Brooke Codona is a beautiful young woman and tries to keep everything together. Everything felt good in her life especially her marriage until her husband cheated on her. With nowhere to go, she gets a letter from her late grandmother stating that s...
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I woke up tangled in the sheets, his body absent from besides me. After discussing our new plan, we got carried away. We didn't want to fight it anymore and it felt good to give in.
To feel one another and to taste one another. It was a craving we both needed to subdue. It was pure bliss.
I dressed swiftly. I wore dark trousers, a tailored black shirt, and my favorite leather holster. In a way I was shedding the softness of the morning like a second skin.
I made my way to the meeting room and it was already buzzing when I arrived. The tension was palpable, a dense, expectant cloud hanging over the mahogany table. Sin stood at the head, his expression a mask of cool authority, his eyes only flickering to mine for the briefest, most meaningful second as I entered.
My father sat beside him, his face etched with worry lines that only deepened when he saw the easy intimacy that still radiated between Sin and me. Across the table were my cousins, watching and observing my every move as always. Around them were the key lieutenants, men whose trust we needed to earn, men who needed to believe in this desperate, high-stakes gamble.
"Brooke." Sin's voice cut through the murmur, professional and low. "Tell them."
I took my place beside him, placing my palms flat on the wood. "We are done running on their terms," I began, my voice steady, pulling strength from the memory of the sheer, primal unity Sin and I had shared hours earlier. "Our original strategy was reactive. It relied on waiting for their move. We don't have that luxury anymore. They know we're unified, and they will hit us with everything they have."
Sin took over, his presence overwhelming the room. "Our new plan is a surgical strike. We hit the core. We use the chaos we've already created and turn it into a diversion. It requires us to commit every resource we have—every man, every weapon, every piece of intel—to one decisive move."
Octavin leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "And what, exactly, is this 'decisive move,' Sin? Because it sounds like you're advocating for a suicide run based on impulse."
His skepticism was a familiar, bitter taste. He saw me as a liability, an emotional complication, not a partner.
"It's not impulse, Octavin," I countered, meeting his stare. "It's leverage. We have information they don't know we possess. We are going to use their own supply lines against them. We hit the nerve center, not the limbs. It's dangerous. It's unorthodox. But it will end this now, as this battle has lasted for years."
My father looked from Sin to me, his gaze softening slightly as he registered the fierce determination in my eyes. He nodded slowly, a single, weighty gesture that swayed the rest of the room. "I trust Sin's judgment. And I trust yours, Brooke. We follow the plan."
The air fractured with released tension. Within minutes, the room emptied as orders were barked and men rushed to mobilize. Maps were rolled out, weapons manifests were checked, and the quiet, controlled chaos of organized warfare descended upon the compound.
