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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Six: coming clean

tw: non-con, violence, blood

“Good evening, ladies.”

Disdain taints Aelin’s face in a dangerous way. Her brows narrow at Makarov, and she tilts her head to the side like a bird sizing up a prey she wishes to peck at. Her nose scrunches as if she’s smelt hot garbage—some noisome odor that makes her stomach curl in her abdomen. Mouth splitting open like delicate fruit, you want to tell her to stay quiet, but the fingers squeezing into your shoulders silences you.

“Excuse me?” Aelin questions. Her eyes dart to Marco’s hands and her fingers visibly twitch as they rest on the table. “Not sure who you blokes think you are, but I’d appreciate it if you got your fucking hands off of my friend.”

The way Marco speaks your name has the sparse contents in your stomach curdling. He leans forward, body pushing against the back of your head so that you can feel the way his chuckle rips through his body. “Oh, don’t worry, we’re good friends. Tell her, babe.”

Aelin’s eyes are on you now. Wide, and beautiful. The most recherché of sapphires. But they’re cracking, confusion spiraling throughout her irises, rooting into the flesh as you swallow down your shame.

“Aelin,” you say, voice quivering.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Price,” Makarov interjects. He leans forward, elbow on the table, head bobbing with a sincere nod. “We don’t intend to take up too much of your time.”

There it is—painful realization. It blossoms in Aelin’s eyes like the way mould consumes the tender flesh of bread. Burrowing deep, tunnelling far enough to feed. Her fingers curl as her gaze hardens into steel, piercing through everyone within sight.

“Vladimir Makarov,” she spits.

The man smiles, polite enough to be infuriating. “A pleasure.”

As the weight of the situation settles over the table like thick brume, you find your attention wandering to your phone. It still sits screen up on the table, waiting for another one of Simon’s check-in texts. You yearn to see it light up. There’s no way you can reach for it—to text and ask for help—but leaving his messages unanswered would stir worry in him. It would get him to come.

It would get him to save you; again.

Makarov speaks your name, and like an obedient animal, your attention turns to him. “You look surprised to see us. I thought you would have learned better than to run by now. It didn’t work last time, now did it?”

Your blood thickens into cruor. Veins and arteries blocked, leaving your eyes bulging in your skull and your ears ringing. He grins as the terrible realization of it all falls across your face—your phone.

Even after all these years, you remember the accident that stole Sean Gilroy’s life from him. The call—the way Andrei tore something from the motherboard before leaving the useless, cracked device behind. Have you fallen victim to the same trap?

Is your ignorance about to kill someone else all over again?

“Marco tells me you were doing well. No late payments, always prompt. Your debt had not been an issue and now you’ve missed four due dates. This is very unlike you. What changed?”

Makarov scolds you like a school teacher concerned about missing assignments and poor test results. Each word he speaks is gentle, but the facade is cellophane thin. The last time you saw him he did not leave without spilling blood, and you are not naive enough to believe that you’ve finally grown lucky enough to earn a different fate this time around.

“Debt?” Aelin repeats. She looks at you, hands flat on the table as she leans forward. “Chip, do you owe them money?” When you can’t bring yourself to answer, her gaze is back on Makarov—thick, and demanding. “How much.”

“Mrs. Price, there’s no need to-”

“I said how much,” she seethes between gritted teeth. “A couple grand? A million? Easy, done. I’ll pay it off. Now can you get the fuck out of here and let us enjoy our dinner?”

There’s bickering. Threats uttered in low tones and mandibles clenching so tight that you can nearly hear the creaking of molars—enamale waiting to crack and shatter. Aelin is fiery. Flames lick on the heel of every word she speaks, fingers tense as she points an accusatory finger at Makarov. You’re not sure how much John has told her about this man, but if she knows well enough to hate him, then she should know well enough to fear him.

But she doesn’t. All sharp teeth, she reaches for her purse, claiming she’s going to call her husband to get this all sorted, but you see the way muscles tense beside her. Andrei, standing tall next to Makarov—his nose is straight but there’s a long scar that crosses the bridge. Old stitches that have just fully healed over. He looks different, but he is the same; hands shoved in the pockets of his jumper, icy eyes watching Aelin move.

It’s the same thing all over again.

All your life ever does is repeat.

“Aelin, don’t. Just- please just- just listen to them,” you beg.

Your words get her to freeze just in time for Andrei to snap her purse—and therefore her phone—far out of reach. Makarov hums, seemingly content as he leans back in his seat.

“It seems you’ve finally managed to learn something,” he muses.

A buzz echoes through the table, temporarily silencing the conversation. All eyes snap to your phone, where the screen illuminates with yet another text from Simon.

Is everything still going okay, baby?

Marco’s chuckle is like sour milk. Long bad. Clotted like blood. He leans over you, fingers digging into your skin as he snatches your phone off of the table. Your heart leaps into your throat as he wraps himself around you, holding the screen up for your attention.

“Unlock this for me, will you, babe?” he purs. Hot mint fans against your cheek, burning your eyes as you open the device with your thumb print.

You are still in that kitchen. In that warehouse. Sitting on that chair. Back against the wall. Hand up your skirt. Wretched flesh against yours.

Yeah. All good.

Marco allows you to get one good look at his fabricated response before he kills the screen and places the phone back on the table face down. “Baby,” he mocks.

“You don’t want to make the same mistake this time as you did with Chief Inspector Gilroy, is that it?” Makarov continues.

At the mention of her father, Aelin’s head perks up. As ice builds in your body, she glances back and forth between you and Makarov, pale brows narrowing as she tries to put the pieces of this puzzle together. But she can’t. She’s fumbling. The edges are too sharp, something you know all too well—you’re surprised she hasn’t noticed the blood on your hands yet.

“Chip?” Her voice is almost enough to lull you out of your panic, but your body still prepares for the asperity. “Chip, what is he talking about?”

Before you have the chance to spill your sins for everyone to see, the waiter returns with his hands occupied with two large plates. He’s all courteous smiles and polite conversation as he sets your meals down on the table, but even you’re sharp enough to catch the uncomfortable looks he throws at the men who have interrupted your girl’s night. When he asks if you need anything else for your meals, Makarov quickly dismisses him.

“You’ve been cooperative so far, it’s a shame to see that you’ve fallen from that after all these years,” Makarov continues once the five of you are left alone again. “If you needed a grace period, all you had to do was ask and-”

“No,” Aelin interrupts sternly. She’s nearly leaping across the table now, torso leaning so far forward that Andrei finds it necessary to put his hand on her shoulder and pull her back. Glaring up at him, she shrugs him off. “What the fuck do you mean? What mistake was made with my dad?”

“His death, of course.” His answer is blunt. A wooden club straight to the skull, occipital fracturing, vision going fuzzy.

Her face goes stiff. All her beauty hardens to stone as a shaky breath expels from her chest. “He died in an accident. A car accident that happened years ago,” she claims firmly.

Their bickering continues to the music of clenching fists and suave smiles followed by poetic interjections that leaves Aelin floundering. And then, there’s you. Sitting in a chair, Marco’s hands wandering over you, tracing down your arms as if he’s comforting you—savoring the feeling of his skin against yours. He’s washing away everything good, and you’re not sure you can get it back.

Not after this.

“I got him killed.” Your claim silences the conversation at the table, and for the first time in your life, you feel your stomach churn at Aelin’s gaze. Bitter confusion settles on her face, and even though it’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen, you force yourself to look her in the eyes. “It’s my fault your dad’s dead.”

“What?” she breathes. You’ve never heard her voice tremble like this before—a rabbit caught in a cage, skin quivering as the slaughter approaches. “N-No, Chip, I’ve told you a million times before, the accident wasn’t your fault, there was-”

“They told me not to go to the police, and I did, and he’s dead because of it,” you cut in. Glazed eyes stare at the center of the table as the steam from your forgotten meal begins to dwindle. Your muscles tense in every place that Marco touches you, and you’re certain you’ll be nothing but a statue of grief after this. “Your dad knew something was wrong. Demanded answers. I knew better, b-but I still told him anyway. He was going to take me down to the station, but his phone… they knew. They knew, and they caused the accident, but he was still alive.

“He was stabbed to finish him off. They took the chip out of his phone a-and they… None of it would’ve happened if I just stayed quiet. He would still be alive a-and it’s all my fault and- fuck, Aelin, I-I’m so sorry.”

You’re snivelling now. Uncontrollable tears and snot as the culmination of your sins rears its ugly head in your chest. Your nails are biting into the flesh of your palms, and Marco’s attempt at comforting you with a pat only makes you jump. Eyes squeezing shut, you try to pretend you’re anywhere else, but you’re painfully kept in the present.

When you gather the courage to open your eyes again, you’re met with Aelin’s tear-stained face. A hand presses against her stomach, and you note the way her shoulders heave as if she can’t catch her breath. Her skin blanches. Eggshell white. No warmth like the radiant sun—no sparkle like the stars in the sky.

You’ve killed her. You’ve killed her with your words alone.

“Alright, enough of that, babe,” Marco coos. He’s reaching forward again, fingers pinching at one of the napkins on the table to wipe at your face. When you shy away from his touch, he only grips your chin with his free hand, keeping you still so he can polish you like a trophy.

“You sick son of a bitch!”

It happens faster than your brain can process it. Aelin’s shout. Skin on skin contact. Makarov’s head snaps to the side as Aelin’s chair topples over, and the violence is enough to stun you out of your pathetic pules. The man you’ve spent half of your life fearing clutches his cheek in shock as your best friend raises her hand for another blow.

More obscenities spill from her mouth, garnering the attention of other people in the restaurant, but she does not get the chance to hit him again. Andrei steps forward, hand curling into her shoulder, yanking her back and spinning her around just in time to land a crisp slap to her face. Pulse quickening, you’re standing before you even realize it, fingers reaching for her, an instinct you can’t fight.

You don’t make it a single step before Marco’s pulling you back, hand snaking around the front of your torso to your stomach to hold you in place. “Calm down, babe,” he warns.

“Please stop,” you beg. “She’s not a part of this!”

But Andrei refuses to hear your plea.

His fist sinks into her stomach. Butter splitting on a knife. She crumbles. Cloth falling free from a line—fluttering on the wind, staining on the ground.

Your body reacts, and you have no choice but to listen. Arms flailing, elbows flying—you feel the bony end of your humerus meet something soft, and then air escapes. It huffs, hot and moist. Then, there’s a hand on the back of your head, and pressure, then—

—impact.

Wood bites the tip of your nose, smushing it to your upper lip until your neck pops, snapping to the side. Ichor flows from your nostrils nearly instantaneously, causing you to cough as your eyes water from the sting. You feel him against you—Marco. Hips against your rump, body curling over yours as he continues to press on you, keeping your body bent over the table, fingers curling into your nape as exhales against the shell of your ear.

“You little cunt,” he growls. “Riley’s rubbing off on you in a piss poor way, isn’t he? What happened to my sweet little girl, huh? The one who behaved? What have I always told you? If you need help, you come to me. We make good on that fucking deal, that way shit like this doesn’t happen. Now look. Look at this fucking mess.”

People are shouting now—voices you don’t recognize. Patrons and employees alike, men getting defensive over you and Aelin, women shouting to leave the two of you alone. Makarov orders something in Russian that doesn’t quite fall on your ears, but you feel the way it echoes through Marco’s body as he leans further, nearly crushing you, lips pressing to your cheek, unraveling you with another wretched kiss.

“I’ll see you soon, babe.”

