like this, methodical and impersonal, checking for weapons she didn't have.

"Please." The word slipped out small and ashamed.

He didn't respond. Just continued his systematic inventory of her person, his fingers skimming the pockets of her jeans. Empty. Then down her legs, quick pats that missed nothing. When he straightened, she felt his hand dip into her back pocket.

"No." Diana tried to twist away, but the handcuffs threw her balance off and she stumbled into him instead. His free hand caught her elbow, steadying her even as he pulled her phone free. "You can't take that."

"I can, Diana."

Her blood turned to ice water in her veins.

"How do you know my name?"

When he spoke, his mouth was close enough to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck.

"ICE has been investigating your family for months." His tone remained professionally detached, but there was something else underneath—satisfaction, maybe. The hunter who'd finally cornered his prey. "Luis Guerrero. Herman Guerrero. And Diana Guerrero, twenty-one, stepdaughter of the late Carlos Guerrero."

The handcuffs felt heavier with each word, dragging her wrists down like anchors. Months. They'd been watching for months while she served drinks and wiped down tables, oblivious. While she'd argued with Luis about keeping the books straight.

He stepped back, her phone already unlocked in his hand. His thumb moved across the screen with practiced ease. "Password's your birthday. Sloppy."

Heat flooded her face. Stupid, stupid. Luis always told her she needed better security, but she could never remember complicated codes.

"Herman might call." Her voice cracked. "He might need help."

"That's the idea." The agent pocketed her phone in his tactical vest, the device disappearing into some compartment she couldn't reach even if her hands were free. Which they weren't. Which they might never be again.

The reality crashed over her in waves. She was handcuffed. Searched. Her phone confiscated. The bar behind them still swarmed with federal agents, their radios crackling with codes she didn't understand. Through the shattered window, she could see them photographing everything—the bottles, the register, the back office where Luis kept his real business.

"What happens now?" Diana hated how small she sounded, how young. She was twenty-one, not some scared kid, but the steel around her wrists made her feel helpless in ways she hadn't felt since her mother died.

The agent's blue eyes studied her face with an intensity that made her want to look away. She didn't. Wouldn't give him that.

"Now," he said, his hand closing around her upper arm again, "you and I are going to have a conversation about your stepbrothers."

"Please." She tried desperately to make him see her as something more than just another criminal. "You don't understand—"

"Save it." He guided her forward toward the entrance with one large hand positioned firmly between her shoulder blades. The pressure wasn't rough or cruel, but it was completely immovable, like trying to push against a mountain. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

They stepped outside into the cool night air, and Diana felt the desert breeze chill the cold sweat that had broken out across her temples. Her hair whipped around her face, sticking to the moisture there.

Behind them, angry voices shouted in rapid-fire Spanish, punctuated by the sharp crackle of radio static. Officers barked orders while suspects protested their innocence in two languages. Diana's legs moved automatically, one foot in front of the other, while her mind remained fixated on that last glimpse of Herman's slight figure disappearing into the maze of back alleys.

He got away. Thank God, he got away. The thought was her only comfort as they navigated the chaos outside the bar.

They rounded the corner of the building, and Diana's breath caught. Two massive ICE vehicles blocked the entire street like mechanical beasts, their emergency lights painting everything in harsh, strobing whites and reds that made the whole scene feel surreal and nightmarish.

A mountain of a man stood beside the nearest vehicle, shoving someone into the back seat with efficient movements. He was even taller than her captor, with shaggy blond hair that fell past his collar.

"All good?" her captor called out.

The giant glanced over, his expression unreadable in the strobing lights. "Yeah. Taking this one in now." His eyes flicked to Diana, then back. He said something else, too quiet for her to catch over the chaos behind them.

Her captor's hand tightened fractionally on her arm. "Copy that."

The blond man climbed into the driver's seat, and the vehicle's engine rumbled to life. Diana watched the taillights disappear down the street, carrying whoever had been arrested to whatever awaited them in federal custody. Jail. Deportation.

Her stomach twisted.

"Move." The pressure between her shoulder blades returned, steering her toward the remaining vehicle.

This was real. This was actually happening. The handcuffs weren't coming off. He wasn't letting her go. In minutes, she'd be in that back seat, heading to the same fate as the man who'd just been driven away.

Diana caught sight of her own reflection in one of the tinted windows of the second car—wild-haired and ghostly pale, her wrists locked behind her back like she was already a convicted criminal. She barely recognized herself.

The agent opened the rear door of one vehicle with a sharp metallic clank. "Get in." He urged her toward the interior with his grip on her arm.

Diana didn't move, couldn't make her feet cooperate. The dark interior of the vehicle yawned before her like the mouth of some predator.

"I said get in." His tone carried an edge of impatience now. The grip of his big hand on her arm tightened to the edge of pain,

"Where are you taking me?" Her voice came out smaller and more fragile than she'd intended, barely audible over the noise of the ongoing operation around them.

His jaw tightened beneath his mask. For a second—just the briefest flash—something unreadable flickered in his cold blue eyes. Not quite hesitation, but something close to it, like he was weighing options she couldn't see. Then it vanished completely.

"Depends entirely on you." He leaned closer, close enough that she could smell the lingering scents of gun oil and something else—something unexpectedly clean, like soap and desert air. His proximity made her pulse race with a fear she couldn't quite name. "You can answer my questions like a reasonable person, or I can process you through the system. County jail, federal charges—the whole nine yards."

Diana's throat closed up completely. Luis had contacts everywhere in county, tentacles that reached into places she'd never imagined. Eyes and ears in every corner, he'd always boasted with that cold smile of his. If he learned she'd been arrested during the raid on his operation, if word got back to him that she'd been there...

"Tick tock." The agent's hand stayed positioned on the door frame, fingers drumming once against the metal. "What's it gonna be?"

Chapter 3

The city lights blurred past the window, smearing into amber streaks as Zane's SUV cut through the Phoenix streets. Diana's wrists burned where the metal bit into her skin, the handcuffs making every shift in her seat an exercise in humiliation. She pressed her spine against the passenger door, maximizing the distance between them.

The torn fabric of her shirt gaped open, exposing the lace edge of her bra. She twisted her shoulders, trying to shift the material. The metal clinked with each frustrated attempt.

"Stop sqirming."

the agent's voice cut through the hum of the engine. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, jaw set like carved stone.

Diana froze. Heat crawled up her neck as she became hyperaware of how exposed she was, how vulnerable.

She bit down on her bottom lip, forcing her hands to stillness even though every instinct screamed to cover herself. But the man just drove, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, taking her somewhere unknown.

"Where are you taking me?"

"A safe house we're using while we're in the area."

The buildings thinned. Strip malls gave way to auto shops, then scattered houses with chain-link fences. The engine's hum filled the space between them, punctuated only by her breathing—too fast, too shallow.

Diana watched the familiar neighborhoods disappear behind them. Each mile stripped away another layer of the world she knew. The bars where Luis did business. The corner store where Herman bought cigarettes. The taquería where her stepfather used to take her for Sunday breakfast, back when she thought he was just a struggling businessman.

Lies. All of it.

"Is Herman safe?"

The man's jaw tightened. She caught it in the periphery of her vision, a muscle jumping beneath his black mask.

"He ran fast enough."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

The scrubland opened up on either side of the highway now. Desert stretched toward mountains that looked like broken teeth against the darkening sky. No streetlights out here. Just the SUV's headlights carving tunnels through the dusk.

Diana's throat constricted. She'd made a mistake. Jail would have been safer—guards, other prisoners, people who would notice if she disappeared. Luis might have found her, might have bribed someone to get to her, but at least there would have been witnesses.

Out here, there was nothing.

"I should have chosen jail."

"Probably."

The admission caught her off guard. She twisted in her seat to face him, chains rattling. "Then why—"

"Because you wouldn't have lasted the night." Zane's hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale against tanned skin. "Luis has connections in lockup. You think those bars would protect you from what he's got planned?"

Her stepbrother's face flashed through her memory. Not the man who'd laughed and bought her a designer purse when she was twelve, but the one she'd glimpsed last month through a crack in his office door. Cold eyes appraising a photograph of a young girl—too young—while he discussed prices with men whose accents she couldn't place.

Diana's stomach lurched.

"How do you know about Luis's plans?"

"I know lots of things."

"That's not an answer either."

"Getting repetitive, aren't you?"

The landscape emptied out. Houses stood isolated now, separated by acres of dirt and scrub brush. Chain-link fences enclosed nothing but dust and tumbleweeds. A tire shop occupied one corner, its neon sign flickering against the gathering darkness. Then even that vanished behind them.

Zane's gaze flicked to Diana in his peripheral vision. She'd pressed herself so hard against the door he half-expected her to merge with the metal. Her pulse jumped visibly in her throat. Rapid, like a rabbit's. The fear read authentic—no performance there. He'd interrogated enough liars to know the difference between genuine terror and manufactured distress.

Still, she hadn't broken yet. Hadn't begged or cried or offered him anything in exchange for her freedom. Most people cracked before they left the parking lot.

Something twisted in his chest. He shoved it down.

"You knew my stepfather." Diana's voice came quieter now, stripped of its earlier defiance.

"I knew what he did."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

Her breath caught. "He wasn't all bad. He protected me. He—"

"Ran drugs through that bar while you served drinks to his customers." Zane took the exit, tires crunching on gravel as pavement gave way to dirt roads. "Real humanitarian."

"You don't understand."

"Enlighten me."

Silence stretched between them. The headlights caught a coyote slinking across the road, eyes flashing green before it dissolved into the brush. Nothing else moved out here. No other cars. No witnesses to where he'd taken her.

Standard protocol, he reminded himself. Remove the asset from hostile territory. Establish a secure location for interrogation. He'd done this a hundred times.

Except he hadn't. Not like this.

The women he'd extracted before had been victims—clear-cut cases of trafficking and abuse. Diana existed in the grey spaces his training manuals didn't cover. She was a citizen, but her mother had gotten involved with a Venezuelan illegal with family ties to drug smuggling. She grew up around criminals, but her personal record showed nothing. Not even a parking ticket. And the way she'd thrown herself between Herman and his team suggested loyalty that ran bone-deep.

Loyalty that made her vulnerable.

"What else do you know?" Diana asked. "About Luis. About what he's planning."

Zane's fingers tightened on the wheel. Everything he'd gathered in six months of surveillance sat encrypted on his laptop. Shipping manifests. Wire transfers. Photographs of girls who looked like Diana—young, pretty, naive—who'd disappeared into networks that didn't leave forwarding addresses.

"Enough."

The SUV turned off the highway onto a dirt road. Dust billowed in the taillights, obscuring the world behind them like a curtain falling on her old life. A house materialized in the distance—low and angular, perched on the scrubland like something waiting to pounce.

No other structures visible. No neighbors. No help.

Diana's pulse hammered against her ribs. She'd grown up around dangerous men, learned to read the warning signs in their postures, their voices. Luis's associates who'd eyed her like merchandise. Herman's friends who'd made comments they thought were compliments. Her mother's dealers who'd suggested payment plans that made Diana's skin crawl.

