One of the many King's Claw base had a certain… charm. A grimy, gun-metal charm with bullet holes in the wall and laughter echoing off concrete. It lived beneath the city like a secret—half underground lair, half organized chaos. Filing cabinets coexisted with bulletproof vests. Espresso machines sat beside stacks of classified documents. The scent of danger lingered in the air like cologne.
There was warmth, sure. Loyalty, too. Family dinners in the mess hall, crude jokes tossed around like grenades, an unspoken code that ran thicker than blood. But in the middle of that familiar mess was a cold front no one could ignore.
Maeve and Rocco.
Honey and Smoke.
They weren't lovers. They weren't friends. They weren't even on speaking terms half the time. And yet, they moved around each other like opposing magnets—always circling, never touching, unable to pull away.
Maeve was already in the war room when Rocco entered. She was perched on a leather chair, legs crossed, black slacks hugging her hips, the top button of her shirt undone just enough to be rebellious. Her hair fell in waves, and her fingers tapped across the tablet in front of her with the kind of precision that made men nervous.
Rocco walked in like he owned the building. He didn't. Technically. But his presence did. All dark suit, rolled sleeves, and that goddamn chain around his neck that always disappeared beneath his shirt like a secret no one was allowed to touch.
"Inventory's two crates short," he said, dropping a folder on the table beside her.
She didn't look up. "Then find the two crates, genius."
His jaw ticked. "Logistics is your department."
"And Transport is yours," she replied, finally glancing up, lashes low and dangerous. "If your boys weren't so busy measuring testosterone levels in the parking lot, maybe we wouldn't be missing product."
A beat.
"You think about my boys often, Honey?"
Her lips twitched. Not a smile. Not really. "Only when they're fucking up my schedule."
He leaned in slightly. Too close. The air changed, just a degree hotter.
"Sure it's not because you're looking for a replacement?"
She tilted her head, voice sweet as venom. "You offering?"
Their eyes locked. The room buzzed, tension winding tight like a fuse seconds from being lit.
"Jesus Christ," muttered someone across the room. A younger subordinate, too new to know when to shut up. "Can they just screw already?"
The silence that followed was deadly.
Maeve didn't even blink. "Jason, is it?"
The kid froze. "Y-yeah?"
"You've just volunteered to clean every weapon in the eastern storage wing."
"..."
"Manually."
She turned back to Rocco as Jason fled the room like his life depended on it. It probably did.
Rocco smirked, watching her with something between admiration and wariness.
"You love terrifying them, don't you?"
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm. "I don't love anything."
He chuckled. Low. Rough. "That's your problem."
Before she could respond, Reginald entered, flanked by two lieutenants. He glanced between the two of them and sighed like a man who had raised twin attack dogs and now had to stop them from biting each other's throats.
"If you two are going to fuck or fight, do it outside. I just had this room repainted."
"We were discussing business," Maeve said primly.
"Loudly," Rocco added, teeth flashing.
Reginald raised a brow. "Whatever keeps the bullets flying in the right direction. Now, sit. We've got a shipment coming in from Morocco and a customs agent who needs convincing."
...
Three hours later, the base had calmed. The night shift took over, and most of the crew had retired to the lower levels or the mess. Dim lights flickered in the hallways, casting long shadows over the bare floors. The soft hum of machinery in the background was the only sound.
Maeve stood alone in the armory—her sanctuary. She was checking serial numbers on handguns, mindlessly running her fingers along the cool steel. She looked relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, her mind moving a mile a minute.
She sensed him before she saw him.
Rocco.
Leaning in the doorway again, like the universe hadn't already punished her enough.
"Your mom ever taught you to knock?" she asked, not looking up.
"Your dad ever teach you to smile?"
"Only when someone bleeds."
A pause.
"That so?"
She finally turned toward him, her hand still resting on a holstered Beretta. He stepped further into the room, his steps soft but deliberate. There was something in his eyes tonight—darker than usual. Not anger. Not even lust. Something dangerous.
"Why are you here, Rocco?"
"I wanted to know."
She raised a brow. "Know what?"
He stopped just short of her. Close enough for her to smell his cologne—deep, musky, warm.
"If you'd flinch if I kissed you."
Silence slammed into the room like a gunshot.
Maeve blinked slowly. "Try it and find out."
He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing hers. But he didn't touch her. His breath was warm against her cheek.
"You'd let me?"
"I'd ruin you."
That smirk of his curved slow, deliberate. "You think I'm scared of that?"
"I think," she whispered, "you're smart enough to walk away."
Neither of them moved.
He studied her. Memorized the way her lips barely parted, the heat in her gaze, the steady pulse in her neck. She wasn't trembling. She wasn't blushing.
But she wasn't breathing, either.
He leaned in—just enough that her lashes fluttered once. But he didn't kiss her.
"Goodnight, Honey," he murmured, voice like smoke curling around her throat.
She exhaled slowly, eyes still locked on his. "Burn in hell, Smoke."
He smiled as he turned, walking out like he hadn't just dropped a live grenade in her chest.