You collapse to the floor as soon as he relinquishes his grip on you, but more hands replace his. Concerned citizens. Good samariatans. Patting your back. Helping you to your feet. Shoving napkins into your hand to stop the blood gushing from your nose. You assure them that you’re fine as you shrug them off, shaky knees nearly knocking together as you stumble towards Aelin on the other side of the table.

She’s on her knees, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other clutching her stomach. Her chest heaves. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t suck in enough air, and the mascara staining her cheeks smudges just enough to make her look like a corpse.

You reach for her, to hold her, to comfort her—but you hesitate.

Vacillate.

Your hands are bloody.

You’ll only ruin her further.

“Aelin…” You’re sobbing, and her name comes out as nothing but a squeak. She doesn’t look at you. Her eyes stay closed as her face contorts, pain rippling through her body as she tries to stand. “Aelin, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. We should- Are you okay? He didn’t- didn’t hurt you, did he? Oh my god, I-I’m so fucking sorry, I-”

“I’m fine.” She chokes the words out firm and harsh, but the pain seeps into her tone anyway. Aelin stands on wobbling legs, gait awkward and stiff as she wraps her arms around herself. You wait for the blood. For the familiar redolence of offals. There is nothing—just the unmarred swell of her stomach. “I… I need to go.”

Blood splatters on the front of your shirt, but you can’t bring yourself to care about the mess as you watch her turn away from you. “I-I’ll come with you.”

“No! Just… stay here, Chip,” she snaps. Her spine stays stiff and curled as she reaches for her purse and slings it over her shoulder, fingers quickly fumbling for a handful of cash from her wallet before she tosses it on the table. “Call Simon. Get to Terminus. I can’t stay here, I need to-”

A sob cuts her orders off, but she shrugs you away when you attempt to comfort her. There’s nothing you can do except watch her vanish from the establishment, legs tight and locked together as she waddles through the door. All you can bring yourself to do is stare at the gaping hole she’s left. Another gash. Another wound in your life.

As patrons coddle you and convince you to take a seat, you can only wonder if Aelin hates you. She has to. You know she does. She’s never snapped like that before. Pushed you away. (There’s an icepack on your nose now, but you’re too numb to feel the cold, the bite, anything). You killed her father. She ought to push you away. It’s what you deserve. To be ostracized. To be othered. (There’s a woman patting your back, and for a moment she feels like your mother, but when she speaks it’s all wrong). You nearly got her killed. Everyone close to you always ends up hurt. (There’s so much blood). Dead. Killed. Slaughtered. Thrown in a box. (It won’t stop coming). Six feet underground. Gore on linoleum. Back against a wall. Stuck to a chair. Prisoner. Marco’s good girl. (Why won’t it stop?)

(Please stop).

“Baby?”

Then—warmth.

A faint apricitie diving beneath algid waves. There are hands cupping your face. Gentle. Loving. Your blood glues them to your face, attaching every cell until you’re one whole being. When your head is tilted up, and your eyes finally focus, you see it. Him. Your Simon Riley.

“Oh, baby, what happened?” he asks.

His question shatters you. Smashes you into a billion pieces until you’re nothing but fine sand and ichor, a sopping mess waiting for someone else to come around to pick you up, as always. You sob. Bloodied hands dropping your ice pack, you throw your arms around his neck and wail into his chest as you spill your sins. You tell him everything. Makarov. Andrei. Marco. Aelin. It all leaves you like rot from a festering wound.

“Where is she?” Simon asks. He pulls away from you and begins to wipe at your face, smearing tears and blood across your skin. He doesn’t seem afraid of the mess.

“I dunno,” you hiccup. “She just left. Said she had to go, told me to call you a-and get to Terminus and… How… how did you know to come?”

For a split moment, his face softens. Every hard line and puffy scar—even the steel in his eyes. It all turns pillowy the moment he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. “You never use capital letters when you text.”

Despite the protest of the restaurant workers begging you to stay to talk to police when they arrive, Simon escorts you out of the building where his car waits, engine still running. Your nose bleeds all over the upholstery, leather darkening to a vibrant crimson, but he tells you not to worry about it as he speeds off into traffic.

Blood is overflowing where it shouldn’t. Down your sinuses, into the back of your throat, slimy clots slithering through you until you’re coughing them up into your sopping wet napkin. Iron coats your tongue, and it tastes an awful lot like your first kiss—just needs more menthol.

“My phone.” The memory returns to you like a slap to the face. Your stomach drops as more blood gushes into your mouth, but you swallow it back. “They found us because of my phone.”

Simon’s fingers are already white knuckling the steering wheel, but the color of his skin blanches further and travels to the tips of his ears until they’re bright pink. “They’re trackin’ you?”

“Maybe. I dunno. They might have tapped my call with Aelin too, o-or something else, I have n-no idea I just- I just know that it was my phone,” you explain.

“Give it here.”

Without another thought, you dig through your pockets until the item is in your grasp. Placing it in Simon’s hand, he gives it a close once over before he’s ripping the case off of it, elbows attempting to keep the wheel straight as the car continues to speed through the streets. Once the device is properly naked, he looks at his blind spot before rolling the window down and tossing your phone through the gap. Slackjawed, you watch in the rearview mirror as it shatters on the road, glass screen exploding into a trillion prismatic pieces. The car behind you swerves to avoid it.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises.

But your mind is very far away—too far to worry about something as trivial as your phone.

“I fucked up,” you choke. Each word you speak is stuffy, nostrils too clogged with blood to get your consonants out properly. “What am I gonna do, Si?”

“It’ll be okay,” he assures.

“She knows. She knows about her dad. What I did. I told her all of it, they made me.” You’re spiraling. An animal caught in a trap. Rubbish caught in a riptide, being pulled too far out to sea to be saved.

“Easy, baby,” he hums. He takes your hand into his. He does not flinch at the blood. “We’ll figure it out.”

Terminus comes into view with the same flashing neon signs that it always sports. Russet bricks, a decent line out the door—you find that you are not anxious about this place anymore. Not the crowd, nor the music that muddies your hearing and shakes every pane of glass in each window; there are worse things that lurk in the dark.

Simon opens the door for you once he’s parked, and you make sure to keep your body tilted forward as you bleed onto the pavement of the carpark. With a hand on the small of your back, he guides you towards the entrance, letting you keep your head down to avoid the stares. There’s quiet murmuring and sly comments from the people you pass by, but all it takes is a single glance from Simon to silence them.

You do not worry about them. All you can think about is Aelin. Her tears. Her anger.

How she hates you.

“Fucking hell.”

John’s voice snaps you to attention. Eyes finding him, you realize that you haven’t seen him in quite some time. Not since you had dinner at their place back in January. He looks different. His beard is disheveled, a far cry from his usual groomed whiskers, and his face is flushed a bright pink. He’s hardly got his gaze on you and you already find your tears beginning to spill again, remorse draining from your body before he even knows of your transgression.

“What happened?” he demands, eyes glancing back and forth between you and Simon.

“I’m fine,” you attempt to assure, but it’s clumsy—unconvincing.

“You and Aelin were supposed to go out for dinner, and I just got a call from her saying she’s at the hospital.” Face tensing, he glances at Simon. “The fuck is going on?”

“She’s at the hospital?” you repeat, voice cracking. Everything twists—a million needles burrow into your skin, and still it does not feel enough to cleanse you.

“Yeah. Christ, looks like you ought to be there, too,” he grunts. “What the fuck happened? Who did this to you? To her? Give me a name and I’ll take care of it.”

The world spins beneath your feet and the only thing that’s grounding you is Simon’s touch. Still, you spiral. Hospital. Aelin. She told you she was fine—but she’s not. There’s something missing. Something else that you can’t name, but it’s here waiting for you to split yourself open on it.

“Baby, go inside,” Simon urges. “I can tell ‘im everything.”

“Vladimir Makarov.” The final nail in the coffin. The first handful of dirt on the casket. The final breath.

John’s face contorts as anger and confusion mixes into a painful dance within him. He steps back, but his fists clench as if he’s ready to fight—he needs to put the anger down somewhere.

“How the hell do you know him?” he asks.

“I owe him money,” you stutter. “I’ve… I’ve owed him for a long time. But I haven’t been paying, a-and I thought that I was able to get away but I… God, John, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I got Aelin hurt and-”

He silences you with a simple raise of his hand and your mouth slams shut. Your fingers yearn for thread, but not for your silly game of string. You wish for a needle. For sutures to keep your lips sealed so you won’t ever have to choke on this shame again.

“How long have you known?” His question is directed at Simon now, sharp gaze puncturing through him, a finger pointing at him as if it’s a spear he wishes to plunge into his chest.

“Price, we shouldn’t talk ‘bout this in front of her,” Simon attempts to rationalize.

“I said how fucking long?”

Incensed fingers curl into the collar of Simon’s shirt as John yanks him forward. For the first time in your life, you watch Simon obey. He follows the ruthless pulling of John’s grasp as he nearly goes limp, and you squeak, arms up in defense as if the violence might soon be directed at you.

“This wasn’t his fault!” you wail.

“The fuck it is,” John spits. “She didn’t know any better, but you do. How long did you think you could keep this from me? What the fuck made you think this shit was alright? How many fucking people have you put at risk, Simon! My fucking wife! My fucking child!”

All air has been lost in the world. You stare, heart empty, blood filling your mouth, spilling out of you like all of the apologies you wish you could articulate but can’t. They fall flat at your feet. Drips and splatters among the grime.

“What?” you breathe.

John goes loose like a dead body. Hands slipping off of Simon’s collar, feet stumbling away from him, his palm slaps over his mouth where his fingers and thumb press and rub into his jaw. His inhale fills him only to deflate, and when he finishes his sigh, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more empty.

“Aelin’s pregnant.”

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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bitterrfruit · 10 months ago

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houndtooth [7]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 3.9k words cw: allusions to sexual assault. imagined smut. 18+ mdni

he lays out your options.

The air of your cell is thick and savoury.

You choke on it, every breath, drowning in it – filling your lungs with its foul warmth and barely slaking your battered body’s need for oxygen.

The sore minutes following your husband’s execution had blurred into incomprehensible smoke. Fleeting. Suffocating. Obfuscating.

You are lost. Uncertain whether or not you are grieving. And if you’re not, whether you should be.

His words were each a bullet, each meticulously calculated to injure you where it would hurt you most. Almost perfectly crafted to ensure your captors lose any semblance of pity or reverence they held for you – so that they might lose whatever restraint they’ve been attempting to maintain. So that they may do to you whatever they have been itching to do. Their exploitation justified. Because you’re just a whore.

But in your desperation to comfort your own distraught mind, you argue with yourself. Your own devil’s advocate.

Perhaps it was a game. Could have been a bluff.

He must have loved you, right? After years of serving him, of acting your part, of loving him the way he wanted you to.

He had to have loved you. You had always dreamed someone would.

No matter the case, the outcome is the same. There’s no way back. Whatever nightmare you’re stuck in will only, only, get worse. Regardless of which pack of wolves you are left to, your fate remains inescapable. You’ll be used. Consumed. Digested. Shit back out.

The Captain had ferried you to a new cell – the one you now sat in, atop a makeshift bed with a squealing steel frame. He had carried you like a child, an arm under your knees and an arm under your neck, he let your head fall on his chest despite your fading effort to stay skittish and defensive. His charity disingenuous. White knight he is.

But you’re weak. Exhausted. Delirious.

You sit in dead silence, knees tucked up tightly to your chin, body only partially dry after your water torture.

The Captain stands in front of you. Hands magisterially on his hips, he pouts under his beard. Wrestling with how best to interact with you, like you’re an animal in an exhibit. Careful not to scare you off, but frightened you’d bite if he gets too close.