She knew predators.

But Zane was different. Controlled where they were chaotic. Silent where they boasted. The scariest kind—the hunter who didn't need to announce himself.

The SUV stopped in front of the house. The agent killed the engine, and the silence crashed over them like a wave.

"Last chance," he said, not looking at her. "I can still take you to lockup. Make the call right now."

Diana stared at the house. Single story, reinforced windows, security system visible even in the fading light. A fortress. A cage.

A hiding place.

"No." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "I made my choice."

Zane nodded once, then climbed out of the vehicle. The door's slam echoed across the empty desert, final as a judge's gavel.

Chapter 4

He opened her door, and the desert heat rushed in to replace the air conditioning. Diana didn't move.

"Out." Not a request.

She stepped down, legs unsteady after sitting handcuffed for an hour. the agent's hand caught her elbow—firm, impersonal. Guiding her toward the front door like a handler with livestock.

The agent's fingers flew over a keypad by the entrance. Then the door opened and the house swallowed them whole.

Diana had expected... she didn't know what. Something like Luis's place, maybe. Clutter and unwashed dishes. Half-empty bottles and suspicious stains. The residue of men living without anyone to care about appearances.

Instead: nothing. Clean lines. Bare walls painted the colour of sand. Furniture that looked functional rather than comfortable. A kitchen visible through an archway, counters gleaming under recessed lighting.

The silence pressed against her eardrums. No traffic. No voices bleeding through thin walls. No bass-heavy music from neighboring apartments or sirens wailing in the distance.

Just the hum of the air conditioning and her own breathing.

The agent moved through the space with practiced efficiency. Deadbolts slid home with metallic thuds. Blinds descended with sharp snaps. He checked windows, tested locks, performed some ritual of securing his fortress that left Diana standing alone in the centre of the living room.

Trapped in the quiet.

"This way."

He walked down a narrow hallway. Diana followed because what else could she do? Her wrists ached where the handcuffs bit into bone. Her shoulders protested from hours locked in one position.

The bedroom matched the rest of the house. Spartan. A queen bed with military-tight corners. A nightstand with a lamp and nothing else. A dresser. A single chair positioned near the window. Everything practical, nothing personal.

The bed dominated the space.

Diana's stomach twisted. She'd grown up around her stepfather's warnings about men and their intentions. Knew the currency women represented in Luis's world. Merchandise. Property. Things to be bought and sold.

"Sit." Zane gestured to the bed.

"No."

He raised an eyebrow. The first real expression she'd seen crack through his mask.

"Rather stand for the next several hours?"

"Rather know what you're planning to do."

"Interrogate you. Get information on Luis and Herman." He moved to the nightstand, opened a drawer. Retrieved a second pair of handcuffs. "That requires you sitting down."

Diana's pulse hammered in her throat. She'd made her choice in the SUV, chosen this over jail because at least here Luis couldn't reach her. But standing in this bedroom, watching Zane with those handcuffs, the reality crashed through her bravado like a fist through drywall.

She sat.

The mattress dipped under her weight. Zane approached, movements controlled and precise. He unlocked one cuff from her wrists. Blood rushed back into her hands, pins and needles dancing across her palms.

Then the metal clicked around her right wrist again. Clicked again around the bedframe.

The chain rattled. Short. Maybe two feet of movement.

Diana jerked against the restraint. Tested it. Solid. The frame didn't budge.

"That necessary?" Her voice came out smaller than intended.

"You tell me." Zane pulled the chair from the window, positioned it facing the bed. Sat. "You going to run the first chance you get?"

"Where would I go?"

"Smart girl."

He stood back and started peeling off his gear.. The tactical vest first, unclipping buckles with practiced movements. Muscles shifted under his shirt as he lifted the heavy kevlar over his head.

Diana looked away. Found herself looking back.

He unbuckled the gun belt next, leather creaking as he pulled it free from his hips. The weight of the weapon and magazine pouches made it sag in his hands. He carried everything to the closet, bent to put it away.

His shirt rode up.

A strip of tanned skin appeared above his waistband. Lean muscle defining his lower back.

Heat crept up Diana's neck. Wrong. This was wrong. He'd handcuffed her to his bed and she was—what? Admiring the view?

He straightened, ran a hand through his dark hair. Turned to face her.

Their eyes met.

Diana's stomach flipped. Against every shred of common sense, against every survival instinct life with her stepfather had drilled into her skull—

She found him beautiful.

Zane studied his prisoner. Her torn shirt from the struggle at the bar. Her scuffed shoes. The way she held herself—shoulders back despite the handcuffs, chin raised despite the fear.

She jerked her gaze away and tested the handcuffs for the third time since he'd secured her to the headboard. Metal scraped against metal—a futile sound that echoed through the sparse bedroom.

"You'll bruise your wrists."

Her chin lifted. "Worried about damaging merchandise?"

The question landed like a punch. She thought he was like Luis. Like the men who'd circled her stepfather's bar with predator eyes, measuring her worth in dollars and depravity. He ignored it.

"Where's Luis moving his product?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Zane shifted his weight. The chair creaked. "Your stepbrother runs cocaine through that bar. Venezuelan supply chain, local distribution. You expect me to believe you never noticed?"

"My stepfather protected me from—"

"Protected you?" The words tasted bitter. "Is that what you call it when a drug dealer keeps his stepdaughter close while trafficking narcotics?"

Fire flashed in those blue eyes. "He gave me a home when my mother was too high to remember my name. He made sure I went to school. He kept me safe."

"Safe." Zane leaned forward. "Until he died and left you to Luis."

She flinched. Direct hit.

"Where is Herman hiding?"

"I don't know."

"You helped him escape an active ICE operation. You know exactly where he'd run."

"He's my brother."

"Stepbrother. And he'd sell you out the moment Luis asked him to."

"You don't know anything about my family." Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. "You're just some—some government thug who breaks into people's businesses and drags women out in handcuffs."

Zane studied her face. Defiance carved into every feature, but underneath—fear. Real fear, the kind that made people desperate. She'd grown up around gang members, learned to hide vulnerability the way most girls learned makeup. Yet here she sat, wrists bound, clothes half-torn off, alone with a strange man, and still she protected the people who'd failed her.

Fascinating.

Infuriating.

"How often does Luis meet with his suppliers?"

"I don't know."

"What routes do they use?"

"I don't know."

"Who else is involved in the organization?"

"I. Don't. Know." Each word delivered like a stone.

Through the window behind her, the Phoenix desert stretched endlessly—burnt orange and unforgiving. Appropriate. He'd brought her out here to break her down, extract information, use her to dismantle Luis's operation. Standard tactical approach. So why did her continued resistance feel less like obstruction and more like self-preservation?

Diana's gaze traveled across his tactical vest, the badge clipped to his belt, the weapon holstered at his hip. Calculating. Searching for something he couldn't identify.

"You're afraid of me," he said.

"I'd be stupid not to be."

"But you're more afraid of Luis finding you in a holding cell."

Her fingers curled against the headboard. "You don't understand what he's capable of."

"Then tell me."

"So you can use it against my family? Against Herman?" She shook her head. "I've seen how men like you operate. You'll promise anything to get what you want, then disappear the moment you're finished."

"Men like me."

"Government. Authority. It doesn't matter." Her voice dropped. "My father was a cop. He promised he'd always come home too."

Zane absorbed that. The dead cop father explained the distrust, the automatic assumption that everyone with a badge eventually abandoned ship. He should press the advantage, dig into that wound, make her vulnerable enough to crack.

Instead he found himself saying, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would've left you for Luis."

Silence stretched between them. Diana's breathing had steadied, her initial panic transforming into wary assessment. She was reading him the way he read suspects—looking for inconsistencies, weaknesses, truth.

"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.

"That's not relevant."

"You know mine. You know where I live, who my family is, probably my entire history." Her jaw set. "I deserve to know who's holding me prisoner."

The word stung. Prisoner. Technically accurate, legally defensible, morally—complicated.

"And the mask," she continued. "Take it off."

"No."

"Afraid I'll recognize you?"

"Operational security."

"Or you're hiding." Those blue eyes pinned him. "If you're not going to hurt me, if you're so different from Luis and his friends, then show me your face."

Chapter 5

Diana's breath caught as the agent pushed himself up from the chair. His boots thudded against the hardwood floor—three deliberate steps that brought him to the edge of the bed. She pressed back into the headboard, metal digging into her spine, handcuffs clinking with the movement.

He loomed there. Tall. Broad shoulders blocking the lamplight behind him, casting his face into shadow.

Her pulse hammered in her throat.

His hands rose to his face. Fingertips found the bottom edge of the black mask. He paused—one heartbeat, two—then peeled it upward in a slow, steady motion.

The fabric came away.

Diana's eyes widened.

Hard jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His face held the same controlled intensity she'd seen in his movements—nothing soft about it, nothing kind. He had the kind of features her stepfather would've called "trouble," though coming from a man who'd built an empire on cocaine, that assessment meant little. He was younger than she'd imagined. late twenties, maybe. And handsome in a brutal sort of way that made her stomach flip.

Blue eyes locked onto hers. Cool. Measuring. With depths she couldn't read—could be cruelty, could be something else entirely

She couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe properly. Every instinct screamed danger, but something else stirred beneath the fear—something she didn't want to name.

She hated that her body reacted to him at all.

"Better?" His voice carried a hint of mockery as he tossed the mask onto a dresser.

Diana lifted her chin, chains rattling as she shifted against the headboard.

"Not really." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Still chained to a bed by a government thug."

His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked beneath that scar.

Good. Let him be angry. Anger she understood—had grown up swimming in it, learned to navigate its currents before she could write her own name. Anger was predictable. Safe, in its own twisted way.

"Well, at least government thugs beat Venezuelan criminals." He folded his arms, making his shirt tighten across that broad chest. "We don't traffic the women we restrain for money."

The words hit like a slap.

Diana's mouth went dry. She blinked, processed, felt ice flood her veins.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, forced steadiness back into her tone. "What are you talking about?"

He studied her face with those cop eyes. Reading every micro-expression, cataloging her confusion like evidence.

"Your stepbrother Luis." He tilted his head. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?" The handcuffs bit into her wrists as she leaned forward. "Luis runs the bar. He—" She stopped. Thought about the men who came and went at odd hours. The basement he'd had closed off.

"He's expanding the family business." The agent's voice held no mercy. "Just not with product you snort. With product that bleeds."

Diana's stomach turned over.

No.

No, that couldn't—

But the pieces clicked together with sickening clarity.

She licked her lips. "Herman's not involved in any of that," she said, forcing steel into her voice. "He's just a kid who got scared when you people stormed in with guns."

"He's twenty-one. Old enough to make choices." He pulled his chair around backward, straddled it. The casual posture should've made him seem less threatening. Somehow it didn't. "Old enough to run with his brother's crew."

"Running with them doesn't mean—"

"Where would he go?" he cut through her protest. "If he's so innocent, where's he hiding?"

