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The moon was athin sliver in the cloud-marred sky, its faint light barely reaching thederelict bones of the abandoned warehouse where Morgan Cross stood. She was ashadow among shadows, her dark hair and inked skin blending with the night, buther presence was as palpable as the tension crackling in the cold air. Thegravel beneath her boots crunched like brittle bones as she took a measuredstep forward.
"Thomas,"she called out, her voice steady and commanding despite the tumult within."I want Skunk. Now."
In the fragmentedmoonlight, Thomas Grady's figure emerged from the gaping maw of the warehouse,an antithesis to the darkness surrounding them. He was disarmingly handsome,his features chiseled yet touched by a cruelty that twisted his smile intosomething sinister.
Standing next tohim, the bulky form of Skunk shifted, the pitbull's eyes glinting with a mix ofconfusion and recognition as Thomas tugged at his leash.
Morgan's heartnearly stopped.
Skunk.
Her dog.
After all theseweeks, finally, she was seeing him again. In the flesh. He was alive.
"Easy,Morgan," Thomas replied, his tone casual, almost mocking. "You'll getwhat you came for."
Morgan's pulsethrobbed in her temples, her fingers itching at her sides, longing for theweight of a gun she hadn't brought. This was a game of wits, not firepower. Shehad to stay focused, remind herself why she was here: Skunk, the one creatureon this godforsaken earth that gave her unconditional loyalty.
"Let him go,Thomas." The words were shards of ice, her resolve a shield fortified byyears behind bars, framed for a crime she didn't commit—a crime connected tothe man standing before her, a man who wanted to play with her mind as much ashe played with computers.
Skunk squirmed inThomas's grip, his stocky body wriggling with impatience. His eyes metMorgan's, and in them, she saw the silent understanding that passed between twosouls bonded by hardship. Relief surged through her veins, a brief respite fromher hardened exterior. Skunk was alive; it was all that mattered in thatmoment.
"Goodboy," she whispered, allowing herself just that sliver of vulnerability."Hang in there."
But even asrelief washed over her, Morgan's instincts screamed at her to maintain control.She couldn't afford to soften now—not in front of Thomas Grady, the man whoheld the keys to her past and her pitbull's leash in his treacherous hands. Hergaze remained locked on Thomas, unyielding, a testament to the walls she'dbuilt around herself.
"Rememberwhat's at stake, Thomas," she warned, each word etched with the promise ofretribution. "You know I won't walk away without him."
Skunk let out alow whine, and it was all the confirmation she needed. They were in thistogether, agent and companion, against a world that seemed hell-bent on tearingthem apart. And as she stared down the man who dared to manipulate her life,Morgan knew one thing for certain: they would not be broken.
Morgan's stancewas a coiled iron spring, ready to unspool at the slightest provocation. Hereyes, sharp and discerning, never left Thomas as he spoke, his voice echoingoff the rusted girders above.
"Listen tomy story, Morgan," Thomas said, the undertow of desperation palpablebeneath his calm exterior. "That's the price for Skunk's life."
"Yourstory?" Morgan's voice was a serrated edge, cutting through the tensionthat hung heavy in the air. "Why should I care about your story? And thosefiles... why leave me breadcrumbs about a man I thought I knew?"
Her father'slegacy had always been shrouded in half-truths and secrecy, and now Thomasdangled it like bait. He had delivered the files that confirmed her father,Christopher Cross, had really been John Christopher... an FBI agent. One whohad accidentally murdered an innocent woman.
"Because,"Thomas's gaze flickered, holding back a sea of unsaid words, "it's allconnected. Your past, my reasons, our present—it's a single thread, Morgan. Andit leads to truths you need to know."
Her mind raced,piecing together fragments of memories that refused to align. The files, herfather, the accusations that had shadowed her career—they all swirled in a mireof doubt. But Skunk's life hung in the balance, and she could no longer affordto let her emotions dictate her actions.
"Fine,"she gritted out, her agreement laced with unwilling curiosity."Talk."
Thomas gave acurt nod, and with a flick of his wrist, he released Skunk. The pitbull wastedno time; muscle and heart propelled him across the concrete floor towardMorgan.
"Skunk!"The name burst from her lips—a rare slip of control—as the dog barreled intoher.
She barelymanaged to brace herself before the weight of her loyal companion crashedagainst her legs. His familiar form, the scent of him, it was a balm to the rawedges of her resolve.
"Easy,boy," she murmured, her hand instinctively finding the solid warmth of hishead, fingers threading through short fur. For a moment, the world contractedto the simple sensation of her dog's presence against her. Skunk nudged herpalm with his nose, a silent exchange of reassurance that tethered her back toreality.
She straightenedup, her grip on Skunk's collar both an anchor and a statement. She was wholeagain, her team restored, but the night was far from over. As Skunk's tailthumped against her leg, Morgan returned her attention to Thomas, her jaw set.
"Starttalking, Grady. Make me believe this isn't another one of your games." Hervoice held no trace of the warmth it did only moments ago with Skunk. It wasall business now, a wall of ice ready to meet whatever flames Thomas mightthrow her way.
Thomas clearedhis throat, reclaiming her focus. "My mother, Mary Price... she died in anFBI shootout. Maybe you recognize her name." His words hung heavy in theair, like the dust motes swirling in the dim light filtering through the brokenwindows.