“There were no bullets in the gun, by the way,” he says gruffly, voice hoarse like he’s gargling gravel. “I wasn’t going to kill you. It was a… a bluff.”

You say nothing. Give him nothing. You glower at him from under your brow, hoping he leaves so you can finally lie down and cry like a hurt little girl.

“Can I get you something? Water?”

You say nothing.

“Look. We’re – we’re not going to hurt you. But I need you to answer some questions, alright?” He insists. “We need to know about who your husband worked with. I’m guessing he must have called them his colleagues, eh?”

Give him nothing.

“Do you know a Vladimir? Makarov?”

That name, you know. You know it well. You know it like an apple knows teeth. Like a deer knows an arrow. Like a carcass knows a knife.

Less so a colleague and more a rival. Two lions fighting for the same throne. Vladimir hated your husband so viciously it wouldn’t surprise you if he had orchestrated this entire series of events just to be rid of him.

But the enmity between he and your husband isn’t what strikes icy shards of terror through your chest. Isn’t what churns your stomach and pushes dark bile up your throat.

You swallow.

“Mh. Looks like you do know him,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest, rocking on his boots. “Can you tell me about him?”

He persists in his questioning, despite your sealed lips. You know that talking might help you. That spilling your vague knowledge like water from a faucet might ingratiate you. Might earn your freedom.

But what freedom awaits you?

If these soldiers cast you back to your blood-soaked estate, or your petit trianon – as a traitor of your husband, a scorned widow – you will simply be bait. Raw meat to lure bears. Honey to lure wasps. There is nowhere you could possibly hide to evade them, no scheme to outsmart them.

You’d be better off dead.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Did he come to your estate a lot? Did he travel with your husband?”

“Have you ever spoken to him?”

“Does he know you?”

“Could he help you?”

“Where is he?”

He leans forward, props himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue eyes are piercing, discerning. “Do you know where he is?” He insists, “Mia. I’m trying to help you.”

You say nothing.

He is quick to grow frustrated, grunting like a bear and standing upright, he rubs his temples in exasperation as if you’ve given him a headache.

“You don’t want to talk to me. Okay.”

Give him nothing.

“Who will you talk to? Anyone?” He presses, tapping his boot in impatience. “Do you want to talk to the Lieutenant?”

You say nothing – but some shift in your expression must have said something for you. You’re not sure if it was the widening of your eyes, the softening of your brows, the loosening of your shoulders – but he spotted it. And nodded slowly. Knowingly.

“Alright, love. I’ll go get him. Then you’ll talk to him, eh?”

“Simon,” came the gruff bark of Price’s familiar voice. Irate.

Ghost sat on a bench in the empty mess hall, under a flickering fluorescent bar. Bouncing his knee, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him, he pinches a cheap Russian cigarette and holds it between his teeth.

Tastes like shit. Does the job.

“What,” he grunts, swivelling on the bench so that he faces out towards the approaching Captain. “Did she kick y’in the head, too?”

Price only frowns, confused and plainly irritated, he comes to a stop before him and crosses his arms. “No,” he puzzles. “She kicked you, eh? That’ll learn you.”

Leaning back indolently, Ghost tugs the base of his balaclava back over his mouth, tucking it under his jaw. Squishes the butt into the plastic surface of the table behind him. “Not me.”

“Mh,” the Captain acquiesces. “She does seem to like you.”

Ghost only scoffs, not quite a laugh, but carries the same disbelieving amusement. “Right,” he chuffs, “for killing her husband?”

“Possibly,” Price shrugs derisively, “beats me.”

“Has she said anything?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Like talking to a brick wall,” the Captain complains. “A pretty little brick wall.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, turning his head to look at the open door to the hall. He rubs his brow vexedly with his thumb. And you chide me, you hypocritical prick.

“She’ll talk to you,” Price insists.

“Why the fuck would she talk to me?” Ghost retorts. “I waterboarded her.”

“I asked her.”

“What, and she requested me?”

Price tilts his head, a lazy shrug. “Not in so many words.”

“Right. So you’re full of shit.”

“Jesus, Simon. Don’t make me order you,” Price sneers, “No clue why she’s interested in you, but, you never know with women like that, eh?”

His stomach churns at Price’s insinuation. Must have taken your cunt husband’s ramblings at face value. Rookie error for a captain.

Ghost bounces his knee in annoyance. “Just let her sleep, for fuck’s sake. She’s probably delirious.”

“Exactly,” Price nods. “She’ll be nice and compliant, eh? Open to persuasion.”

He's right. Ghost is playing dumb. He’s very familiar with the game, so fluent in the art of exploitation that he could do it with his eyes closed. Beaten, defeated, worn down to a quivering mess is when you’ll be most susceptible to influence. The most pliable.

Letting you sleep, allowing you to recover your strength as you cocoon yourself in your shell is a surefire way to ensure you never utter another word. He can’t let your fear bubble into spite, into anger, into vengeance. He must kick you when you’re down.

But – he's tired. He’s already fucking sick of it. Sick of being confused by his own repulsion. Sick of his pathetic eyes raking over your body despite his efforts to restrain it. Sick of your eyes looking through him like you know him better than himself.

“Too delirious to give us anything useful,” Ghost clarifies, through teeth.

“I don’t give a shit about whatever vapid rumours she has about Zakhaev. It’s pretty clear she knows nothing about his enterprise.”

“Then why the fuck do you want me to keep interrogating her?”

“I don’t want you to interrogate her, Simon,” Price badgers, “I want you to convince her.”

Ghost frowns, crosses his arms testily.

“Convince her to what?”

Ghost hears the squeaking of your shoddy bed as he brutishly unlocks and opens the door to your cell.

You had been lying on your side, curled up like a foetus on the mattress – but the second you are disturbed, you sit yourself upright. Alert. Frightened. Skittish. Stare at him like a cornered cat.

Looks like you’ve been crying. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with the afterglow of your tears. Your lips part just slightly as your weary eyes land on him, as though a rush of air just escaped your lungs. He shuts the door behind him, stands in the middle of your small cell with crossed arms.

He mines his thoughts for words to say. Finds them turning to ash on his tongue.

“Sorry about your husband,” he says, eventually, tone more facetious than he had intended.

He sees the cinder flickering in those sparkling little eyes, your chest rises as you inhale in preparation for your retort. “How can you – how can you say sorry for killing–”

“Not for killing him,” he clarifies with a grunt. “Sorry that you married him.”

That leaves you quiet. You look sour, because he’s right.

“Was he always like that?” He persists, feels the snake of spite rising to his throat, needlessly adding an air of mocking derision to his words. “Did–”

“Why are you here,” you snap to cut him off. Your cadence needle sharp, so starkly at odds to the sweetness of your earlier pleading. Nothing left to beg for, he supposes.

Ghost draws in an impatient breath. He doesn’t want to be here either. “Boss said you’d talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grumble, voice wavering. Pouting at him. Cute.

He sucks his teeth. “Right,” he scoffs. “Yet you’re talkin’ to me, aren’t you?”

You fall quiet again, pulling your knees up to your chest, you clutch your bare feet with agitated fingers. “He’s nicer than you,” you mutter scornfully.

“I bet,” he agrees dully. “But you won’t talk to him.”

“Don’t trust him.”

“Oh?” He queries cynically, “so you trust me?”

You seem to think for a pointed moment before you speak. Wet stare lands on him, scans from boots to head, evaluating.

“You do what you say you will,” you bitterly admit, and he can see it pains you to say so.

Christ.

You trust him? Or, rather, whatever tentative hopeful dependence that you are forced to rely on in a predicament as dire as yours. Still. He squirms at the thought that you’ve decided he’s the best you’ve got. You’ll be sorely disappointed.

Won’t you?

“Have you got more questions for me,” You ask flatly, breaking the off-putting silence.

The defeat in your voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He’d rather you be hysterical, tearful and delirious, overwhelmed with grief but a still riddled with a desperation to survive.

Instead you’re merely hushed and trembling. Perhaps you’re in shock. Perhaps you’ve got a plan. But, what he is most fearful of, is the likelihood you’ve given up. No desire to fight for whatever life might await you now that your husband is out of the picture.

Detrimental to their entire operation, yes. They have no leverage to use against you if you have no interest in staying alive. 

More than that, though, he needs you to keep fighting him. To berate and antagonise and kick and scream. All of his adversaries would viciously resist him and that would justify Ghost’s brutality. When his blistering hatred for you was at its peak, not ten hours ago, he could justify hurting you as badly as he wanted to.

Now what?

How can he bring himself brutalise you when you look at him like that? Teary-eyed, shaking in either cold or panic - but giving him no resistance? No talk-back, no threats, no ploys to escape?

How can he hurt you any further?

He can tell you just want to sleep. Your lids are heavy and swollen despite how hard you try to keep your eyes open and vigilant. Poor thing.

Ghost shakes his head, stepping towards a steel chair that sits propped against the wall. He lifts it with ease, twisting it in the air and putting it down in front of your bed – sits in it casually, leans back. Thighs spread and fingers interwoven in his lap, he bounces his knee as he chews on his response.

“If you’ve got information we can use, sure.”

You sigh deeply and slowly, picking at the cherry-red polish on your toenail with a ferocity that appears to him like self-flagellation. “I don’t know what information I have. Let alone whether it’s useful.”

“’Alright,” he huffs, takes a minute to think of the question. “Said you’re from Nottingham, yeah? How’d you meet him?”

A crease forms in your brow as your dubious eyes jump around his face, searching for an intention. You won’t find one. He doesn’t know what it was.

“How is that useful information,” you seethe.

He shrugs indifferently. “Need details.”

You huff as though reluctant, looking at your feet. “I met him in Berlin.”

He stays silent, and when your stare quickly jumps to him for approval, he gestures with his brutish hand to elaborate. Unsatisfactory answer.

Your gaze returns to your toes. Focusing as you scrape the glossy red paint with your fingernails, leaving specks that look like dried blood on the dirty mattress.

“I was a dancer. Um – he came into the club I danced in, with some other men. All in expensive suits. Rich men like that are cheap. Usually never spend a thing. Still want a piece.”

A stripper. Not what Ghost would have guessed. But he can picture it, all the same. And he does. Pictures you spinning on a slippery pole, peeling off a lacy bra, slender little hands stroking over your buttery body as you present yourself to dogs like meat.

He grounds himself with a clearing of his throat. “S’that right.”

“Mhm,” you answer distastefully. “Was always the working boys that spoiled us. Wanted to spend what little money they had just to please. Just because they could. Men in suits, they want what they pay for. And they pay next to nothing because that’s what we’re worth to them.”

“And Zakhaev…?”

You draw in a slow breath. “Victor was different.”

That’s it? C’mon, love. His silence an insistence to continue. And you do.

“I dunno,” you sniff, he sees your eyes swell red. “I guess he saw something valuable in me.”

He chastises himself for his interest. Why the fuck does he care how a whore comes across a man like Zakhaev? Billionaire wants a trophy wife, so he buys one. It should be no surprise at all.

“So he bought you, eh?” Ghost asks harshly, and your wet and angry stare shoots daggers at him in response.

But you relent. Maybe he’s right. Your gaze returns to your toes and wipe your nose with the back of your hand.

“He gave me fifty-thousand euros for a private dance.”

Fucking hell.

Can’t even fathom spending that much money on anything. But when he looks at you… if he had that kind of money, maybe he’d do the same.

Nearly smacks himself at the thought.

“Generous,” he says instead, disdain on his tongue.

“He was sweet,” you continue, voice wavering as you visibly swallow the urge to cry. “He – he said he could save me. Would take me to his nice house and protect me. Said he’d treat me like a goddess.”