Diana pressed her lips together, looked away. The bedroom window showed nothing but desert darkness. No city lights, no neighboring houses. Just emptiness stretching toward mountains she couldn't see but knew were there, watching like sleeping giants.

"Family sticks together," she said finally. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

She met his eyes again. Searched for signs of the cruelty she'd seen in other men who'd held power over her—the way Luis's friends had looked at her during their business meetings, the hungry calculation that made her skin crawl. But his gaze held something different. Intent, yes. Determination, absolutely. But not that specific hunger that preceded violence.

Still. Men could hide what they wanted until they had you exactly where they needed you.

"No." The word came out smaller than she'd intended. She strengthened it. "No. I'm not telling you anything about Herman."

"Even if it keeps you chained to my bed indefinitely?"

Her heart kicked against her ribs. "You'd do that?"

He stood. His shadow stretched across the hardwood floor, swallowed her. "I've got nowhere else to be tonight. You hungry? Thirsty?"

The shift in subject threw her. "I'm not—"

"When's the last time you ate?"

Diana couldn't remember. Coffee and toast at dawn, maybe? The day had shattered into fragments the moment those black vans had appeared.

"I'll bring you something." he paused at the threshold. "Think about what you're protecting, Diana. Think about whether Herman would do the same for you."

He left before she could answer.

***

Zane slapped together a ham and cheese sandwich with more force than necessary, the knife scraping against the plate. His mind kept circling back to the woman chained in his bedroom—the way her blue eyes had gone wide when he'd mentioned trafficking, genuine shock written across her face.

Either she was the best actress he'd ever met, or Luis had kept her in the dark.

He wanted to believe the latter. Wanted it more than was professional.

The bread tore under his knife. He cursed, started over with a fresh slice.

This was procedure. Standard leverage play—grab someone close to the target, apply pressure until they cracked. He'd done it a dozen times before without losing sleep. But those other times, the people in his custody had been hardened, complicit. Their eyes had held knowledge of their crimes.

Diana's eyes held fear. And something else that made his chest tight.

He grabbed the plate and a bottle of water from the fridge. Walked back down the hallway toward his bedroom, each step feeling heavier than the last.

She'd shifted position on the bed, curled on her side with her cuffed wrists pulled toward her chest, clutching at the tatters of her shirt. The defensive posture of someone who'd learned to make herself small. Strands of brown hair had escaped from behind her ear, falling across her face in soft waves that caught the afternoon light filtering through his bedroom blinds. Even restrained like this, even with terror flickering in those impossible blue eyes, she was beautiful in a way that hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The kind of beauty that made smart men do stupid things. The kind that had probably been both her protection and her curse growing up in Luis Guerrero's world.

He found himself cataloging details he had no business noticing—the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the way her full lips pressed together when she was thinking, the pulse visible at the base of her throat where her skin looked soft as silk. She was twenty-one, he reminded himself. Young enough to be genuinely innocent, old enough to destroy his career if he kept thinking about her like this.

Christ. He was in trouble.

"Here, eat," he said roughly. He set the plate on the nightstand, within her reach.

Diana pushed herself upright, chains clinking. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. His eyes tracked the movement before he could stop them.

"Drug-free?" Her voice carried an edge of defiance that shouldn't have been attractive.

"Disappointingly so."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Then she caught herself, face shuttering closed again.

Zane dragged his chair closer, watched her pick up the sandwich, the cuffs forcing her movements into an awkward coordination. She seemed too eager, like she hadn't seen food in days, and he filed that detail away with all the others accumulating in his head.

Protected stepdaughter. Sheltered. Kept separate from the family business.

Or bait. The perfect lure to draw in someone exactly like him—someone who'd see innocence that needed saving.

He didn't know which option scared him more.

Chapter 6

Diana bit into the sandwich. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the food hit her tongue. The handcuffs clinked against the bedframe as she shifted position, a constant metallic reminder of her situation.

Zane settled into his chair, forearms resting on his thighs, that unsettling gaze still fixed on her face.

"Tell me about Luis's operation."

"No." The word came through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Diana—"

"I don't know anything about his business." She swallowed, met his eyes. "He never talked about that stuff around me."

"But Herman did."

Her chest tightened. Herman with his nervous laugh, his terrible jokes, the way he'd sneak her extra money when Luis wasn't looking. "Herman's just a kid."

"Herman's the same age as you." Zane leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "And he's neck-deep in whatever your stepbrother's running. You know that, right?"

Diana took another bite instead of answering. Outside the window, Phoenix sprawled in the harsh afternoon light, all brown earth and distant mountains shimmering in the heat.

"You said your father was a cop."

"Officer Robert Riley, killed in a gang shootout ten years ago." she said mechanically.

His eyes softened, just a fraction. "I'm sorry."

The sandwich turned to ash in her mouth. She forced herself to swallow. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend you care." But her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her.

The agent was quiet for a long moment. "My partner got shot last year. Different circumstances, but—" He rubbed his jaw. "I know what it's like to lose someone to violence you couldn't stop."

Diana blinked hard against the burning in her eyes. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of him. "My mom couldn't handle it. Dad dying, I mean. She started using about six months after the funeral."

"Heroin?"

"Yeah." The word scraped out of her throat. "She OD'd when I was sixteen. Luis's father took me in because—" She stopped herself.

"Because why?"

"Because he was sleeping with my mom before she died." The bitter truth spilled out before she could catch it. "And because he felt guilty, I guess. Or maybe he just liked having something pretty to show off at family gatherings."

His expression darkened. "He touch you?"

"No." Quick and sharp. "Never. He protected me from that, from all of it. The guys who came through the bar, the ones with dead eyes and hands that grabbed—" Her stomach twisted. "He made sure they knew I was off-limits."

"And now he's dead, and Luis doesn't have those same boundaries."

Diana looked away. Luis had started looking at her differently these past few months. Comments about how she'd grown up, how pretty she'd gotten. Herman had noticed too, started making excuses to keep her away from the bar when certain people visited.

"Luis wants to expand the business," she whispered. "That's all I know. He's been talking to people, making deals."

"What kind of deals?"

"I don't know." But she did, somewhere in the dark corners of her mind where she refused to look. The whispered conversations that stopped when she entered rooms. The way Luis had started asking about her plans, her future, whether she'd ever thought about traveling.

He studied her face. "You're lying."

"I'm not—"

"You know exactly what kind of deals. You just don't want to believe it."

The front door banged open before Zane could press further. Max's voice boomed through the house.

"Bradshaw, you here?"

Zane pushed to his feet, jaw clenched. Perfect timing. He'd been this close to cracking through Diana's final defenses, getting her to admit what Luis planned for her. "Back here."

Max appeared in the doorway, six-foot-five and shaggy-haired, tactical vest strapped over his shirt. His eyes flicked to Diana on the bed, then back to Zane. One blond eyebrow climbed.

"Got yourself a houseguest?"

"She's the witness I told you about."

"Uh-huh." Max's gaze traveled over the handcuffs, the half-eaten sandwich, the way Diana had pressed herself against the headboard. "Looks real official."

Diana's eyes darted between them, blue and wide and calculating. She'd gone still as prey under a hawk's shadow.

Heat crawled up Zane's neck. He strode to the door, crowding the other man out into the hallway. He shut the door firmly behind him."What do you need?"

Max crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Sawyer moved up the timetable on the Hernandez stakeout. We roll in thirty."

Zane bit back a curse. The Hernandez case—a Mexican trafficking ring specializing in children. They'd been tracking him for months. "The intel's solid?"

"Solid enough. Border patrol spotted his vehicle crossing at Nogales two hours ago." Max jerked his chin toward the woman behind the closed door. "So what'd she give you?"

"Nothing yet."

"Nothing?" Max straightened. "Come on, man. You've had her for what, three hours?"

"She's scared." Zane kept his tone neutral, professional. "She needs time."

"We don't have time. Luis could be moving shipments right now, and you're playing soft with some cartel princess who—"

"She's not cartel."

The words came out harder than Zane intended. Max's other eyebrow joined the first, both climbing toward his hairline.

"Right." Max drew the word out. "Look, I get it. Pretty girl, sob story about dead parents. But Bradshaw, you've been in this house alone with her for hours. You getting involved?"

He wasn't. Couldn't be. Diana was leverage, nothing more.

Except his hands still remembered the warmth of her wrist when he'd adjusted the handcuffs. The way her pulse had fluttered against his fingertips.

"I'm doing my job."

"Your job is intel, not babysitting." Max lowered his voice. "Remember Skarr? Got tangled up with an informant's sister, thought he could save her? Cost him his badge and nearly cost Grant his life when the whole op went sideways."

Zane's molars ground together. "I remember."

"Then don't be stupid."

"You done?" Zane's hand found his belt, fingers drumming against the leather.

"For now." Max turned strode down the hallway toward his room. "Thirty minutes, Bradshaw. Don't be late because you got distracted," he tossed over his shoulder. He shut his door behind him with a slam.

Chapter 7

Zane stood in the hallway, staring at the closed bedroom door.

You getting involved?

He wasn't. Couldn't be. Diana was an informant, nothing more.

Except his hands still remembered the warmth of her wrist when he'd adjusted the handcuffs. The way her pulse had fluttered against his fingertips.

Professional distance. That's what this required.

He pushed back into the bedroom, the door swinging open with a soft creak that seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Diana's head snapped toward the sound immediately, those startling blue eyes locking onto his face with an intensity that made something twist in his chest. She tracked his every movement like a cornered animal watching a predator, her entire body rigid with wariness carved so deep it seemed etched into her very bones. The handcuffs clinked softly as she shifted, pulling herself up straighter against the headboard, and he could see the way her breathing had quickened, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath her torn shirt betraying her fear despite the defiant tilt of her chin.

The afternoon light streaming through the blinds cast harsh shadows across her face, highlighting the exhaustion bruising the delicate skin beneath her eyes and the way her dark hair fell in disheveled waves around her shoulders. She looked so young sitting there, so vulnerable despite the steel in her gaze, and Zane felt that familiar war between duty and something far more dangerous raging in his chest.

"I have to leave." He crossed to the nightstand, checked the water bottle. Still half full. "There's an operation that can't wait."

"You're leaving me here?" Her voice pitched higher. "Chained to your bed?"

"You'll be safe."

"Safe?" She rattled the cuffs. "I'm a prisoner."

"You're protected." He couldn't quite make himself look at her. "No one knows you're here. And this house is a fortress. Luis can't touch you."

"How long?"

"Few hours. Maybe more."

Zane pulled the handcuff key from his pocket. "I'll uncuff you so you can use the bathroom first."

The metal clicked free. Diana brought her wrists to her chest, rubbing the faint red marks circling her skin.

"Five minutes," he said.

She slid off the bed, kept her distance as she edged toward the bathroom door. Her eyes never left him, that same animal wariness tracking his every breath.

The bathroom door shut. Water ran. Zane paced the bedroom, checking his watch, listening to the muffled sounds through the thin wall.

Informant. Asset. Source.

Not the frightened girl with hair that caught the light like polished mahogany.

