Chapter Text
Present day
Fadime slipped into the warehouse through a broken side door and waited in the shadows.
Waiting was not her favourite part of the job. Waiting required patience and patience required a level of spiritual growth she had no interest in pursuing. Still, she could admit it had its uses. From the dark corner behind a stack of water-damaged crates, she had a perfect view of the room, the exits, the armed men and the infuriating man tied to a chair in the middle of it all.
Iso Furtuna had been blindfolded, gagged and bound at the wrists and ankles.
Somehow, he still looked bored.
That was a talent, she supposed. A deeply irritating talent, but a talent all the same.
Most men looked frightened when they were surrounded by criminals with guns. Some tried to bargain. Some cried. Some prayed. Iso sat there with his head tilted slightly back, shoulders loose, posture almost lazy, as if he had been inconvenienced by a tedious family dinner rather than abducted by men who looked like they bought intimidation manuals in bulk.
Fadime crouched lower and adjusted her grip on her pistol.
Eight men on the floor. Two on the metal walkway above. One near the east exit pretending not to check his phone. Another by the loading bay, trying to look dangerous while standing beside a rusted forklift.
Professionals, clearly.
The one in front of Iso grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up.
“Where is the data stick?”
Iso said nothing.
The gag made that easier, of course, but Fadime knew him well enough by now to recognise the meaning of his silence. This was not fear. This was not pain. This was the particular kind of silence Iso used when he had already decided everyone around him was too stupid to deserve his voice.
Arrogant bastard.
Unfortunately, arrogance suited him.
The man punched him across the face and Iso’s head snapped to the side.
Fadime’s mouth tightened before she could stop it.
Really, they could have chosen anywhere else. Shoulder. Stomach. Ribs. She was not sentimental about the man’s ribs. His ribs could take their chances like everyone else’s.
But his face?
That was excessive.
His face was one of the few things about him she had decided, after long and reluctant consideration, was not entirely unfortunate. The sharp line of his jaw, the mouth always poised between a smirk and an insult, the dark sweep of lashes over those impossible blue eyes. It was all very inconvenient and deeply unfair. A woman should not have to suffer a family feud, a rival agent and cheekbones like that.
The man hit him again.
Iso did not make a sound.
Fadime rolled her eyes toward the rafters.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Be dramatic about it.”
The man stepped closer, lowering his voice as if volume had been the problem so far.
“You think we won’t break you?”
Iso shifted his head a fraction toward him.
Even blindfolded, even gagged, even tied to a chair, he managed to look unimpressed.
Fadime almost admired it.
Then the man drove a fist into Iso’s abdomen.
This time, a low sound escaped him, muffled by the cloth between his teeth. His body tightened against the ropes, muscles pulling hard beneath the torn fabric of his shirt. The sound should not have gone through her the way it did. It should not have curled low in her stomach, sharp and hot, making her fingers flex around the grip of her gun.
That reaction was obviously tactical.
She had no personal investment in Iso Furtuna’s breathing, or his mouth, or the way his body looked when restrained and furious. She certainly did not care that a bruise was darkening along his cheekbone, or that blood had gathered at the corner of his lips.
She was here for the data stick.
The data stick, the mission and the professional satisfaction of not letting a rival operative die at the hands of men who could not even tie a proper restraint knot.
Then the man hit Iso in the face again.
Fadime sighed.
That was enough of that.
She shot the man in the shoulder.
He spun away from Iso and hit the concrete with a shout. Before the rest of the room understood that the situation had changed, Fadime was already moving.
She fired into the nearest overhead bulb, plunging the left side of the warehouse into darkness. Someone shouted. Someone else fired wildly at where she had been three seconds ago. Fadime ducked behind a pillar, came out on the other side, and kicked the closest man’s knee hard enough to make him collapse with a very satisfying howl.
She took his gun before it hit the floor.
A second man rushed her from the right. She stepped inside his reach, drove her elbow into his throat and used him as a shield when his friend panicked and opened fire. The friend realised his mistake a heartbeat before Fadime shot the weapon out of his hand.
“Rude,” she said, because she believed in manners even during gunfights.
The man on the walkway above took aim.
Fadime did not look up. She fired once.
He dropped his rifle, clutched his arm and swore with impressive creativity.
The second man above him moved toward the stairs. Fadime shot the railing beside his hand. He froze so quickly she almost laughed.
“Stay there,” she called. “I am very busy.”
Behind her, Iso remained perfectly still.
He had probably counted the men, mapped the exits, identified the weak points in the ropes and developed three separate escape plans before they had even dragged him through the door. He was not helpless. That was the truly annoying thing about him. He was never helpless. Even tied to a chair, bleeding from the mouth and forced to listen to mediocre threats, he radiated the calm confidence of a man who expected the world to rearrange itself around his patience.
Fadime hated that.
Hated him.