Ghost snorts spitefully. “Did he?”

You scowl at him. “Yes, he did.”

A knife of guilt plunges through his sternum, a truly unfamiliar sting.

Did you love him?

He cannot fathom that you could have. Not after that repulsive tirade, so unbearable to hear he felt compelled to execute him just to make it stop. He thought he had done you a favour. Still mostly believes he has.

“Didn’t sound like it,” Ghost remarks derisively.

You chew your lip. “It’s your fault he snapped,” you murmur, under breath. Doesn’t sound like you believe what you’re saying. “He was – he was good to me.”

He sniffs, licks his teeth. “You had bruises.”

“Fucking ‘course I have bruises, you tortured me.” You hiss.

Shakes his head. “Before,” he ripostes. “You had bruises on your collarbone. On your thighs. From him, eh?”

You bite down on your tongue, he sees your eyes well. Must have prodded a sore spot.

“What is this? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you he beat me so you feel better about murdering him?”

That sparks his anger.

“You think that would make me feel better?” He barks, “I feel fucking fantastic. Shooting that cunt is the best thing I’ve done all week.”

“You’re sick,” you breathe.

“I’m sick? Do you know what your fuckin’ husband did? Do you know what he was?”

“He was a businessman,” you utter, unconvincingly.

“He was a mass-fucking-murderer. He started a war. You wanna know what the body count for that is?”

You fall quiet. Shivering and tearful. But you listen.

“Your husband was busy building bombs. Chemical weapons. Busy selling explosives to fucking terrorist militias in the middle east. Paid for the bombings in London last year. I’m fuckin’ proud that I shot him, whether or not he beat you.”

You’re ghostly. Blood drained completely from your apple cheeks. Your mouth opens to sip a trembling breath, and your tears begin their cascade.

“I didn’t know,” you whimper.

“’Course you didn’t,” he chides doubtfully.

You heave in a whining sob, tears dripping off your chin as you plunge your face against your knees. Was that your last straw, little thing?

“I didn’t,” you stutter, snivelling. “I – I knew he… he was an arms dealer. Just an arms dealer.”

He’s nauseated at the sight of you sobbing so sorely. Finds himself wondering you look like when you smile.

“He was a warlord.”

You sob, dropping your knees open so you sit cross-legged, Ghost’s eyes shoot between your legs. Get a fucking grip. Watching you cry and still stealing his glances? Can’t help it. You cry too pretty.

You move the focus of your self-mutilation from your toes to your fingernails, picking off the lacquer. You sniffle quietly for a minute, and he lets you. What else can he say to you? He’s not much interested in comforting you.

But there’s an ache, sharp and yet nebulous. The acknowledgement that you didn’t know the extent of your husband’s evil. That he likely kept it hidden from you. Or you, hidden from it. That your torture was fruitless and extraneous. Cruelty for the sake of it.

“What happens now,” you ask, near-whisper.

Ghost leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, lets his hands hang nonchalantly. “Still got one use for you.”

Your stare lands on him carefully. You breathe as though preparing yourself, a tear lands in the corner of your parted lips. You uncross your legs, hanging them slowly off the edge of the bed, hands turn to fists on your knees.

“I thought you weren’t interested,” you squeak.

Ghost’s jaw clenches inadvertently, biting down on nothing. Knows what you’re implying. Do you think he’s here to rape you? Here to unwrap you, to tear off that tissue that barely conceals the prize?

His glower is probably serving as evidence. Boring into you with a hunger beyond his control. Jesus. Control yourself.

He could do it. Fulfil your suggestion, accept your offers. Play the role of the lecherous hound you believe him to be.

You’d let him.

You’d lie face down on that bed for him. You’d let him hitch up your hips, presenting your soft pussy for him to take. You’d let him rake down those pathetic pink knickers. You’d let him spit on his fingers and push them into you, to prepare you for the incursion of his spiteful cock. He’d curl and drive them deep, he’d make sure your pussy releases a spate of its sweet liquor just for him.  

You’d probably whine sweetly – in pain, at first, as he penetrates you, as your cunt stretches to fit him. But those muffled whimpers into the mattress would evolve into cries of shameful rapture, poignantly humiliated by how good it feels when he fucks you. He’d fuck you slowly. Deeply. He’d make sure the blunt head of his cock rams into that aching spot that makes you squeal.

He’d coat his thumb in your syrup, he’d press the pad of it against your puckered hole. He’d listen to your cloying noises as he pushes it, popping past your tight, clenching entrance, easing it in until he’s knuckle deep. He’d feel his cock rutting in and out of you, through the thin fleshy wall between your holes. He’d feel it cinch so tightly around his thumb, pulsing in rhythm with the abashing orgasm that he fucks out of you. He’d threaten to pump you full of his come, and when you only mewl wetly in response, no dispute, fucked drunk; he’d oblige you.

He’d let you think he’s finished. He’d give you a moment to breathe, as he pulls out of you, as his hot come drips from you, coating your thighs. Your pussy would look too pretty drenched in a concoction of your fluids and his, twitching still in the aftershock.

So he’d flip you, hoist up your soft body by the hips as he sucks your cunt into his mouth. He’d eat another orgasm out of you, voracious and messy, he’d swallow it, and continue; just to feel you writhe in dispute of the overstimulation, just to listen to the squeals of contest that squeak from your wet throat.

He’d leave you choking, panting for air, as he allows you to recover. He’d let you sleep, and he’d know that you’d dream of him.

You fucking animal.

Pulled back to reality by a shivering sigh from your chest - he’s repulsed by himself. Reels in self-loathing as his cock jolts behind his trousers, swelling in anticipation of a crime he won’t commit.

His peers have chastised him for being a beast. An uncaring monster. The kind of animal that would fuck you while you cry, that would take pride in making it hurt. 

They’re wrong.

You simply look at him, pupils stretched wide and dark, glassy with worry. Your cunt might be pulsing in between the thighs you hold together so tightly, readying itself for him, preparing for the worst.

No, little rabbit, he wouldn’t do that to you. Not unless you beg him for it.

So he leans back in his seat, feigning disinterest, hoping you don’t notice the turgid heat that radiates from him.

“Not that, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely. “We’ve got a more important use for you.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

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cas-backwards-tie · 3 months ago

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⟡ vladimir makarov masterlist ⟡

--oneshots--

under the moonlight

--series--

the long road | After your fiancé’s murder, you’ve come up with a plan to avenge him. Now in Russia, you’re thrust into a country, a language, and a fake identity you know next to nothing about. Forcing yourself into his life was easier than you’d anticipated, now the only problem is you’re worried someone’s catching onto your lies.

#vladimir makarov x reader #mw3 reader insert #cod reader insert #makarov x reader #my masterlists

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vellichor-of-the-solivagant · 2 months ago

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How To Plant Snapdragons | 20

Task Force 141, Keegan & Konig x Female Criminal!Reader

Previous Chapter / Masterlist / Discord

Trigger/Content Warning: Depictions/Mentions of blood, manipulation, Bullying Phillip Graves

The sandbag shook violently on its chain, groaning with every heavy impact of your heel and knuckles. Dust kicked up from the padded flooring beneath your feet, stirred by the force of your movements and the dry air of the training hall. The room was vast, sterile, and cold despite the sweat dripping down your back—glass-paneled skylights high above casting long shafts of white light across the polished floor, revealing the chalk and blood smears that never quite scrubbed away.

Your muscles screamed.

But you didn’t stop.

Left jab. Right cross. Pivot. Back kick. Again.

You focused on the rhythm. The sound of your own breathing. The sharp snap of fabric as your foot cut the air. Your body was slick with sweat; your training shirt clung to you like a second skin, and your hair stuck to your cheeks. You ignored the ache in your calves, the burn deep in your shoulders. That was the point. The pain was progress. Soreness was a success.

And you needed to be better.

You had to be better.

Then—your name.

Not barked. Not growled. Spoken. Calm. Cold.

You stopped mid-swing, breath still heavy, your heart thudding in your ears. Slowly, you turned—hand still raised, chest still rising and falling with exertion.

He stepped into the room with deliberate ease. Vladimir Makarov.

Your father.

He was dressed in a dark suit today—tailored, as always. His shoes echoed across the training floor with each step, precise and measured. His expression was unreadable at first—stern, analytical—but then his lips curved into something that resembled a smile. Almost.

It wasn’t a warm smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. It held no comfort, no softness. But it held something else.

Pride.

That, at the time, was all you ever wanted.

You dropped your arms and straightened your stance, ignoring the tremble in your thighs as you did. A smile tugged faintly at your own lips—small, almost automatic.

“Been at it for a while,” you said, voice rough from effort.

Makarov gave a slow nod, his eyes sweeping over you like one of his field reports—measuring damage, efficiency, endurance. “I saw,” he said. “Form’s cleaner. You’ve stopped flinching.”

You almost glowed at that. He never gave praise lightly.

“You’ve been diligent,” he added, stepping closer. “It shows.”

He stopped in front of the sandbag, inspecting the sweat-darkened canvas and the torn seam near the top where your strikes had worn it down. He reached out and steadied it with one hand—long, calloused fingers spreading across the surface like he was touching something delicate. Reverent, almost.

You stood still, arms at your sides, waiting.

“You’re almost ready,” he murmured.

“For what?” you asked, cautiously.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned to face you fully. The light hit his face just right, carving shadow into the sharp angles of his features. “Pain is your ally,” he said. “It teaches you. Strengthens you. If you understand pain, you understand control. That is what sets us apart from the rest.”

You nodded. You had heard this before. More than once. But you repeated it like scripture. “Pain teaches. Pain strengthens. Control is everything.”

A glint of satisfaction flickered across his face. “Good.”

Then silence.

You stood there, facing him, chest still rising and falling. Waiting for him to turn and leave like he often did—dropping his words like blades before vanishing into the halls of the estate.

But this time, he lingered.

“You’ll surpass me one day,” he said. “You already know how to be ruthless. You just need to stop hesitating.”

You blinked. His tone had shifted. There was no pride in his voice now—only a warning.

“I don’t hesitate,” you replied, a little too quick.

His gaze darkened just slightly. “Yes. You do.”

And then he walked past you, his hand brushing briefly against your shoulder—not in affection, but in command.

You remained in place, your hands curling slightly at your sides, heart still hammering—not from training, but from the strange ache in your chest. The silence of the room returned, deafening in its absence of approval. And yet, somewhere deep down, that hollow feeling buried itself like a splinter.

But you ignored it.

Because at that time, his pride had been enough.

Your father’s call cut through the silence of the training room, pulling your attention away from the sandbag. You exhaled slowly, wiped the sweat from your brow, and turned toward him. His voice had no edge to it, no urgency—just a calm command that you had long learned to obey without question.

Without saying a word, you padded over to him, your feet light on the cool floor. Your gaze flicked to his back, watching as he began walking, and you fell in step behind him, the sound of your footfalls faint in the large, empty hall.

"We’ll be having dinner with some of my friends tonight," your father announced as he led the way, his voice quiet, yet unmistakably authoritative. "Prepare yourself."

You nodded, your expression neutral. "Yes, Father."

The sound of his steps never faltered as he walked with purpose as if he already knew you’d follow without needing another word. His presence was commanding, and you had grown accustomed to it—his power, his expectation, his complete control over everything and everyone in his orbit. It had always been like this.

You split off from him when you reached the end of the corridor. Your destination was just a few turns ahead—the one place in this vast mansion where you could finally breathe a little easier.