Diana braced her hands against the bathroom sink and stared at her reflection. The fluorescent light above cast shadows under her eyes, made her skin look washed out. She looked like a ghost. Felt like one too—trapped between worlds, unable to touch either.

What was she going to do? She studied the frosted window above the toilet. Too small. The thought died before it fully formed. She had no car, no phone, no idea where in the desert she was. Even if she escaped the house, where would she go where ICE or Luis wouldn't find her?

The shower called to her. She hadn't bathed since yesterday morning—a lifetime ago.

Diana turned the water on hot. Steam billowed up, clouding the mirror until her reflection disappeared entirely.

She stripped off her torn and dirty clothes and left them in a pile on the floor.

The water scalded her shoulders. She didn't adjust the temperature. Needed to feel something other than the numbness that had settled into her bones since those handcuffs clicked shut around her wrists.

Since Agent Bradshaw had looked at her with those ice-chip eyes and said jail or my house.

Bradshaw. The big, blond agent had called him that. Bradshaw. She repeated it silently, testing how the name felt in her mouth. Would using it make him see her differently? Not as a criminal, a prisoner, but a…a friend?

Who was she kidding? He'd chained her to his bed. Didn't matter that he'd been almost gentle about it. The metal still bit into her wrist. The message was still clear.

You're mine until I say otherwise.

She reached for the soap on the caddy. Her hands shook. If she couldn't run away and she couldn't appeal to his softer side, how was she going to get out of this?

Seduce him.

The plan crystallized with brutal clarity. Men were simple—her stepfather's associates had proven that a hundred times over. Flash some skin, smile the right way, and they'd hand you the keys to whatever kingdom they thought they ruled. She'd watched it happen. Never participated, but she'd watched.

Her stomach twisted.

But Bradshaw wasn't like them. Was he? Those pale eyes had stayed on her face during questioning, not drifting south like Luis's friends always did. He'd had her handcuffed to his bed and he'd barely touched her. Professional. Controlled. Everything about him screamed discipline and order.

Could she crack that control?

She pressed her forehead against the tile. Cold ceramic against hot skin.

Water sluiced down her spine. She could do this. Had to. Herman needed her. And Luis—God, Luis would be furious. If he found out she'd been arrested, that she might talk...

Her breath came shorter. The steam pressed close.

She'd smile. Touch his arm. Let her hair fall just right when she looked up at him. Use every trick she'd catalogued watching other girls work their magic. Simple. Easy.

Except her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Can I actually do this?" she whispered.

The question echoed in the small space, louder than the pounding water. She'd never tried to manipulate a man before. Never needed to. Never wanted to. But…did she want to now?

The water sluiced over her breasts, down her stomach, between her thighs. Diana’s fingers followed the path, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her navel.

What would his hands feel like?

Rough. Calloused from years of gripping guns and cuffs and—she swallowed—other women. But gentle, too. Precise. The way he’d adjusted the chain on her wrist earlier, making sure it didn’t dig too deep.

She imagined him standing in this shower with her, steam curling around that broad frame, his pale eyes darkening as they tracked the water sliding over her skin. Would he hesitate? Or would those big hands just take, pin her against the wall, his mouth—

A pulse throbbed low in her belly.

Diana gasped, yanking her hand back like she’d been burned. The water suddenly too hot, the air too thick. She twisted the knob until the spray turned icy, bracing her palms against the tile as the cold shocked her skin.

This wasn’t seduction. This was wanting.

And that was far more dangerous.

Chapter 8

Diana stepped from the bathroom, steam trailing her like a ghost. The towel clung to her damp skin, knotted tight at her chest, barely grazing her thighs. Cool air hit her legs, raising gooseflesh. She scanned the bedroom, heart thudding.

Zane sat on the bed's edge, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. His broad back strained the black T-shirt, muscles coiled under fabric. He looked up, an impatient scowl on his face. Then his eyes flicked over her—quick, from bare feet to the towel's hem, then to her face. He shifted, started to say something, then stopped.

She swallowed. The air thickened. Her skin prickled under his gaze, nipples tightening against the towel. Heat bloomed low in her belly. She'd planned this—drop the towel, step close, let her fingers trace his arm. Make him want her enough to keep the cuffs off. Simple.

But her feet rooted to the carpet. His eyes held hers now, sharp and unreadable, like he saw every trembling thought. She hugged her arms closer, towel slipping an inch. No. Not yet.

"About time you came out. clean enough?" His voice rumbled low, rougher than before.

She nodded, throat dry. "Yeah."

He stood, towering. Grabbed a folded shirt and pants from the dresser—his, oversized, gray cotton that smelled of laundry soap and him. He tossed them her way. She caught them against her chest.

"Put those on."

She clutched the bundle, fabric soft against her palms. The T-shirt dwarfed her hand, pants loose like sails. His scent wrapped her, clean and male, stirring something deep. She glanced at the bedpost, the cuff dangling like a promise.

"Why bother? You're just chaining me up again."

He stepped closer. Heat rolled off him. His chest rose steady, but nostrils flared—a tell. "Can't have you wandering."

She met his eyes. Pale blue, stormy now. Her pulse raced. Drop the towel. Touch him. Feel if his skin burned like hers. But her arms locked tight. Coward. The words stuck in her chest.

She turned away, dropped the towel in a heap. Cool air kissed her bare back, ass, down to her calves. She heard his breath catch—sharp, cut off. Pulled on the shirt. It fell to her knees, sleeves swallowing her hands. Pants next, cinching the drawstring tight around her waist. They pooled at her ankles until she rolled them up.

She faced him. His fists clenched at his sides. Jaw set like stone.

"Better." He moved fast, grabbed her wrist. Skin rough, warm. Thumb pressed her pulse, feeling it hammer.

She yanked back. Instinct. "Easy."

He didn't loosen. Guided her to the bed, sat her down. The mattress dipped under her weight. Metal glinted in his other hand—the cuff.

Click. It locked around her wrist. Loose enough not to bruise, tight enough to bind. His fingers lingered on her skin a beat too long, calluses scraping. Electricity shot up her arm.

He pulled back. Stood there, breathing deep. Eyes dropped to her lips, then away.

Diana's wrist twisted against the cuff, the chain rattling like dry bones. Zane's fingers still burned where they'd brushed her skin. He stepped back, grabbed his tactical vest and belt from the closet and jerked them on.

"Stay put. I'll be back in a few hours."

Her stomach dropped. Alone. In this cage of a house, the desert pressing in through the windows like a living thing. Luis's face flashed in her mind—his tattooed snarl, the way he'd grab her arm too hard, eyes promising worse. If Zane left, what then? Herman out there, scrambling. No one to stop Luis from finding her.

"No. Wait." She lunged forward as far as the chain allowed, bed sheets twisting under her knees. "Let me go. Please. I won't tell anyone. Just... don't leave me here like this."

He paused at the door, hand on the knob. His shoulders tensed, broad under the leather. "Not happening."

Panic clawed up her throat. She scrambled higher on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress. The oversized shirt fell down her shoulder, cool air licking bare skin. She reached out, chain clinking. "Zane. I'm scared. Lock the door if you have to, but let me walk around. Or take me with you. Anything but this."

His eyes met hers—storm blue, flickering. He shook his head, turned the knob. "Can't risk it."

Desperation hit like fire. She surged up, cuff biting her wrist. Grabbed his arm before he could pull away. His bicep flexed under her palm, hot and solid. She yanked him closer, rose on her knees, pressed her mouth to his.

Soft at first. His lips parted in surprise, stubble scraping her chin. Then hunger surged through her, wild and unfamiliar. She angled her head, tongue slipping past his teeth, tasting coffee and salt. Her free hand fisted his collar, pulling him down.

He froze. Then groaned low, hands clamping her waist. Fabric bunched under his grip, the shirt hiking higher. His fingers dug in, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. Heat pooled between her legs as he kissed back—hard, demanding. His tongue tangled with hers, claiming every inch.

She arched into him, breasts pressing against his chest. The chain limited her, but she didn't care. Her nails raked his neck, tracing the pulse hammering there. He tasted like danger, like the freedom she craved. Her body ignited, nipples peaking against cotton, aching for more.

Zane's hand slid up her back, under the shirt. Rough palm grazed her spine, sending shivers racing. He broke the kiss, breath ragged against her lips. "Diana..."

"Don't stop." She nipped his jaw, voice husky. Her chained hand tugged the chain taut, pulling him nearer. She rocked her hips, feeling his hardness press through denim against her thigh. Solid. Insistent.

He cursed under his breath, mouth crashing back. Fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head. His other hand cupped her ass, squeezing, lifting her slight frame. She wrapped her legs around his waist, the pants slipping down one hip. Friction built, delicious pressure where she needed it most. Wetness slicked her thighs, pulse throbbing.

His hips ground forward, once, twice. A growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her. He was losing it—she felt it in the tremor of his hands, the way his control frayed like rope. One shove, and he'd have her flat on the bed, clothes torn away.

Diana's breath hitched as Zane's fingers dug into her thigh, hiking the shirt higher. Heat surged through her core, his hardness grinding against the thin barrier of fabric. She moaned into his mouth, nails scraping his scalp, urging him closer. The chain rattled with every shift, a metallic reminder binding her to the bed—and to him.

He pulled back just enough to trail kisses down her neck, teeth grazing the pulse point that thundered under her skin. "Fuck, Diana," he murmured, voice gravel-rough, hand slipping between her legs.

She arched, slick and ready, chasing the pressure of his palm.

A sharp thump rattled the door. "Zane! Get your ass moving—we're wheels up in two!"

The other officer's voice boomed through the wood, urgent and pissed.

Zane froze, breath hot against her collarbone. His grip tightened on her hip, then released like a snapped wire. But he wrenched back. Eyes dark, pupils blown wide. Chest heaved. "Fuck." His fingers flexed, then released her hips. He set her down hard, chain snapping tight.

She collapsed onto the pillows, breath coming in gasps. Her skin flushed, lips swollen. The room spun with the echo of his touch.

He raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. Backed toward the door. "This... changes nothing."

She reached for him, chain clinking. "Don't—"

The knob turned. Lock clicked. Footsteps faded down the hall.

Chapter 9

Diana stared at the ceiling, her wrist aching from the handcuffs, her body still humming from Zane's touch. The ghost of his hands lingered on her skin—rough calluses, surprising gentleness. She'd let him get too close. Worse, she'd wanted it.

Her father's face surfaced in her mind. Officer Marcus Reed, badge number 4287, Phoenix PD. She'd memorized that number, traced it with her fingers when he pinned the badge to his uniform each morning. He'd kiss her forehead, smell like coffee and Old Spice, promise to be home for dinner.

He never came home.

The kitchen clock had ticked past six, then seven, then eight. Her mother paced grooves into the linoleum, phone clutched in white-knuckled hands. Diana remembered the casserole drying out in the oven, the burned smell, her mother's mascara running black rivers down her cheeks when the chaplain knocked on the door.

Gang shootout. Wrong place. Her father had tried to break up a deal gone bad in an alley off Van Buren. Three bullets. Dead before the ambulance arrived.