As you walked through the marble halls, your eyes skimmed the walls, where Renaissance paintings were meticulously hung. You had chosen most of them—at least the ones that mattered. Your father had gotten them for you, without hesitation, without question. For him, money was no object when it came to securing your wants, but it was never about the paintings. It was about showing that he could give you anything, that nothing was beyond his reach. Even your desires were merely extensions of his power.

The maids and servants lined the corridors, their heads bowed as they passed, their eyes never daring to meet yours directly. You responded with a slight nod, a simple acknowledgment of their presence. It was a habit now, an unspoken rule. You didn’t need to speak to them, but you recognized their place.

As you walked past a particularly grand mirror, your reflection caught your eye—your sweaty, disheveled form standing tall, shoulders straight. For a brief moment, you almost didn’t recognize yourself on the polished surface. But that was a fleeting thought, and it disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

You heard a soft voice then—a maid, stepping out from behind a nearby column. She addressed you with respectful deference. “Your bath has been prepared, miss, and your clothes are ready as well.”

Your gaze flickered toward the maid, who seemed to stand just a bit straighter under your scrutiny. You nodded curtly again.

“Thank you,” you replied, your voice calm, even though your mind was already a step ahead. Dinner. His friends. The familiar sense of unease tugged at your gut. But you’d learned long ago not to let anything show. Not in front of your father, not in front of anyone.

You entered your room with a quiet sigh, the heavy doors closing softly behind you. The space was vast, and luxurious—more like a suite than a mere bedroom. The bed, a large, imposing queen-sized frame draped in deep, rich fabric, dominated the center of the room. The warm tones of the wood complimented the soft light filtering in from the balcony, casting a golden hue on the plush carpet beneath your feet.

The room was carefully curated, filled with the comfort of wealth but lacking any trace of warmth. The walk-in wardrobe on one side of the room was neatly organized, everything in its place, from your favorite outfits to the ones you rarely wore. A wall of shelves lined with books, most of them works of history, philosophy, and art, drew your gaze for a moment. It was a small indulgence, one your father had indulged in when you expressed your interest in reading as a teenager. It was one of the few things that had been truly yours, the knowledge you sought to fill the spaces left by all the lessons in power, control, and strategy.

The large bathroom stood adjacent to the wardrobe, the door slightly ajar, steam billowing out from the warm bath already prepared for you. The faint scent of lavender and rosewater filled the air, promising comfort and solace.

But what truly caught your attention was the bed.

Laid out neatly atop the silky sheets was a dress—midnight blue, shimmering under the light. Its sleek, halter-neck design clung to the curves of the mannequin’s body, long sleeves draping with elegance that spoke of refinement. A dress fit for an occasion—an occasion that required all eyes on you.

Beside it, a pair of silver heels glistened, the heels high, yet graceful, perfect for the sleek, sophisticated appearance your father insisted you uphold in front of his associates. The last piece of the ensemble was a small box of jewelry. You opened it, the silver set inside matching the shimmering hue of the dress—a necklace, delicate and fine, earrings to match, and a bracelet that looked almost as though it was made for a queen.

You smiled, running your fingers over the pieces, the cool silver glinting in the soft light of the room. There was no hesitation. It was always like this. Your father knew how to set the stage—how to ensure you were prepared for whatever his business required of you. It had never been about your comfort, only about ensuring you were the perfect image.

The dress, the jewelry—this was part of the performance.

You set the box down, glancing toward the bathroom, then back at the dress. It was time to prepare.

Moving toward the bathroom, you undressed quickly, letting the heat of the bath rise around you. The water, scented and inviting, was already warm enough to ease the tension in your muscles from the earlier training. The warmth wrapped around you, and for a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to relax, sinking into the soothing water. The weight of the day—the demands of your father, the dinner ahead—felt lighter as the steam enveloped you.

For the briefest of moments, you let your guard drop, but only for as long as it took to cleanse yourself, to slip away from the role that was always so firmly placed upon you.

When you emerged, skin still warm from the bath, you moved toward the bed. With a practiced ease, you slid into the dress, the fabric smooth and cool against your skin. The heels were next, their cold metal biting at your heels, but you didn’t flinch. You were used to the discomfort—the sacrifice it took to be seen, to be perfect in your father’s eyes.

Finally, you reached for the jewelry. As the delicate necklace slipped into place around your neck and the earrings were fastened, you took a long look at your reflection in the large mirror by the balcony.

You looked the part. You always did.

But for a brief moment, the reflection staring back at you felt distant, as if it were someone else—someone who had been shaped by every expectation, every moment that had pushed you further into the role of the perfect daughter, the perfect heir.

You turned away, the smile fading just a little. It would all be worth it, of course. It always was.

You turned away from your reflection, the smile on your lips wavering for just a fraction of a second. It wasn’t real. The warmth of the jewels against your skin, the elegance of the dress—they were just another mask, another part of the performance. But tonight, like every other night before, you would play your part. You would smile and nod, be perfect for your father’s friends, do what was expected of you.

But deep down, you knew. It wasn’t enough.

The night started with opulence, just like every other dinner with your father's associates. The dining room was grand, lit by golden chandeliers that cast soft light over the white linen tablecloth, silver cutlery arranged meticulously beside fine china. The faint sound of polite laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. Your father sat at the head of the table, commanding the room with his presence, as always. You were the perfect daughter, poised and silent, at his side, as you had been trained to be. Everything was as it should be.

But that night, it fell apart.

The door swung open in the middle of the conversation, and you barely had time to register the tension before the gunshots rang out. They came in quick succession, the sound sharp and explosive, slicing through the air, leaving only the echo of death in their wake.

Your father’s men scrambled, but you barely moved. The chaos, the shouts, the screams, all blurred into a singular noise in the background, overshadowed by the rage and fear that surged through your veins.

The first bullet struck. A man crumpled to the floor, blood splattering against the white marble. Someone—an associate, perhaps—dared to move too quickly, to cross the line. He wasn't supposed to act like that. Your father had been betrayed, and in that betrayal, you were a pawn.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but your feet didn’t move. Your body, your instincts, those trained for moments just like this, held you in place. Your breath caught in your throat, a gasp escaping as you felt your legs tremble beneath you. The man who had grabbed you—the one who had dared to touch you—was gone now. His blood pooled on the floor beneath your feet, staining the fine silk of your dress. The sickening crimson spread slowly, inch by inch, as it soaked into the fabric of your heels.

And then the gun was in your hand.

The weight of it was familiar, comforting almost. Your fingers tightened around the grip, and you raised it with a practiced hand, pulling the trigger without thought, without hesitation. The recoil vibrated through your arms, and the power of it surged through your body. One shot. Two shots. Three. The sound of the shots was deafening, each one ripping through the night air, each one carving a jagged path to the man who lay before you. His wide eyes, frozen in shock, met yours for a split second before blood poured from his throat, staining the floor beneath him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Your arms trembled as the gun slipped from your grasp, your mind struggling to process what had just happened. You stood over the body, the weight of the gunshot still lingering in your hands, your breath ragged. The world around you felt suspended, and for a moment, you weren't sure if you were still inside your own body.

You turned to your father.

He stood there, a smile curling slowly across his lips, an expression of approval etched into his features. He nodded, just once, his eyes cold but proud. His voice was muffled, distorted, as if the world had shifted around you. His words were a blur, faint and distant. "That's my girl."

But it wasn’t his voice you heard in your ears—it was the gunshots, the death, the blood. The heat of the room. The taste of metal in your mouth.

Since that night, you had never been able to hear your father the same way again.

What had once been a voice of authority, a voice that commanded respect, now felt like an echo—hollow, distant, laced with something dark and suffocating. Every word he spoke was tainted by that moment, by the blood that still stained your hands, your dress, and your very soul.

You couldn't unsee it. You couldn’t forget the way his face had lit up with pride as you took that life, as you became a part of the bloodshed he had always been surrounded by. You had followed his teachings, followed his rules, and in the end, you had become exactly what he had always wanted.

But it wasn’t enough.

The hollow space left inside you only grew with every passing day. You didn’t feel pride. You didn’t feel strength. You only felt the weight of what had happened. The moment you killed, the moment you stopped being a daughter and became a tool, everything changed.

The sharp sting in your arms from earlier, the tender burn of bandages on your wounds, was enough to anchor you. The familiar scent of antiseptic filled your nose, and the muffled sounds of the world outside the room slowly began to press against your senses.

Your eyes fluttered open.

You were no longer in the mansion. No longer surrounded by the cold beauty of that life. You were on a table—rough, medical. Dim lights above you buzzed gently as the low hum of voices from the other room filtered through the walls. The discomfort in your chest, the soft pressure of something wrapped tightly around your skin, reminded you of the pain you’d felt. The fight. The moments that led to this place.

For a long moment, you lay there, the remnants of the dream still hanging heavy in your mind. You could hear faint voices—fragments of conversations, distant and unclear.

Keegan. Soap. Hesh.

You barely moved, just listened, letting yourself adjust. The weight of what had just happened, the rush of your past colliding with the present, made it hard to focus. But you had to. You couldn’t stay lost in that dark memory, not again.

A sharp breath. Another. Your body groaned as you tried to sit up, your hands feeling the familiar softness of the sheets beneath you, the rough edges of bandages crinkling beneath your fingertips. You barely noticed the slight shift in the room as someone stepped closer.

"Don’t move just yet," Price’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet, strong and authoritative. You could almost feel his presence even without seeing him, like a weight on the air that demanded attention.

You blinked, disoriented, and slowly turned your head. Price stood by your side, looking down at you with a mix of concern and command. Ghost stood further back, his arms folded across his chest, his masked face unreadable as always. But the quiet tension in the room made it clear—they were both keeping an eye on you.

Your eyes narrowed, trying to wipe out the blur in your vision. You swore you had heard Keegan, but why was Price the one here? Had you only dreamed of reuniting with him and your brothers? Was it Price who saved you from the Shadows instead?

"Keegan." The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice rough from the strain of waking up, still raw with the weight of everything that had happened. “Where is Keegan? Is . . . Is he here?”

Price exchanged a brief glance with Ghost before answering, his tone firm. “Keegan’s fine. He’s outside.”

Outside. That didn’t feel right. You felt a pang of unease stir in your chest. But you couldn’t quite place why. But at least, you knew that you weren’t just hallucinating about having him in your arms. He was here. Your brothers were here.

“And Hesh?” Your voice was weaker this time, and you didn’t even need to ask about Logan, though the name hovered on the tip of your tongue.

“Hesh and Logan are with the others," Price said, his voice even but unyielding. "You need to rest. You’ve been through a lot."

You tried to push yourself up, but the motion was slow and heavy, the world around you still not fully in focus. Ghost was there immediately, his gloved hand on your shoulder, a subtle but firm gesture that kept you from moving further.

“You should’ve stayed down,” Ghost’s voice was quieter now, less commanding, but still holding an edge of concern. “You’re not ready to be up yet.”

You frowned, frustration building within you. Despite the fogginess clouding your thoughts, the urge to get answers—to see them—was almost overwhelming. The absence of Keegan, Hesh, and Logan was gnawing at your gut. You needed them.

Your voice, still hoarse, came out more forcefully than you intended. “Call them in,” you demanded, the words slipping from your lips before you could second-guess them.

Ghost’s eyes flickered to Price, who gave a curt nod. Without a word, Ghost turned and stepped toward the door. It barely creaked open before the three of them appeared, rushing in like they hadn’t dared move too far from you in the first place.

"Hey, hey," Hesh’s voice was strained with urgency as his eyes locked on you. "You’re awake," he murmured, his tone a mixture of disbelief and relief.

The air shifted around you as they all bent down on you beside the bed, moving in unison. You reached out instinctively, your hand finding their warmth, and then they were there, their bodies pressing close to yours, wrapping you in a cocoon of security. Their faces buried in your shoulders and neck, their breaths unsteady but desperate. The overwhelming pressure of their embrace grounded you. You hadn't realized how much you needed them, how much you craved this moment.

You mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper, but thick with emotion. "God, fuck," you said, your words trembling. "I thought it was just my imagination..."

The reality of everything—of the blood, the gunshots, the fear—it hit you like a freight train, but you held it in, fighting back the overwhelming urge to break. It had felt like a dream, a twisted nightmare. But this was real. They were real.

Keegan, Hesh, and Logan remained silent, their hold on you never loosening, as though they feared you'd slip away again. You could feel the tension in their bodies, the way they clung to you, but none of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Their presence said everything that words could never express.

With your chest tight, you closed your eyes, letting the weight of the moment wash over you. You were alive. You were here. And they were too. It was all you could hold onto.

You pulled away first, your fingers trembling as you shifted your gaze to Price. Your eyes locked for a moment, and without hesitation, you reached out to him, pulling your hand from the warmth of the others. The three of them reluctantly let go, still hovering close but giving you space.

Price's expression softened as he met your eyes, and you managed a weak, grateful smile. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “For believing me.”

He took your hand gently, his grip steady and reassuring, offering you a silent promise that you wouldn’t be alone in this. His eyes said everything—there was no judgment, no hesitation. Just understanding. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small gesture, but one that said more than words ever could.

You pulled your hand back, clearing your throat as frustration built within you. You tried to sit up again, but the moment you made a move, they all stopped you. It didn’t take long before the frustration bubbled over, and you huffed in irritation.

“I need to sit. I need to move around,” you snapped, voice rough from the exhaustion and the pain.

Price, Ghost, and the others exchanged glances, but they knew you too well. You weren’t going to listen to any argument. Sighing, they reluctantly helped you sit up, each one wincing as they saw the strain it took, the pain flashing across your face.

You grimaced as the ache flared up in your body, every muscle screaming in protest. Keegan and Logan steadied you, their arms on either side of you, but even then, the pain didn’t subside. You cursed under your breath, the tension in your body making it hard to keep your focus.

But you waved off their concern when they began nagging. “I’m fine,” you muttered, brushing them off, but they continued to watch you, their eyes heavy with unspoken worry.

You motioned toward the door, ignoring the soreness that gripped your every move, determined to keep going. Ghost stepped forward, opening the door with a soft creak.

Just as you took a few unsteady steps forward, relying heavily on the support of Keegan and Logan, Gaz and Soap appeared in the doorway. They were both looking at you, expressions a mix of concern and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Don’t even think about it,” Soap said, his tone gruff.

“I can shoot you right now if I have a gun in my hands,” you spat, making him pull a face.

With a collective effort, they guided you to another table, helping you down into the chair. You winced as you settled, the weight of your body pressing down on sore muscles, every inch of your being protesting the movement. Despite their assistance, it felt like every bone, every muscle screamed at you, but you didn’t let it show.

You sighed deeply, avoiding their eyes. You knew they saw it—the sharpness in your breath, the way your body trembled slightly despite trying to stay still. You were hiding it, suppressing it as best as you could, but they weren’t blind. They saw through it, through your mask of defiance, even if they didn’t speak on it. Price, Ghost, Keegan, and Logan—all of them had that sharpness to their gazes, watching you carefully, eyes flicking from your face to your body, as if they could see the raw exhaustion and pain you were hiding beneath your stubbornness.

Alejandro and Rodolfo stood nearby, arms crossed, their stares filled with a mix of concern and disbelief, as if they had seen you rise from the grave. You could feel their eyes on you as you tried to sit up straighter, hoping the sharpness in your posture would mask the way your body refused to cooperate.

You were certain they all thought you were some kind of monster—a machine designed to take pain without breaking. But that wasn’t true. You were breaking inside, just refusing to show it.

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask for more information, to figure out the next step, but before you could, Graves' voice rang out from a shadowed corner of the room, harsh and cold.

“You goddamn monster, why are you awake already?” His words sliced through the air like a blade, his tone dripping with disbelief.

You sighed. “Can someone tape his mouth? Gag him with a rag, if you will.”

Immediately, Hesh fetched something from a corner, and your mouth parted slightly as you watched him unroll a duct tape, grinning as he marched towards Phillip. Graves’ curses of protest as the Vaqueros held him down to keep him from moving were immediately muffled by layers of duct tape over his mouth.

Hesh threw the roll of tape over his mouth and wiped his hands on his pants.

You leaned back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest, watching the whole spectacle unfold with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

As Graves’ muffled protests grew quieter beneath the layers of duct tape, you smirked, flicking your middle finger at him before letting out a short, sharp laugh. The Vaqueros had him secured to a wooden pillar, their swift, precise movements securing him like a piece of cargo, not a person.

“You know,” you drawled, your voice cutting through the room, “I’m surprised you didn’t do that until now.” You shot a brief glance at Hesh, who gave a self-satisfied grin ashe walked back. He knew he’d just taken care of the problem without anyone else having to lift a finger.

Price, who had been quietly observing, didn’t flinch as you turned your attention back to him. He waited for you to make the next move, but you were already speaking.

“Oh, yeah,” you added with a sly grin, eyes still on the scene in front of you, “make sure you tie him real tight, please.”

The soldier nearest Graves, one of the Vaqueros, gave a small nod and tightened the knots on the rope with precision, making sure Graves couldn’t move an inch. "Yes, ma’am."

Satisfied that Graves was taken care of—for now—you turned your focus back to the 141 and the Ghosts, your mind already processing the next steps.

“Price,” you said, voice steady, but the urgency clear, “did you call Laswell?”

Price hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his head. "I did. But I couldn’t contact her.”

You clicked your tongue. “She must have been trying to hide from Shepherd earlier. She has a few safe houses that Shepherd didn’t know about but . . .” You sighed. “Let’s call her. You’ll know more about what kind of mess Shepherd and my father—” You paused, eyes immediately flickering at the members of the rest of the 141. They barely reacted and you felt relieved. Price must have already told them. “What Makarov started.”

Price didn’t hesitate. He turned to Alejandro, who was standing nearby, watching the exchange quietly.

“Do you have a laptop for operations?” Price asked, his voice calm but firm.

Alejandro nodded almost immediately, turning to shout an order. "Rudy, fetch the laptop."

Rodolfo, who had been standing off to the side, quickly moved to the back of the room. A moment later, he returned with a laptop in hand. He placed it down in front of you, setting it on the table with a soft thud. You didn’t waste a second, immediately turning the laptop toward Price.

Without a word, you gestured to the device, silently telling him to handle the call. The urgency was clear in your eyes, and Price didn’t need further instruction. He leaned forward, his fingers dancing over the keyboard with practiced ease. You could see his mind working quickly as he set everything up.

Laswell picked up the call almost immediately, her voice warm with relief. “Good to hear you all made it safe,” she said, a hint of her usual cool professionalism tempered with something else—something that was hard to miss. It wasn’t just business for her. There was something in the way she spoke that suggested she genuinely cared. For the first time in what felt like ages, someone actually acknowledged their concern about you as more than just another soldier, another asset.

However, the moment Price’s voice filtered through the line, the tension between them became obvious. “You know, Laswell, I don’t exactly agree with that.” His voice was sharp, more than a little aggravated. “We’ve got bigger problems here, one of which is her,” he pointed at you, “taking a knife to the stomach.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. Despite the pain, despite the bruising and the damage, you brushed it off. You always did. In the midst of everything that had been going on, you didn’t have time to sit around playing the victim.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to push the conversation forward, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing.” You hated how weak it sounded, but there was no way around it. It had been the same since you were young. Anything that hinted at weakness had been a taboo for as long as you could remember. Your father had always drilled that into you—no one should see you falter. Not even for a second.

But Laswell wasn’t having it. “No,” she shot back immediately, the bite in her voice matching Price’s sharp tone. “You’re not fine. I’ve been on the phone with enough field medics to know better. You’re hurt, and I want you resting. It’s as simple as that.”

Her words hit differently. She wasn’t just nagging because of her job, wasn’t scolding out of a sense of duty. There was something maternal about the way she spoke to you, an energy that made you feel like you weren’t just another soldier in the field.

You couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something—something you hadn’t felt before. Something more genuine. But it wasn’t like you knew how to process it. In your mind, you’d always been taught that you weren’t entitled to that kind of care. You’d had maids, yes. Growing up in that mansion with your father, you were surrounded by them. They were there to take care of you, to clean, to cook, and to make sure everything ran smoothly. But they were just doing their job. They were paid handsomely for it, and they kept their noses out of your personal life.

But Laswell . . . Kate was different. She was the first woman who’d ever treated you as something more than just an asset or a tool in this endless cycle of military chaos. At first, it had been exhausting, her constant care and warnings. The nagging was relentless. She’d push you to rest, to eat, to think before acting, to not throw yourself headfirst into danger. She was worse than Elias when it came to telling you what to do. But it didn’t come from a place of duty alone—it came from something deeper, something that was hard to ignore.

It felt strange at first, hearing someone worry about you, nagging like a mother might. In your life, you’d never had a mother figure. Sure, you had your father—cold, distant, but always present. You had the maids and the servants, but they were just workers, just people who did what they were paid to do. They never offered you care beyond the basics, never showed you affection. You had learned, early on, that no one would care for you unless there was something in it for them.

And then, just as Laswell began to press her point further, you caught the movement out of the corner of your eye. Hesh was standing by, grinning ear-to-ear, clearly amused by the situation. He wasn’t shy about it either, throwing you a wink as if to say, Now you know what it feels like.

“I swear,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, “I get enough of this from Elias.”

Hesh only laughed, taking in the scene with an air of amusement as Laswell continued her scolding, her voice still heavy with concern. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was just so . . . foreign. You weren’t used to it. You’d learned to push through pain and exhaustion because no one would come to rescue you. You had to be self-sufficient.

Finally, after several moments of chastising, Laswell sighed in exasperation, the frustration bleeding out of her voice. “You’re a damn stubborn one, aren’t you?”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you grumbled under your breath, too tired to put up much of a fight.

At that, Laswell’s tone softened, and she exhaled a small sigh. “Fine. But I’ll be expecting you to take it easy when this is over. Understand?”

You nodded, giving her a small smile. “Sure, Laswell. I’ll rest once we’ve dealt with Shepherd.”

There was a beat of silence before Price spoke again. “I’ll get in touch with him. It’s time we settle this.”

The transition was quick—no sooner had Laswell begun to calm down than she moved on to the next task. She shifted her focus to the bigger issue at hand. Her voice became colder, sharper as she switched gears, knowing time was against all of you. “I’ll patch you through to Shepherd,” she said, already typing away on her end.

You could feel the shift in the room. The air seemed to hum with tension as everyone moved into position. Rodolfo, who had been quiet throughout, moved to one side of the room, readying himself for whatever came next. Alejandro stood nearby, his posture as tense as everyone else’s.

As the laptop’s screen flickered, Laswell’s voice became more professional, more businesslike. “Shepherd. We need a word,” she said, her fingers tapping quickly over the keys.

Shepherd was a man you’d had run-ins with before, but this time, things would be different. You didn’t know how or when it would end, but you knew you were no longer in control of your fate. And that was something you’d never been comfortable with. But now, you had allies, and you had people who actually cared about you. Even if it felt strange, even if you didn’t know how to deal with it, you’d never been in a better position to fight back. You weren’t alone in this anymore.