Her mother never recovered.

Victoria Reed had been pretty once—Diana kept one photograph where her mother's smile reached her eyes, where color touched her cheeks. After the funeral, that woman disappeared. In her place came someone Diana barely recognized. Someone who stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped being a mother.

The first time Diana found the needles, she'd been ten years old. Hidden in the bathroom cabinet behind the tampons her mother no longer needed because she'd gotten too thin for her body to function properly. Diana flushed them down the toilet, scrubbed the spoon until her hands blistered.

Her mother just got more.

Luis's father, Ernesto, appeared like a vulture circling carrion. He owned the bar, employed half the Venezuelan immigrants in their neighborhood, kept everyone quiet with cash and threats. He saw Victoria at her weakest—gaunt, desperate, willing to do anything for her next fix.

He fed her addiction. Controlled it. Owned her.

Diana got a stepfather and two stepbrothers in the bargain. Ernesto had been different from what she'd expected. He protected her, kept his associates' hands off her, made sure she finished high school. She'd thought maybe he cared, in his twisted way. Maybe he saw something of his own daughter in her—the one who'd died back in Venezuela before he fled north.

Now she wondered if he'd just been keeping her pristine for market. A virgin fetched a better price.

Herman and Luis were supposed to be her brothers. She'd braided friendship bracelets for Herman when he was twelve, taught him English curse words, covered for him when he stayed out late. She'd ignored Luis's calculating stares, the way he inventoried her like merchandise, because Ernesto kept him in check.

Ernesto died six months ago. Liver failure, probably all the rum.

Everything changed.

Diana blinked hard against the burn in her eyes. Her mother overdosed three years back—found in the bathroom with a needle still in her arm. Diana had been eighteen, technically an adult, technically able to refuse Ernesto's continued "protection." But where would she go? What did she know except how to keep quiet, stay invisible, survive in the spaces between dangerous men?

She'd trusted the wrong people her whole life. Her mother chose drugs over her own daughter. Herman chose money over their bond. Luis chose profit over humanity.

And Bradsaw?

The handcuffs bit into her wrists. He'd trapped her, interrogated her, touched her until she forgot why she should be afraid.

Just another man who wanted something from her.

Diana's gaze drifted from the ceiling to the room itself. Sparse. Military-precise. A dresser with nothing on top except a lamp and a charging cable coiled into perfect loops. No photographs, no clutter, no personality bleeding into the beige walls.

The bed beneath her was firm, sheets crisp enough to have hospital corners.

A bookshelf stood against the far wall. She craned her neck, squinting at the spines. Tactical manuals. Legal codes. Immigration law textbooks thick as bricks. Nothing recreational. Nothing soft.

Except—

Her breath caught. Bottom shelf, half-hidden behind a stack of folders. A worn paperback, spine cracked from repeated readings. She couldn't make out the title from this angle, but it looked old. Personal. Something he'd kept.

What did Bradshaw read when he let himself be human?

The closet door hung half-open. She counted four identical grey t-shirts on hangers, three pairs of tactical pants, one dress shirt still in dry cleaner plastic. A suit jacket she couldn't imagine him wearing. An ICE jacket hung on a hook, the yellow letters stark against black fabric.

No mess. No life. Just existence.

The thought hit her sideways—maybe he was as trapped as she was. Different cage, same isolation.

Her wrist burned against the metal cuff. He'd touched her there, careful even in passion. His thumb had found her pulse point, pressed gently like he needed proof she was real.

Nothing for her. That's what made sense. She was evidence, leverage, a means to dismantle Luis's operation. Agents didn't fall for witnesses. Men like Bradshaw didn't look at girls like her and see futures.

But his hands had shaken when he'd pulled back. She'd felt the tremor against her ribs, watched his jaw clench like he fought himself harder than he'd fought her.

The nightstand held a phone charger, a digital clock reading 3:47 PM, and a biometric gun safe. She could see her reflection in the safe's black surface—distorted, unfamiliar. Hair tangled, lips swollen, eyes too wide.

Could she be with someone like him?

The question tasted dangerous. He represented everything she'd learned to avoid. Authority. Control. The system that had failed her father and destroyed her mother.

But Bradshaw had also stopped Max from taking her to lockup. Had offered his home instead of a cell. Had looked at her like she mattered beyond her usefulness.

She tested the fantasy. Mornings in this stark bedroom, learning what made him smile. Cooking in his kitchen, leaving evidence of herself scattered through these empty rooms. Building something real with a man who lived in absolutes.

Impossible.

He was ice and she was chaos. He followed rules; she'd spent her life breaking them to survive. What would they even talk about once the handcuffs came off and the interrogation ended?

Diana pulled against the handcuffs, felt the familiar bite. Her whole life had been this. Chained to other people's choices, other people's addictions, other people's crimes.

Maybe Bradshaw was different. Maybe he was exactly the same.

The sky beyond the window bled from blue to amber to bruised purple. Shadows crept across the bedroom floor, swallowing the dresser, the bookshelf, the evidence of Bradshaw's controlled existence.

Diana's eyes grew heavy. The adrenaline from earlier had burned through her system, left her hollow and exhausted. Her wrist throbbed where the cuff dug into skin. She shifted, found the least painful angle, and let her eyes drift shut.

Sleep came fast.

Bradshaw moved through smoke, tactical vest strapped tight across his chest. Yellow letters glowed on someone's jacket ahead of him. Shouts echoed off concrete walls. A door crashed open. Darkness swallowed everything except the beam of his flashlight cutting through the haze.

Footsteps. Running. He turned.

Fire erupted from somewhere—everywhere—heat slamming into her face. Gunshots cracked like thunder. Bradshaw's face appeared through the smoke, jaw set, eyes focused on something she couldn't see.

Then pain. Sharp and sudden, tearing through flesh. His face twisted, mouth open in a shout she couldn't hear over the roar in her ears.

Blood. So much blood.

Diana jerked awake, heart hammering against her ribs. Sweat slicked her skin despite the room's steady temperature. The handcuff rattled as she tried to sit up, failed, fell back against the pillow.

Just a dream.

But her chest still felt tight, crushed under phantom weight. She gulped air, searched the darkened room like Bradshaw might materialize from the shadows.

Nothing. Just silence pressing down from all sides.

The clock read 7:23 PM. He'd been gone for hours.

Fear crawled up her throat. Not the familiar terror of Luis or Herman or the life she'd grown up navigating. Something new. Something that made her chest ache.

What if he didn't come back?

She pictured him bleeding in some warehouse, tactical gear soaked red, no one there to help. Pictured herself still chained to this bed, waiting, while he—

"Stop it," she whispered to the empty room.

But her pulse wouldn't slow. The dream clung to her skin like smoke residue, acrid and wrong.

Bradshaw was a federal agent. He knew how to handle himself. He'd probably arrested a thousand people without breaking a sweat.

Except his hands had shaken when he touched her. Except he'd looked almost vulnerable when he'd pulled away.

Diana stared at the ceiling and tried not to imagine him hurt. Tried not to care.

Failed completely.

Diana closed her eyes again, but this time she didn't sleep.

The words came unbidden, rusty from disuse. How long since she'd prayed? Years, maybe. Since before her father's funeral, when she'd knelt beside her mother and begged God to bring him back.

He hadn't listened then.

But her lips moved anyway, forming shapes in the darkness.

"Please." The word scraped out, barely audible. "Please keep him safe."

Her throat tightened. She didn't even know why she bothered. Bradshaw was nothing to her—a stranger who'd handcuffed her to his bed, who'd interrogated her, who'd made her feel things she had no business feeling.

"Bring him back." Her voice cracked. "Don't let him bleed out somewhere. Don't let him die alone."

The handcuff bit into her wrist as she clenched her fist.

"And me." The admission felt like betrayal. "Help me figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do. Because I don't know anymore. I don't know who to trust or where to go or—"

Her breath hitched.

"Just help us. Both of us. Please."

Silence answered. The same silence that had followed every prayer since her father died.

But she kept whispering into the dark anyway.

Chapter 10

The warehouse squatted in the industrial district like a rotting tooth—corrugated metal walls tagged with graffiti, windows boarded or smashed. Zane checked his vest one last time, felt the reassuring weight of his weapon against his ribs.

"Three entry points," Max said, studying the blueprints spread across the hood of their SUV. "Main loading dock here, side entrance, fire escape on the east wall."

Agent Torres adjusted his night vision goggles. "Intel says Vargas keeps the kids on the second floor. Southwest corner."

Zane's jaw tightened. Ricardo Vargas. Thirty-two years old, wanted in three states for trafficking minors across the border. The file photos showed children with hollow eyes, bruises hidden under long sleeves.

"We go in fast," Zane said. "No warning shots. Vargas won't hesitate to use those kids as shields if he gets spooked."

Six agents nodded. They'd done this before—too many times. But it never got easier, never stopped making Zane's skin crawl.

Max caught his eye. "You good?"

Zane thought about Diana chained to his bed, waiting. About the promise he hadn't made but felt burning in his chest anyway.

"I'm good."

They moved through the darkness like ghosts. Zane took point with Torres, approached the loading dock while Max's team circled to the side entrance. The metal door hung crooked on busted hinges.

Zane counted down with his fingers. Three. Two. One.

They breached.

The first floor stretched out in shadows and debris—empty crates, scattered tools, evidence of recent occupation. A single bulb dangled from exposed wiring, swaying in the draft from the open door.

Voices drifted from above. Spanish, rapid-fire. A child crying.

Zane's pulse kicked up. He signaled to Torres, indicated the stairs along the far wall.

They advanced. Each footstep placed with precision despite the urgency screaming through Zane's veins. The stairs groaned under their weight.

The second floor opened into a converted office space. Cheap partition walls created a maze of rooms. The crying grew louder.

A door crashed open behind them.

Max's team flooded through the fire escape entrance, flashlight beams cutting through murk.

"Federal agents!"

Everything erupted at once.

Footsteps pounded. Someone shouted. A door slammed somewhere in the labyrinth of partitions.

Gunfire split the darkness.

Zane dropped behind metal shelves as bullets sparked off the walls. Torres returned fire, the muzzle flash illuminating his grim face.

"Southwest corner!" Max's voice cut through the chaos. "I've got eyes on—"

More shots. A child screamed.

Zane moved, cleared the first partition. A figure bolted across his path—male, twenties, face tattooed with gang marks. Not Vargas. The man raised a pistol.

Zane fired twice. Center mass. The man crumpled.

"ICE! Drop your weapons!"

The reply came in a burst of automatic fire that chewed through the partition walls like paper. Zane dove, rolled, came up scanning for targets.

Max appeared at the end of the corridor, weapon raised. "Vargas is—"

The shot came from nowhere. From everywhere.

Max jerked backward, hand flying to his side. Dark blood spread across his tactical vest, seeping between his fingers.

"Max!"

Torres moved to cover him while Zane's world narrowed to tunnel vision. His friend slumped against the wall, face pale, breathing harsh.

"I'm good," Max gasped. "Get Vargas. Get those kids."