You shifted, trying to slide your chair just a little away from the table to make room for Price, but the moment your core muscles engaged, a sharp pain lanced through your stomach. You hissed, curling slightly inward as your hand instinctively clutched at your side. The stitches were holding, but they burned like hellfire.

Before you could even move further, Price placed a firm hand on your shoulder, keeping you anchored. “Don’t,” he said lowly, but with the same edge of concern in his voice that Laswell had carried. His grip was gentle, though, like he was trying not to hurt you more but still make sure you stayed put.

You sighed, leaning slightly back as you muttered under your breath, “I can still move, y’know…”

Gaz—quiet and perceptive as always—was already stepping away from the group. He grabbed a chair from the side of the room and returned with it in hand, sliding it beside you and setting it down for Price. “Figured you’d need one, Captain.”

“Thanks, Gaz,” Price nodded, settling in beside you with a groan of his own, though it was more from tired bones than injuries. You were keenly aware of his proximity, the way he leaned slightly toward the laptop and angled it in a way that kept your face out of view of the camera. His reasoning was clear—you looked like shit, and he didn’t want Shepherd seeing that. Not yet. At the same time, everyone else scattered away from the camera, leaving only the Captain to face the man in call.

The screen flickered, stabilizing for a moment before a familiar face appeared, grainy from the secure connection but unmistakably smug.

Shepherd.

His image sharpened just enough to see the lines on his face and that permanent expression that walked a tightrope between false charisma and concealed arrogance.

“Price,” Shepherd greeted, his voice gruff and composed. “Didn’t expect a call from you this soon.”

But Price wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “You hid all of this from us,” he said, his voice low, grim, barely contained beneath the weight of betrayal. “Why?”

There was a flicker—barely perceptible—in Shepherd’s expression. The kind of twitch a man-made when he knew the walls were starting to close in. But even now, he kept his mask up, kept his words polished, composed. “I made the decisions necessary to keep things moving,” Shepherd began, clearly choosing each word carefully. “You of all people should understand that—sacrifices have to be made.”

That was it. That was the excuse he offered for the chaos, for the bloodshed, for the betrayal.

You didn’t speak yet. You just stared at the man on the screen. The man who had quietly ordered 141’s death. The man who had handed Graves the leash, not knowing—or not caring—what kind of monster would yank it. The man who had tried to have you dragged back in chains. If Keegan hadn’t gotten you in time, you would have been back in his hands, and the thought of him, repeating what he had already done to you, made your stomach twist.

Price’s tone was steel. “You wanted us dead, didn’t you?”

Shepherd’s jaw clenched. “I needed control of the situation. You and your team were unpredictable. You were—”

“Doing our damn jobs,” Price cut in sharply. “Graves? He wasn’t acting alone. You planted men under his command. Your men. He thought he was in control, but you were pulling the strings behind the curtain the whole damn time.”

You could see it now, clearer than ever. Shepherd had built the betrayal like a scaffolding, piece by piece. He’d sacrificed Graves’ loyal men behind his back, replacing them with soldiers who took orders only from him. He let Graves believe he had command over Shadow Company—let him spiral into megalomania—just long enough to draw attention away from the bigger picture.

The stolen missiles.

Price continued his voice tight with disgust. “You shipped out American missiles without telling anyone. Not Laswell. Not us.”

“They were stolen by Russians,” Gaz added darkly from behind you. “You didn’t tell a soul. You just sent us in to clean up the mess like it wasn’t your fuck-up.”

Soap scoffed from across the room. “We were chasing your mistakes in the dark.”

Shepherd’s gaze sharpened. “That’s enough.”

Price stood up, turned away from the camera, and let out a chuckle. “You’ve lost your mind, General.”

Shepherd moved away from the camera, his expression unreadable as he leaned back into his chair. “And you’ve forgotten what you were fighting for, John.”

His voice echoed with false wisdom, as if this betrayal were a burden he bore with reluctant dignity. Then, slow and deliberate, he rose to his feet, walking toward the tall windows of his office. The golden hues of the setting sun lit the city behind him—a contrast to the rot sitting at the center of the screen. He stood with his back to them, hands clasped behind him like a general surveying the aftermath of a battle he never fought in.

“When we shit,” Shepherd turned his head slightly, enough to look back into the camera, his eyes falling half-lidded from the height of the windows behind him, “we bury it. That’s how it works.”

The room went dead silent for a moment. Like everyone collectively needed a second to process just how unapologetically stupid that line was.

You blinked. Then let out a long, suffering sigh as your eyes rolled so far back, you nearly saw the back of your skull. “He thought he cooked with that line,” you muttered under your breath, your voice flat with disappointment.

Hesh, standing close beside you, leaned down, his voice low as he whispered in your ear, “It’s so bad that it’s funny.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning, but it didn’t stop the faint laugh that escaped you through your nose. Even Logan had turned his head away, visibly trying to hide his smirk. Soap coughed, very obviously disguising a laugh, while Gaz quietly muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "This guy thinks he’s Sun Tzu."

Your eyes flickered at the sergeant. “You know Sun Tzu?”

Even Price’s brow twitched, though he masked it behind a long, exhale through his nose as he stared down Shepherd's projection on the screen.

“Glad to know we nearly died for a man who thinks in bathroom metaphors,” Ghost murmured, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"It was so stupid he made yer jokes sound good to me," Soap commented.

The Lieutenant's eyes snapped at him. "You thought my jokes were stupid, huh?"

Soap immediately raised both of his hands, shaking his head. "NO—"

Rodolfo, standing with Alejandro, tilted his head with narrowed eyes. “Is that supposed to be philosophy?”

“No,” Alejandro replied dryly. “That’s just how a coward rationalizes betrayal.”

You leaned forward slightly, tapping the table once with your finger. “Right. Can we all agree that whatever comes out of this man's mouth from now on gets automatically filed under ‘irrelevant bullshit’?”

There was a chorus of quiet grunts, nods, and one very audible, “Amen,” from Soap.

Keegan just shook his head at the entire conversation that hung out just now.

Shepherd still stood there, staring out at the city as if the world was going to mourn his twisted ideology.

But the only thing the room felt now . . . was done.

Price folded his arms and stared into the screen again. “You’re not burying anything this time, Shepherd.” He stepped closer, boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor, the lines in his face set deep with cold anger. Reaching the edge of the table, he leaned forward toward the laptop, every word dripping with warning. “You need to call off your Shadows.”

Shepherd scoffed. The faint creak of leather followed as he sank back into his chair, like a man too tired of his own mess to clean it up—but far too arrogant to admit he made one. “Graves?” he said, with a huff of disdain. “He had gone rogue. Probably brainwashed by that snake I can’t see right now.”

The words came out smooth, like a practiced excuse, his eyes flicking toward the part of the screen where he knew you were out of sight. The implication wasn’t subtle. His meaning, even less so.

He meant you.

A muscle ticked in your jaw. You didn’t shift, didn’t lean forward. You just stared at the edge of the laptop, your voice slicing through the tension with calm venom.

“That’s amusing,” you said slowly, “Who was it who brushed off Graves when he needed help after the Russians massacred his Shadows? Who was it who planted hundreds of men in the Shadow Company, telling them to follow Graves but eliminate him if he started disobeying orders? Sure, blame the one who got stabbed in the gut.”

“Who was it who knew the Russians would come after the missiles?” Shepherd barked back, making you snort.

“That’s funny,” you began, slowly, venom dipped in velvet, “Who was it who turned his back when Graves begged for aid after the Russians butchered his men like cattle? Who, pray tell, was it that seeded the Shadow Company with agents—wolves in borrowed fur—loyal not to their commander, but to you, Herschel? Commanded to serve Graves . . . until the moment he dared stray from your script?” Your voice, once edged in heat, cooled—refined now, deliberate and biting in its elegance. “And yet here you sit,” you continued, eyes half-lidded in amusement, “casting blame upon the one left with a blade buried in their belly. How gallant. Truly, the markings of a man burdened by honor.”

“Oh, shit,” Hesh muttered, his eyes wide as he brought a clenched fist before his mouth, half to stifle a laugh, half in sheer disbelief. “She started talking like that.”

“Does she do that often?” Gaz asked in a hushed tone, leaning slightly toward him while taking a careful step back—subconsciously putting distance between himself and you as though you had summoned an ancient spirit.

“She don’t,” Hesh shook his head, lips tight. “And when she does, it’s unnerving. Like, she turns into this poetic, regal version of herself. I’ve only heard her talk like that once—when she was threatening a weapons dealer who called her a dog.”

Soap blinked. “And how’d that end?”

“She called him a 'witless cur with the brain of a boot’s heel' and then broke his nose with a bottle of red wine,” Hesh said flatly.

Gaz’s brows lifted high. “Bloody hell.”

Soap leaned in closer, eyes wide, a grin slowly forming. “Wait—how the hell does she even talk like some . . . aristocrat?”

“She’s a princess,” Hesh answered plainly, turning his head to face him.

The silence that followed was tangible.

Gaz and Soap stared, blinking in unison.

“…Like, actual princess?” Gaz asked slowly.

“Just kidding, no.” Hesh nodded once. “But she’s like old money. Old power. Castle type shit. Do you know the crazy European mafia-type families? Take that, but make it military.”

Soap’s mouth parted slightly. “Explains the way she threatened Shepherd like he was about to be beheaded by candlelight.”

Gaz blinked again. “Explains why I just felt the urge to kneel.”

“Yeah,” Hesh muttered. “Now you get why I don’t argue with her when she talks like that. That’s ancestral rage talking.”

Soap swallowed. “And here I thought Price was the one I had to be scared of when he started to call everyone muppets.”

“Mate,” Hesh gave him a look, “you should be more scared of her.”

Meanwhile, Shepherd’s expression twisted, the sneer already forming as he barked, “Who was it that knew the Russians would come for the missiles?”

A short, humorless snort escaped you—then, a low chuckle, something dark and indulgent like aged wine. “I issued you a warning, did I not?” you said, voice like silk woven with steel. “That meddling with those weapons would stir vultures from the Northern East? But you, Herschel . . . you, in all your infinite wisdom, deemed yourself untouchable. You dressed your folly in the garments of patriotism, proclaiming yourself the martyr, the savior, the silent guardian. But in truth . . . you are naught but a coward. A man clinging to delusions of grandeur to spare himself the gallows.”

“You sought to bury the truth beneath bodies,” you went on, rising slightly in your seat despite the screaming pain in your muscles, “to brand the 141 and the Vaqueros as traitors. To crown yourself the hero, wreathed in lies and sanctified by a nation too blind to question.” You leaned forward to the laptop for once then, expression sharp and elegant, like the tip of a ceremonial dagger.

“But I?” Your smile was slow. Cold. Beautiful in the way winter frost gleamed on a blade’s edge. “I have always known. Every little rot beneath your mask. You were arrogant enough to let me close, to let me observe, to whisper your sins under the belief you could use me as your sword. And truly, thank you for that. You have made my task ever so simple.” Your voice dropped to a hush, the final words near reverent.

Shepherd’s jaw tightened, the lines of his face pulled taut beneath the weight of your words. He stared at the screen—at you—yet he said nothing. No sharp retort. No venom-laced counter. Just silence. And then, slowly, almost begrudgingly, he dragged his attention away from your face on the screen, turning it back to Price with a scowl.

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger, Captain,” he said darkly. “Do you trust her, John? Like a fool?”

Before Price could even answer, you gave a soft chuckle, rich and dry, and with an elegant flick of your wrist, you pulled the laptop subtly toward your side of the table—enough that your face was now front and center on the camera.

“Oh, forgive me,” you said, your tone soaked in mock-sweetness. “Were my words . . . outside your lexicon?” You arched a brow, eyes glinting with cruelty undercut by refinement, like velvet drawn over a blade.

Behind you, Price huffed through his nose—dry, amused, but steady. He crossed his arms slowly. “I think I do,” he answered gruffly, without hesitation, without looking at you. “Because unlike you, General . . . I know who she is.”

Shepherd’s lips twitched, and for the first time in the exchange, a flicker of something uncertain passed over his features. Not fear. But caution. Like a man who just realized he might have been playing chess with a grandmaster blindfolded.

You smiled again, slow and smug. “Well then,” you murmured, your voice silken with satisfaction, “I suppose that answers everything, doesn’t it?”

Then, without warning, Price moved.

You barely registered the shift before his arm reached over your shoulder, the weight of his vest brushing against you—warm, heavy, grounded. His gloved hand came to rest just beneath the curve of your nape, not restraining but anchoring. Soft in intention, firm in promise.

He was close—so close that the raw scent of him filled your lungs. Sweat clinging to fabric, the tang of iron from dried blood, the sharpness of gunpowder threaded with something earthier, older. A battlefield clung to him like a second skin.

"After we're done with Hassan," Price said, his voice low and steady as he stared into the camera, right into Shepherd’s face, "we're coming after you." He didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. The words weren’t a threat—they felt like they were a prophecy.

Then, just like that, he lifted his hand and shut the laptop with a sharp click.

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gazstations · 3 months ago

Text

Come Home, My Darling

CHAPTER FOUR

ᯓᡣ𐭩 CHAPTER SUMMARY

Kate Laswell tells 141 the full truth of what she knows behind the reason she pushed for John's family to go into protective custody.

♡ Chapter Warnings: None.

◇ Notes: Happy April Fools! This chapter is not a joke

○●○ SERIES MASTERLIST ♡ PREV ♡ NEXT

NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

IT WAS THE DAY YOU LEFT THAT JOHN PRICE FOUND OUT THE TRUTH.

The anger gnawed at the edges of his brain like maggots. Slithering around with tiny legs that prickled the ridged flesh just right. It was disappointment in oneself that melded into a chaotic mess. A demon that clawed up from the pits of hell and sunk fire into his stomach. Anger was an old comrade, patting his back and telling him he would never be able to carry on without.

John Price was angry far more than he was civil.

Anger got shit done. You can only take action when your blood is boiling over. Calm cannot take down malice. You have to play the players' game. See the deceit because you are also rigging the system.

Anger was muscle memory. The twitch was a familiar comfort. Told him that some of his humanity was still intact if he still got revolted by what he witnessed.

The captain was a pillar of leadership. He commanded. He was the man who made the tough calls. He had to live with his actions, even when sometimes people ended up caught in the crossfire. No one got through this life without hurting someone. Even good people left someone with scars.

The captain had made far more enemies than he ever had friends. The difference was less than ten to an upwards of fifty. He was the face people plastered on the wall and threw darts at. The one that made their voodoo dolls of him and bent the arms to see if his would break as well.

John Price was a name infamous for getting cursed, damned, and everything in between.

He put away the big dogs. Left them deteriorating behind bars or six feet underground. He was swift. Had a record to prove he was exceptional. That's why he was always on rotation. Hitting the ground running with his trusted men by his side.

But this one bastard was the top of the food chain as well. Put most other terrorists to shame. He made a fool out of John, broke that clean record of getting shit done, and shoved the ripped contents into his mouth. Humiliation was not an emotion John dealt with accordingly. He was so resistant to being wrong that the flames spread with might throughout his body.

Kate had just finished telling the team all that she had in her pocket. She had lied in your presence. John found himself grateful. Detail was still classified, and you were still a civilian. It's just the way things were.

The boys were silent. Gaz eyed John closely, watching the way the stoic captain went rigid. John could feel the weight of his stare, burning his flesh with cautious and questioning intent. He ignored it. Tried to. Even if a bit of him was unraveling inside.

“Vladimir Makarov is after my family?” he questioned with a low timbre, words teetering on collapse.

The name rattled in his head like a loose coin in a bottle, the syllables alone striking the utmost fury without ever physically touching his skin. John’s skin burned, and the hair rose along his arms in anticipation. Back to square one, straight into the lion’s den like a damn puppet.

“Thought we sent his arse tae the Gulag,” Soap remarked. the Sergeant's lips were pouted, disdain on his face.

John knew there was a mutual, burning hatred for the mentioned terrorist. He wanted to wring the bastard's neck. If he had it his way, he’d have Makarov hanging from a flag pole in a town square. Picked apart by vultures and a visual reminder to his supporters that evil had no shelter.

But General Shepard was monitoring them at the time. Got the brass up his ass about military etiquette. John pulled a lot of shit. Dragged his boys through the fire with him. He listened to orders only when he believed they were worthwhile.

Killing Makarov against regulation would've been a swift reason to get 141 disbanded. John was a lot of things, but he wasn’t willing to risk losing his team.

So, he followed rules for once and regretted it a second later.

He knew it was wrong to keep Makarov alive. He was a pure manipulator. His work never stopped when he got put behind bars. No, John knew the gears would keep turning. You had to shoot those bastards in the head twice. Just to ensure the finality of death. Otherwise, they always found a way back.

“You did. There was a full prison break. He was the main retrieval, but hundreds of prisoners also escaped in the process,” Kate informed.

She dropped a small file on the table, the contents inside relayed information about said prison break. A break out of the Gulag was impressive, John had to admit. But he didn't want to give the bastard too much credit.

John gritted his teeth as he glanced at the file. He wouldn't fully read it right now, not while his head was full of cotton.

Makarov was playing games. Going after his family was a sick joke. Helping you and the kids evade the Russian would be like treading through a minefield. While John wouldn't have wished for any of his adversaries to be pursuing you, the last one he wanted was Makarov.

if you were caught, the flesh would be pried off your bone slowly. You were never meant to be a part of that. You were always meant to be separate from the darkness of his job. He got dirty so he could clean his hands at the door and be a simple husband and father. The lines were muddled now. Danger was in your periphery, and John couldn’t be there to block it with his own hand.

No, he had to sit back and let some bodyguard take the reins. Fucking bullshit.

Kate eyed John, and he met her gaze with a steely edge. Her eyes were calculating, thoughtful and he hated when she started analyzing him. She read him almost as well as you did sometimes. He felt stripped down and vulnerable. He loved holding his emotions close to his chest, hiding from anyone else.

Eventually, Kate looked away.

“This is going to get personal,” she didn't outright say it, but John knew well she was mainly addressing him. His jaw clenched.

“Makarov is always going to be personal,” John responded. He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back against the wall behind him.

Gaz spoke next, “We put Makarov in. We have to take him out.”

Kate sighed, “Maybe. But we all still have jobs. What's happening with John's family is horrible, but we can't let that distract us from everything Makarov can do. He's looking for weak points, and we all know messing with our team won't be the end.”

“My family is my priority, Kate,” John declared.

“And if you were anyone else, I would pull you off the mission,” Kate countered. “I know I can't stop you. But I urge you to at least consider other ways Makarov might try to shake the system.”

John was listening only halfway. Deep down, he knew Kate was right. But his tunnel vision was thick, the walls clearly bordering his family. They were all he saw. He would demolish that cottage he built if he could not return to your soft embrace at the end of the day. He was not losing you.

“We got it, Laswell,” Gaz spoke for John.

“Any pings on Makarov?” Ghost now took the chair.

“No. As of right now, he's in hiding,” Kate said. “We have to wait for a sign. In the meantime, we carry on as normal.”

“Nothin’ normal ‘bout our jobs,” Soap hummed.

That was an obvious fact. Even when John was curled up on the couch with you and the kids, he was still a killer. You and him had created life, and he snuffed other life out the very next day. Normality was a concept they did not know. He could play pretend, but nothing changed the scars he had.

“Is my family settled somewhere?” John asked finally.

“They're still on their flight,” Kate said.

Flight. John's blood ran cold at that. They really were going where he couldn't follow. He wanted to shut the whole thing down, but that would only endanger you. Maybe the universe was finally catching up for all the sins he's committed.

“They'll be okay, Cap,” Gaz said.

“Yeah,” John responded halfheartedly.

Then a thought struck him. How in the bloody hell did Kate know Makarov was the one heading your capture? If he was going dark after a prison break, he wouldn't lay out his cards so fast. That wasn't his style.

“How'd you find out it was Makarov?” John asked. He wasn't accusing. He trusted Kate wholeheartedly, but he was still curious.

Kate didn't waver as she answered. She was clear and poised. “An old friend. Owed me a favor.”

“Old friend,” John repeated with a scoff. “One that knows Makarov's activity?”

“There's a lot you don't know, John,” Kate said.

He nodded, “Sure.”

It was an odd situation. Kate, even as much as John knew about her, was still a mystery. She talked about her wife sometimes, but nothing else about her home or hobbies when she wasn't providing intel to 141. Even then, John considered her his closest ally.

However, he wasn't sure how well he favored this mystery man. He was well acquainted with wolves in sheep's clothing.

“We can trust this friend?” Gaz asked.

“Trust is a tricky word for this situation, Garrick,” Kate remarked.

John almost pulled the plug right then. Yet, even he knew the intricacies of military relationships. They were complicated and had a tendency to be messy.

Hell, John thought of his old friend, Nikolai. The Russian was a loose cannon, but he had been by John's side more than anyone. If there was chaos, there was Nikolai. John trusted him, they were close. But John even wondered if Nikolai was even the man's given name. Though, he still trusted the man enough to also be around his family once or twice. Whenever he came around.

He knew he had to give Kate grace, but it was tough when he never vetted her man himself. John liked control. Which is why he often turned his nose up at official military orders. Got himself in more than enough trouble that way.

“And his intel is viable?” John asked. Enough overthinking, get back on the track.

“Usually is,” Kate offered. “Helped us with the Zakhaev Airport situation.”

John bit his tongue then. He had to accept the situation for right now. Kate wouldn't deliberately lead them astray, but he hoped she wasn't being fooled. They couldn't afford mistakes. Not when his own family was being closed in on. Hopefully, protective custody did its job.

“One wrong move, and I'll put a bullet through your guy's head,” Price said with venom on his tongue.

“I'll give you the gun, sir,” Ghost responded, his eyes said a lot despite the rest of his face being obscured. His second-in-command did not enjoy this either. They both hated following information that they themselves did not partake in collecting.

Ghost and Soap exchanged a glance then while Gaz nodded along in agreement. His men always had his back, and that's why he chose them. They knew they had to get dirty as well. In fact, he was pretty sure they craved the blood. Violence became addicting in a lot of ways, even if it wasn't enjoyable all the time.

They got the job done because one way or another they were fucked up in the head.

“I'm not wrong about this,” Kate stated confidently. “Makarov has been planning this behind bars. Now he's able to act.”

Kate grabbed the file discarded on the table, signaling her part in the conversation was done. She obviously had said everything she wanted to. John just had more questions. He mainly wanted to know where you and the kids were flying. Yet, even if Kate knew, he had to accept she wouldn't tell him. For their safety.

“Get some rest,” Kate suggested. “Shepard has a new mission for you. I'll send you the meeting time.”

With that, she marched out of the room with her shoulders straight and even strides. She was a determined woman on a mission. Admirable, really. Kate Laswell was a force to be reckoned with. She did not take people's shit and always proved why she was at the top with the rest of them.

It was silent for a moment before John sighed and leaned over the table. It was a miracle he wasn't gray yet. The wear and tear just showed more with the lines on his face than anything else.

“I need a bloody drink,” he muttered.

Soap just patted his back, a small hum of agreement.

°•○●○•°

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