But he wasn't good. The blood kept coming.

"Find the kids." Max's voice came out rough. "I'm fine. Find them."

Zane left Max and pushed forward. The crying pulled him like a rope around his chest, dragging him through the maze of partitions.

The door stood at the end of the corridor, padlocked. Zane shot the lock off, kicked the door open.

The stench hit him first—unwashed bodies, fear, human waste. Then his eyes adjusted.

Cages. Six of them. Chain-link dog kennels stacked two high against the wall.

Children huddled inside. The oldest maybe twelve, the youngest couldn't have been more than five. They stared at him with eyes that had stopped hoping.

"It's okay." Zane holstered his weapon, raised his hands. "We're here to help."

Agent Rodriguez appeared behind him, took one look, and turned to vomit in the hallway.

"Get bolt cutters," Zane said. "Now."

The locks came off one by one. Metal clanging against concrete. Zane opened the first cage, reached for a little girl with matted dark hair.

She flinched backward.

"No one's going to hurt you anymore," he said in Spanish. "I promise."

More agents poured through. Shouts of "Clear!" echoed off metal walls. A child's sob, then another.

Torres returned supporting a small girl, maybe six years old. "We got five. Vargas went out the back window but Lopez is in pursuit.

The other agents shepherded the children toward the exit, their small forms wrapped in emergency blankets that seemed to swallow them whole. Rodriguez spoke soft reassurances in Spanish while Torres coordinated with paramedics outside.

Zane doubled back through the maze of partitions.

Max sat where he'd left him, slumped against the wall with one hand pressed to his side. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading. His face had gone the color of old snow.

"Took you long enough." Max's voice came out weak. "Find them?"

"All accounted for." Zane crouched beside him, assessed the wound. Bad. The bullet had punched through just above the vest line, caught him in the soft tissue below the ribs. "Can you walk?"

"Can I breathe? Jury's still out."

Zane got his shoulder under Max's arm, hauled him upright. Max's weight sagged against him, feet dragging as they moved toward the stairs.

"You're getting soft," Max muttered. "Used to be able to carry me and my gear."

"Used to be you didn't stop bullets with your gut."

They made it down the stairs one agonizing step at a time. Through the loading dock. Night air hit Zane's face, cool after the stifling warehouse heat.

Red and blue lights painted the industrial lot. Ambulances clustered near the entrance. The children disappeared into their interiors, paramedics hovering with gentle hands and kind voices.

Then Zane heard it—a dull roar building from beyond the police perimeter.

The crowd surged forward as barriers gave way. Fifty protesters, maybe more, their faces twisted with righteous fury. Signs bobbed above their heads: "NO HUMAN IS ILLEGAL" and "ABOLISH ICE."

Someone threw a bottle. Glass exploded against the pavement three feet from where Zane stood with Max bleeding against his side.

"Fascists!"

"Child kidnappers!"

More bottles arced through the air. A rock cracked against their SUV's windshield, spider-webbing the glass.

"You gonna arrest babies next?"

The mob pressed closer. Uniforms formed a line but the crowd kept pushing, kept shouting, kept hurling projectiles that whistled through darkness.

Zane dragged Max toward their vehicle. Twenty feet. Fifteen.

A man broke through the police line. He wore a striped skirt and dog ear headband—the kind sold at novelty shops, ridiculous and surreal in the tactical chaos. Something in his hand ccaught the streetlight. Not a sign. Not a bottle.

A knife.

The blade came up fast, glinting.

Zane shoved Max aside as the blade arced through the narrow space. He twisted but the tip caught his right shoulder under the edge of the tactical vest, punching through shirt and skin. Pain exploded down his arm.

The man lunged again. Zane brought his weapon up, smashed it across the attacker's jaw. Bone cracked. The knife clattered to the ground.Dog-ears collapsed.

Two agents materialized from the chaos, weapons drawn.

"We saw it!" Rodriguez grabbed the man's arms, wrenched them behind his back. The dog ear headband slipped sideways across his bloody face. "You're done, pendejo."

Torres holstered his weapon, knelt beside Max where Zane had shoved him. "Jesus. We need a bus now!"

"Already on it. On your feet, mister."

"It's ma'am," the man groaned through broken teeth. Rodriguez swore in Spanish and hauled Dog-ears toward the police line.

Zane pressed his left hand against his right shoulder, felt the warmth spreading beneath his tactical vest. The wound burned like someone had shoved a hot poker through muscle and sinew. He kept his face blank, locked his jaw against the pain.

"Bradshaw." Torres looked up from Max. "You hit?"

"Grazed me. I'm fine."

Paramedics swarmed them. Someone eased Max onto a gurney while he cursed. The crowd still roared beyond the police line, their chants punctuated by shattering glass.

Torres stood, grabbed Zane's left arm. "Let me see."

Zane pulled away. "Said I'm fine. Get Max to the hospital."

Torres's jaw tightened but he nodded, turned back to coordinate with the paramedics loading Max into the ambulance. Red lights washed across the industrial lot, turned everything the color of arterial spray.

Zane walked toward their SUV. Each step sent fresh fire through his shoulder. Blood soaked through his shirt, pooled against the vest's inner lining.

Diana was waiting. Handcuffed to his bed. Alone.

He slid behind the wheel, used his left hand to jam the key into the ignition. His right arm screamed protests when he gripped the steering wheel.

The engine roared to life. Zane threw the vehicle into gear, pulled away from the chaos of flashing lights and angry voices. The spider-webbed windshield fractured the streetlights into kaleidoscope patterns.

His phone buzzed. Dispatch. Then Torres.

Zane ignored them all.

Phoenix spread out before him—desert darkness punctuated by ribbons of highway light. His house waited on the outskirts. Diana waited.

And Zane drove into the night with blood running down his back.

Chapter 11

The door crashed open and Diana jerked awake, heart hammering against her ribs.

Bradshaw stumbled through the threshold, his tactical vest still strapped across his chest, dark stains spreading across the fabric near his shoulder. The predator grace she'd grown accustomed to had vanished—replaced by something raw and barely contained.

"Christ." The word escaped her before she could stop it.

He kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breath coming hard. His face had gone pale beneath the stubble, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping.

"You're hurt." She pulled against the handcuffs, metal biting into her wrists. "Bradshaw—"

"It's not serious." But his voice came out rough, strained.

"Not serious? You're bleeding everywhere." She yanked harder at the restraints, panic rising in her throat. When had she started caring whether this man lived or died? The realization hit her sideways, unwanted and undeniable.

He pushed off the door and crossed to the bed, movements stiff. His keys jangled as he pulled them from his belt. The metallic click of the handcuffs releasing sent relief flooding through her arms.

She sat up, rubbing her wrists. "Let me see."

"Diana—"

"Don't." She grabbed his vest, fingers fumbling with the straps. "Just sit down before you fall down."

He sank onto the edge of the bed and she worked the tactical vest over his head. Blood had soaked through his shirt, the fabric clinging to his back. She peeled it away from the wound and her stomach clenched.

A knife slash cut diagonal across his shoulder blade, angry and red but mercifully shallow. The bleeding had already started to slow.

"Could've been worse," she breathed.

"Was worse for the other guy." He turned his head, caught her eye. Something shifted in his expression—vulnerability she hadn't seen before, breaking through the ice.

"What happened?"

"Bastard came at us with a knife. Dressed like—" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

But it did matter. Everything about this man mattered now, and that terrified her more than Luis ever had.

Diana crossed to the bathroom on unsteady legs, her heart still racing from the sight of all that blood. She yanked open the cabinet beneath the sink and found a white plastic first aid kit wedged behind bottles of cleaning supplies.

When she returned, Bradshaw hadn't moved. He sat with his shoulders hunched, head bowed, breathing slow and measured. She'd seen men in pain before—Luis's associates after fights, Herman after he'd been jumped by a rival gang. But something about seeing this man, this force of nature who'd dominated every moment since he'd caught her, brought low by a knife wound made her throat tight.

"This is going to sting." She tore open an alcohol wipe.

He didn't flinch when she pressed it to the wound, just exhaled through his nose. The muscles across his back tensed under her fingers—broad and defined, every plane carved with precision that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with survival. Scars marked his skin. Old ones, faded to white. This wasn't his first knife fight.

She traced the wound with gentle pressure, cleaning away dried blood. His skin burned under her touch, fever-warm and smooth. The curve of his shoulder blade, the ridge of muscle along his spine—her hands moved without permission, learning the geography of him.

Stop it.

But she couldn't stop noticing how his waist tapered, how his jeans sat low on his hips. Couldn't stop remembering what those shoulders had felt like pinning her to the wall, what those hands had felt like on her bare skin. Heat crept up her neck.

"You done?" His voice came out rough.

"Almost." She fumbled with the gauze, fingers clumsy. Get yourself together. This man arrested you. He's keeping you prisoner. He's—

Keeping you safe, her traitorous mind whispered. He came back bleeding and the first thing he did was free you.

She taped the bandage down and pulled her hands away before she did something stupid like let them wander across the rest of him.

"There." The word came out breathless. "You should rest."

He turned, caught her wrist. His thumb brushed over the red marks the handcuffs had left, feather-light. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.

"Diana."

Just her name. Nothing else. Everything else.

"Thank you." The words came rough, scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest.

Zane knew he should let go of her wrist. Should stand up and walk away, put distance between them before he crossed a line he couldn't uncross. But his thumb kept moving over those red marks on her skin, guilt and something darker twisting through him.

Just adrenaline. The aftermath of violence always left him wired, made everything sharper and more immediate. That explained the heat flooding his veins, the way his pulse kicked up when she bit her lower lip.

Except it didn't explain the way she'd touched him—careful and tender, fingers gentle on his torn skin. Luis's stepdaughter, the girl caught up in drug smuggling and gang violence, and she'd tended his wounds like they mattered. Like he mattered.

She swayed closer, just a fraction. Her pupils had blown wide, swallowing the blue of her eyes. Color rose high on her cheeks and her breathing came shallow, quick. Recognition sparked through him—she felt it too. This pull between them that had nothing to do with handcuffs or interrogations or the game they'd been playing.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered there.

Control fractured.

He slid his hand up her arm, over her shoulder, into the silk of her hair. She gasped but didn't pull away. Didn't flinch. The fear that usually haunted her expression had vanished, replaced by something hungry and honest.

"Diana," he warned, giving her one last chance to run.

She leaned into his palm instead. "Don't think. Please just—"

He kissed her.

Soft at first, testing, giving her room to change her mind. But she made a sound low in her throat and opened for him, and gentle shattered into need. She tasted like rebellion and sweetness, like everything forbidden he'd been denying himself since he'd cuffed her in that bar.

His uninjured arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her hands slid up his bare chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. Every nerve ending ignited where she touched him.

This was mistake. This was dangerous. This was—

Perfect.

Chapter 12

The mattress dipped under Zane’s weight as he braced himself above her. His skin burned where her fingers traced the hard planes of his chest, avoiding the fresh bandage on his shoulder. The scent of antiseptic and sweat clung to him, sharp and male, nothing like the cologne-soaked men who’d lurked in Luis’s bar. His breath came rough against her mouth, each exhale a promise or a warning—she couldn’t tell which.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. This is reckless. The thought flickered, distant as a dying streetlamp. His hands were already at the hem of her borrowed T-shirt, his knuckles grazing the skin of her stomach. She arched into the touch before she could stop herself. The fabric caught on her wrists as she tugged it over her head, the handcuffs long gone but the ghost of their weight still there.

Zane stilled. His gaze dropped, dark and hungry, taking in the lace bra she’d never meant for anyone to see. “You’re shaking.”

She swallowed. “I—I don’t—” The words tangled. How to explain? That this was new. That fear and want had twisted together until she couldn’t tell them apart. That his fingers on the tie of her sweatpants felt like a brand, searing through the last of her excuses.

His thumb hooked into the waistband, slow, giving her time. Always giving her time. The realization hit like a punch. No one had ever done that before.

The tie unfurled. Cool air rushed over her hips as he peeled the sweatpants away, his breath hitching when her legs parted just enough to let the fabric slide free. His hands were rough—calloused from guns and cuffs and all the things that made him dangerous—but his touch was careful. Reverent, almost.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her collarbone, his lips brushing the spot where her pulse jumped.

She should. She should.

Instead, her fingers found the buckle of his belt. The metal was warm from his body. “Don’t.”

The belt clinked against the floor. His pants followed, pooled at his knees before he kicked them aside. Diana’s breath hitched as he reached for his wallet, the latex packet glinting in the dim light. Her stomach twisted—not fear, not exactly, but something sharper, brighter.

Then his weight settled between her thighs, his hips pressing hers into the mattress. She gasped as he pushed inside, a burn that stole her breath. His body went rigid. “Jesus—Diana—”

She flinched at the rawness in his voice, the way her name sounded like a curse and a prayer. His forehead dropped to hers, his muscles locked. “You should’ve—fuck—you should’ve told me.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Does it matter?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

“Then it’s too late.” She lifted her hips, just enough to make him groan. The sting was already fading, replaced by something deeper, something that made her legs wrap around him without thought. “Don’t stop.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. His hands slid under her, gripping hard enough to bruise as he finally moved. The bed creaked, the headboard thudded against the wall. Diana’s nails scored his back, her body arching into each thrust, the pleasure building like a storm—too much, too fast, but she couldn’t have stopped if she tried. His breath was hot against her ear, his voice rough with words she didn’t understand, didn’t need to. The only thing that mattered was the way his body fit against hers, the way his name—his name—was a scream tearing from her throat as the world shattered.

He followed her over, his body shuddering, his weight crushing her into the sheets. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the slick heat of skin on skin.

Then the questions came.

She should’ve asked what happened next. Should’ve demanded to know what this meant, what she meant. But her mouth moved before her brain could catch up, the words stupid and small in the heavy silence.

“What’s your first name?”

His chest vibrated with a laugh, low and disbelieving. He lifted his head, his dark eyes searching hers. “Zane.”

The syllable settled between them, intimate as a secret. She repeated it, testing the shape of it on her tongue. Zane. Not Bradshaw, not agent, not captor. Just a man’s name. Just his.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone, smudging the tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Yours fits better now,” he murmured.

She didn’t ask what he meant. She already knew.

Chapter 13

Diana opened her eyes to morning light filtering through the blinds, casting bars of shadow across the bed. The first thing she felt was the absence of restraint—her wrists free, the skin still tender where the cuffs had chafed. Then came the flood of memory: Zane's mouth on hers, his hands learning the shape of her body, the way he'd looked at her like she was something precious instead of something broken.

Heat bloomed in her chest and spread downward. She'd never imagined it could be like that—tender and fierce all at once, his breath catching when she touched his face, the careful way he'd held back even when she could feel him trembling with want.

She turned her head on the pillow. Zane lay beside her, one arm thrown across his eyes, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. The bandage on his shoulder had come loose during the night, white gauze peeking out from beneath his skin. Without thinking, she reached out to straighten it, her fingers hovering just above his collarbone.

Something twisted in her gut.

What had she done?

The tenderness drained away, replaced by a cold weight that settled in her stomach like swallowed ice. She pulled her hand back. Herman's face flashed through her mind—his crooked grin when he used to sneak her extra food at the bar, the way he'd warned her to stay away when Luis's friends got too drunk. Her stepfather's voice: Mija, la familia es todo. Family is everything.

And she'd just spent the night with the man who'd arrested her. Who wanted to destroy everything her family had built, illegal or not.

Diana pressed her knuckles against her mouth to keep from making a sound. The sheets smelled like Zane's soap and her own sweat and something else she couldn't name. Evidence of her betrayal, written in skin and breath and tangled limbs.

She slipped from the bed as quietly as she could, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her and she sagged against it, eyes burning.

The shower scalded when she turned it on, steam filling the small space until she could barely see her own reflection in the mirror. Good. She didn't want to look at herself right now.

Under the spray, she scrubbed at her skin until it turned pink. Water ran into her eyes and mouth. What would she say to him when she went back out there? Thank you for the orgasm, Agent Bradshaw. Now please take me to jail where I belong?

A hysterical laugh bubbled up and died in her throat.

She didn't know what happened next. Couldn't picture a path forward that didn't end with someone getting hurt. Either she gave Zane information about Herman and Luis—really gave it to him, not the careful half-truths she'd been feeding him—or she didn't. Either way, she'd already crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

The water started to run cold. Diana shut it off and stood dripping on the bath mat, goosebumps rising on her arms. Through the door she could hear movement in the bedroom. Zane, awake now. Waiting for her.

She dried off with a towel that smelled like him and tried to steady her breathing.

Pain woke Zane before consciousness did—a deep, grinding ache that radiated from his shoulder blade down through his ribs. He sucked in a breath and reality assembled itself in fragments: his bedroom ceiling, gray dawn light, the phantom weight of Diana's body against his side.

Christ.

The mattress beside him held the impression of where she'd been, still warm when he pressed his palm to the sheet. Movement caught his peripheral vision—Diana's bare back disappearing through the bathroom doorway, the door easing shut with a soft click. Water hissed through old pipes a moment later.

Zane didn't move. Just lay there cataloging the damage: shoulder screaming, head pounding, chest tight with something that had nothing to do with the knife wound. He strained to listen past the shower noise for the telltale sounds of escape—window sliding open, feet hitting gravel outside.

But the shower kept running. No other sounds came.

He exhaled and stared at the ceiling fan's motionless blades.

Last night crashed over him in waves. Her hands trembling as she'd peeled his shirt away from the wound. The way she'd bitten her lip in concentration while bandaging him. Then after, when he'd kissed her, the small sound she'd made when he'd slid his hand beneath her shirt—half surprise, half surrender.

His body stirred at the memory and he cursed under his breath. Wrong. All of it was wrong.

She'd been his prisoner, for fuck's sake. Still was, technically, even without the cuffs. He'd crossed every line in the manual and invented new ones to violate. Max would take one look at him and know. Everyone at the office would know.

But God, the way she'd looked at him. Like he was something more than the badge and the gun. Like she saw past the mask he'd been wearing for so long he'd forgotten what his real face looked like underneath.

Zane sat up slowly, gritting his teeth against the pull in his shoulder. The bandage hung loose where Diana's careful wrapping had come undone during the night. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his skin.

Was it just the adrenaline? The proximity to death sharpening every sensation until touch became electric and taste became vital? He'd seen it before—partners who'd survived shootouts together, ending up tangled in the back of a squad car while their blood was still wet. The body's stupid insistence on celebrating survival.

But this hadn't felt stupid. It had felt—

The shower shut off. Zane's pulse jumped.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing his balance. Not terrible. The room only tilted a little. He found his jeans crumpled on the floor and pulled them on, leaving them unbuttoned.

What would he say to her when she came out? Morning. Thanks for patching me up. Now let's talk about how I violated about sixteen federal regulations and my own moral code?

Through the door he heard her moving around, the cabinet opening and closing. Taking her time. Maybe she was asking herself the same questions he was—what happened now, what any of it meant, whether morning light would burn away what had felt so urgent in the dark.

Zane touched the doorknob, then pulled his hand back. Waited. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, keeping rhythm with the terrible, treacherous hope lodged beneath his ribs.

The knob turned slowly. The door creaked open. Diana stood there, in the clothes she had worn last night, her hair slick and face pink from the shower. She stared up at him with big dark eyes.

He took a deep breath. "Diana—"

He didn't get any farther, because with a little cry, she threw herself into his arms.

Chapter 14

His mouth found hers, warm and insistent, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to just that point of contact. Then his hands gripped her shoulders and he pushed her back, holding her at arm's length.

"We need to talk." The words came out rough, almost reluctant.

Diana's stomach dropped. She recognized that tone—the one men used before they explained why things couldn't work, why she wasn't enough, why everything had been a mistake. Her stepfather had used it the night he told her Luis would be taking over the family business. Herman had used it when he explained why he couldn't help her leave.

"I should make breakfast first." She stepped back quickly, wrapping her arms around herself. The morning air felt suddenly cold against her bare skin. "You need to eat. After everything last night, the fight, your shoulder—"

"Diana."

"There's eggs, right? And bread. I can make toast." The words tumbled out faster. "You probably need coffee too. Do you take it black or—"

"Stop."

She froze, her gaze fixed on the floor. The wood grain blurred.

Zane exhaled slowly. "Look at me."

She couldn't. If she looked at him, she'd see whatever he was about to say written across his face. That she'd been convenient. That this had gotten too complicated. That keeping her here had only ever been about getting to Luis and Herman, and now that she'd given him everything—her body, her trust, information he could use—there was nothing left worth holding onto.

"Please." Her voice came out small. "Just let me cook. I want to do something normal. Something that isn't... this."

The silence stretched between them like a canyon. She heard him move, felt him step closer, but she kept her eyes down. His hand appeared in her field of vision, calloused fingers extended toward her.

His thumb brushed her chin, tilting her face up. His green eyes held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. His hard mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "All right. Breakfast first.

***

The kitchen smelled of butter and eggs. Diana worked the spatula through yellow curds, watching them solidify in the pan. Behind her, water pipes groaned as the shower turned on. Steam would be filling that cramped bathroom by now, fogging the mirror, soaking into Zane's bandage.

He'd left his keys on the counter.

She stared at them. Silver metal gleaming next to his wallet, his badge. Everything he needed to be Agent Bradshaw instead of just Zane. Everything he'd left completely exposed.

The eggs hissed. She killed the heat, hand trembling on the dial.

She could walk out. Right now. Take the Dodge, drive back to Phoenix, vanish into the sprawl before he even finished rinsing soap from his hair. Luis would never find her if she moved fast enough, smart enough. She'd learned from the best—her stepfather had taught her a hundred ways to disappear when the heat came.

The shower kept running. Steady. Trusting.

Or testing.

Diana grabbed the keys. Cold weight in her palm, sharper than the handcuffs had been. She moved to the front door, shoes silent on the hardwood. Her other hand found the deadbolt.

What was she doing?

Going back to Herman? Her baby stepbrother who'd looked at her with those scared eyes in the bar, who'd run when she'd screamed at him to move. Except he'd left her there. He'd gotten away and she'd gotten caught and he hadn't looked back.

Going back to Luis? Luis with his gang tattoos and his late-night phone calls and the way he'd started looking at her after their father died. Luis who'd changed, who'd gotten harder, meaner. Luis who'd moved men through that bar like cargo.

The keys bit into her palm.

Behind her, the water cut off. Silence pressed against her eardrums. She pictured Zane dripping on cheap linoleum, reaching for a towel, wincing as the movement pulled his wound.

Her father had been a cop. He'd worn a badge like the one sitting on that counter. He'd driven away one morning and never come back, and her mother had shattered into a thousand pieces that no amount of heroin could glue back together.

Diana turned from the door.

She walked back to the kitchen, set the keys exactly where Zane had left them. Her hands moved on autopilot—plating the omelettes, finding forks, pouring coffee.

Stupid. This was stupid. She barely knew him. Knew nothing except he'd arrested her, chained her to a bed, kissed her, loved her, let her touch his wounds.

Let her choose.

The bathroom door opened. Zane emerged in fresh jeans and a t-shirt, hair dripping dark trails down his neck. His gaze went to the counter—the keys, the badge, everything exactly where he'd left it.

Then his eyes found hers.

Diana lifted her chin. "Eggs are getting cold."

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile. Something deeper, rawer. He crossed to the table, movements careful around his injured shoulder, and sat.

She slid a plate in front of him. Their fingers brushed.

"Thank you," he said.

Chapter 15

The omelettes had come out better than Diana expected, given that she'd had to hunt through Zane's cabinets for anything worth cooking. He kept his kitchen the way he kept everything else — sparse, functional, nothing wasted. She'd found eggs, half a block of cheddar, and some wilting spring onions and made do.

Zane sat across from her at the small table, his right shoulder still bandaged beneath his t-shirt. He cut his omelette with the side of his fork and said nothing for a long moment.

"You can cook."

"You sound surprised."

"Little bit." He took a bite, chewed. "This is good."

Diana pushed a piece around her plate. The morning light came through the kitchen window at a flat angle and caught the dust motes floating between them. Last night sat in the room like a third person at the table — not uncomfortable exactly, but impossible to ignore.

"About last night—" she started.

"Diana."

"No, let me." She set her fork down. "I need to know what it meant. To you."

Zane looked at her then, really looked at her, the way he had in the dark of his room when all the careful distance between them had finally collapsed. His jaw tightened slightly.

"It meant something." His voice was low, deliberate. "I'm not the kind of man who—" He stopped. Started again. "It wasn't nothing."

She held his gaze. "I'm still handcuffed in your life, Zane. You know that."

Something moved behind his eyes. "I know."

"So what does that look like?" She picked up her fork again, needing something to do with her hands. "For you and me. When this is over."

The question hung there. He leaned back in his chair, one arm resting on the table, watching her with that measured stillness she'd stopped finding frightening somewhere between day one and now.

"I don't know yet," he said finally. Honest, at least. "But I'm not ready for it to be nothing."

Diana looked down at her plate. A small, reluctant warmth moved through her chest, the kind she'd spent twenty-one years training herself not to trust.

"Neither am I," she said quietly.

Zane reached across the table and touched the back of her hand. Brief. Careful. Like something fragile he hadn't decided whether to hold yet.

Zane's chair scraped back. Diana looked up and found him standing beside her, his hand still warm where it had touched hers. He pulled her to her feet with gentle insistence, and then his mouth was on hers.

Not like last night — frantic, desperate. This kiss moved slower, deeper. His fingers threaded through her hair, tilting her head back as his other arm circled her waist and drew her close. Diana's hands found his chest, felt the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

She forgot about the omelettes cooling on their plates. Forgot about Luis and Herman and everything that waited for them outside this kitchen, outside this moment. Zane kissed her like he was memorizing her, like she was something precious he'd found in all the ugliness of his work.

Her back met the counter. His mouth traveled to her jaw, her throat, that spot behind her ear that made her breath catch. She gripped his shoulders, careful of the bandage, and pulled him closer.

"Zane."

His name came out breathless. He responded with a low sound against her neck that sent heat spiraling through her. His hands slid under her shirt — his shirt, the one she'd borrowed — and found bare skin.

Diana arched into him. Last night had broken something open between them, and now she couldn't remember why she'd ever been afraid of this man. His touch was reverent despite the urgency building between them. Like he'd hurt anyone who tried to hurt her.

Like she mattered.

The alarm shattered everything.

Zane went rigid. The electronic shriek came from his phone on the table, insistent and unforgiving. He pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers.

"Shit." His voice was rough. "I have to—"

"I know."

He didn't move for another heartbeat. Then he stepped away, reaching for his phone and silencing the alarm. Diana stayed against the counter, watching him transform. The man who'd just kissed her like she was oxygen disappeared behind the ICE agent's professional mask.

Zane looked at her once more, something conflicted moving across his face.

"Stay inside. Lock the door behind me."

Diana nodded. She didn't trust her voice yet.

He grabbed his keys, his badge, his gun from the counter. At the door, he hesitated.

"This isn't over," he said.

Then he was gone.

Chapter 16

Diana wandered through Zane's house with new eyes, cataloging details she'd been too frightened to notice before. The furniture matched—dark leather and clean lines—but lacked the warmth of photographs or personal trinkets. No clutter on the counters. No mail stacked by the door. The only signs of life were the coffee mug in the sink and the jacket draped over the back of a chair.

She paused in the doorway to his bedroom. The sheets still held the ghost of their bodies, rumpled and twisted. Heat crept up her neck at the memory.

Her phone sat on the nightstand where he'd left it. Just sitting there. Waiting.

Diana picked it up, the weight familiar in her palm. No missed calls. No texts. She checked the battery—forty percent. He hadn't turned it off or hidden it away. He'd simply placed it there, within reach, as if he trusted her not to betray him.

The thought made her chest ache.

She set the phone down and turned to the bookshelf she'd noticed the night before, when she'd been searching for clues about the man who'd become her captor, her protector, her—

What was Zane to her now?

The shelves held practical volumes mostly. Immigration law. Criminal procedure. A field guide to Arizona flora. But tucked between a worn almanac and a Spanish dictionary sat a slim hardcover with faded green cloth binding.

Diana pulled it free. Pride and Prejudice.

The spine cracked when she opened it, the pages soft with age and handling. Someone had loved this book. Read it multiple times, judging by the way it fell open naturally to certain chapters, the margins marked with pencil notations in a careful feminine hand.

He is too proud, someone had written next to a passage about Mr. Darcy.

Diana smiled despite herself. She'd read this in high school, back when Mrs. Chen had still believed she could make something of her. Back when Diana had devoured stories about women who said no, who demanded more, who refused to settle.

Before Luis had made it clear that women in their world didn't get choices.

She turned to the front of the book. On the first page, written in the same neat hand as the margin notes, a name stared back at her.

Emily Bradshaw

Diana traced the letters with her fingertip. Zane's mother, perhaps? Or his sister? The ink had faded to sepia, suggesting decades had passed since someone had claimed this book.

She imagined a woman curled in a chair, losing herself in Regency England, escaping into a world where love conquered pride and prejudice both. Had she given this book to Zane? Had he kept it after she was gone?

The thought of Zane reading Austen made something warm unfurl in Diana's chest. She pictured him sprawled on this same couch, this book open in his large hands, following his mother's penciled observations. Learning about love from a dead woman's favorite story.

"Who was she?" Diana whispered to the empty room.

The house offered no answers. But the book felt like trust in her hands—another piece of Zane's carefully guarded heart, left out for her to find. Like the phone on the nightstand. Like the unlocked door.

Like the way he'd held her last night, as if she were something precious instead of evidence.

Diana clutched the book to her chest and returned to the bedroom. She settled onto the bed, back against the headboard, and opened to the first chapter.

It is a truth universally acknowledged...

The shrill buzz of her phone shattered the quiet. Diana jerked, the book sliding off her lap. Her heart hammered as she reached for the device, screen glowing with Herman's name.

Her thumb hovered over the answer button. Zane's warning echoed in her head—Luis wants to sell you. But Herman was her brother. He'd taught her to ride a bike. He'd snuck her extra food when Luis punished her for talking back.

She swiped to answer.

"Diana." Herman's voice crackled through the speaker, tight with panic. "Diana, thank God."

"Herman." She gripped the phone harder. "Where are you?"

"Doesn't matter. I can't stay in Phoenix. That raid—everything's blown to hell. Luis is going to kill me for running."

Ice flooded Diana's veins. "Where is Luis?"

"I don't know. I don't know where he is, but he's looking for me. For both of us." Herman's breathing rasped in her ear. "He knows I ran. He'll think I set up the raid."

"Did you?"

Silence stretched between them, loaded with years of shared secrets and survival.

"No," Herman said finally. "But Luis won't care about the truth. You know how he gets."

Diana closed her eyes. She did know. Luis with his quick fists and quicker temper. Luis who'd looked at her differently after her stepfather died, appraising her like merchandise instead of family.

"What do you need?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

"Money. Enough to get back to Venezuela. Start fresh somewhere Luis won't find me." His voice dropped lower. "Please, Diana. You're all I've got. You know I'd do the same for you."

Would he? She wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe someone from her old life gave a damn whether she lived or died. But Zane's words kept circling—sex slavery, trafficking, selling you.

Herman was Luis's brother. Blood.

"I don't have money," Diana said carefully.

"But you can get it. That ICE agent who grabbed you—Bradshaw, right? Max told Luis his name. You're with him now?"

Diana's stomach clenched. "How did you—"

"Doesn't matter. Point is, he's got cash. Feds always do. Just grab what you can and meet me. Tomorrow night."

"Herman, I can't just steal from—"

"Tomorrow night," Herman cut her off. "Remember that old gas station off Route 60? The one Papa used for meetings?"

The abandoned Chevron station. Rusted pumps and broken windows, surrounded by empty desert. She and Herman had played there as children while their stepfather conducted business inside. They'd built forts from old tires and pretended the wasteland was an ocean.

"I remember."

"Ten o'clock. Come alone, Diana. If you bring that agent, Luis will know. He's got people watching."

Diana's throat tightened. Every instinct screamed trap. But Herman's voice cracked on her name, desperate and afraid, and she remembered him at twelve, protecting her from Luis's rage after she'd spilled a drink at dinner.

"Okay," she whispered. "Tomorrow night. Ten o'clock."

"Thank you." Relief flooded Herman's words. "Thank you. I knew you wouldn't abandon me."

The line went dead.

Diana sat frozen, phone clutched in both hands. Through the bedroom window, Phoenix sprawled under harsh afternoon sun—concrete and heat and endless sprawl. Somewhere out there, Luis hunted for them both. And tomorrow night she'd walk straight into the desert to meet her stepbrother.

Alone.