She also wanted to see how long that patience would last.
Another attacker lunged from behind a stack of crates. She turned, caught his wrist, twisted until the knife fell from his hand and slammed the heel of her palm into his chin. He staggered back into the forklift and folded to the floor.
Five down.
Three still conscious.
One reconsidering his life on the walkway.
The man by the loading bay lifted his gun with shaking hands.
Fadime tilted her head.
“Are you sure?”
Apparently, he was not sure. His gun wavered.
She shot the tyre beside his foot. The sound cracked through the warehouse and he dropped the gun with a yelp.
“Good choice.”
The last man on the floor tried to run.
Fadime let him take four steps before she threw her knife. It pinned his sleeve to a wooden support beam. He stared at it, then at her, then lifted both hands with the exhausted resignation of a man who had finally accepted he was underpaid.
Only then did Fadime turn back to Iso.
He had not moved. As if the events occurring around him were none of his concern.
Show-off.
She holstered one pistol, kept the other loose in her right hand and walked toward him slowly.
There was no practical reason to walk slowly. The room was clear enough. The exits were covered. The men were down, disarmed, or too frightened to breathe loudly. She walked slowly because she could feel Iso tracking her by sound alone and because she knew, with absolute certainty, that every click of her boots against the concrete was annoying him.
That alone made the evening worthwhile.
She stopped in front of him.
His chin lifted slightly.
Fadime smiled.
He could not see it, which was a shame, because it was a very good smile. It had made guards forget passwords, informants remember things they had sworn never to say aloud and one extremely married diplomat ask whether she believed in second chances.
Iso, unfortunately, had always been harder to impress.
Which only made her want to try harder.
She stepped between his knees and placed one hand on the back of the chair, leaning over him just enough so that her perfume would reach him.
Iso’s body reacted before his pride could stop it. His shoulders tightened and his breath drew in slowly through his nose.
Ah.
There he was.
Fadime leaned down until her mouth was close to his ear.
“Kılçık,” she murmured, soft enough that only he could hear, “you should think about retirement.”
His fingers flexed once against the rope.
Fadime’s smile widened.
She reached up and pulled the blindfold free.
Iso blinked once against the dim yellow light. Then those blue eyes found hers and the entire warehouse seemed to become smaller around them.
This was the part she hated most.
The world could be full of guns, blood, unconscious men and warehouses with very questionable structural integrity and still Iso Furtuna could look at her once and make her forget the sensible order of things. Still there would be that moment. That pull. That spark of awareness neither of them ever acknowledged because acknowledgement would be surrender and neither of them had been raised to surrender to anything. Especially not to each other.
His gaze moved over her face, down to the pistol in her hand, then back to her eyes.
There was fury there. There was suspicion too, which was only fair. Beneath both, darker and more alluring, there was heat.
Fadime had to bite back a laugh.
Poor Iso. He was having a terrible day.
Then his gaze dropped to her lips.
Fadime noticed. She was a trained operative. She noticed concealed blades, weak exits, micro-expressions, lies and men who looked at her mouth when they thought they were being subtle.
Iso, however, was not subtle.
He was disciplined, which was worse.
She was supposed to dislike him. She was supposed to resent him. She was absolutely not supposed to wonder what his mouth would feel like if he stopped using it for insults and started using it for something useful.
Fadime lowered herself onto his lap.
The chair creaked beneath the shift of weight.
Iso went rigid.
For one delicious second, all that calm, controlled arrogance vanished from his face. His eyes widened a fraction, his jaw tightened and his bound hands pulled once against the ropes behind him.
Fadime settled over his thighs as if she had every right to be there.
She did not press fully against him yet. She was not generous enough for that. She only let her weight rest where it would make him aware of every inch between them. Close enough to unsettle him. Close enough to make his breathing change. Close enough to make her own pulse turn traitor beneath her skin.
She placed the hand holding the gun on his shoulder, the barrel angled safely away from him but close enough to remind him that she was armed, in control and enjoying both facts immensely.
Iso stared at her.
Fadime stared back.
His eyes were still furious and still dark with something delicious.
She leaned in, letting her hair brush his cheek.
“Nothing to say?” she asked sweetly. “I expected more from you.”
He worked his jaw once beneath the gag.
Fadime hooked one finger under the cloth and tugged it down slowly, allowing her knuckles to graze the hard line of his jaw. His skin was warm. The cut at the corner of his mouth was worse up close and the bruise along his cheekbone made something sharp and unreasonable flicker inside her.
She ignored it.
Caring about Kılçık was a family offence.
Possibly treason.
And concern was for people who made reasonable choices.
Fadime had just straddled a bound rival agent in a warehouse full of injured criminals, so reason had clearly left the premises.
The gag slipped beneath his chin.
Iso drew in a slow breath.
“Fadime.”
Her name sounded rough in his mouth.
It always did something to her when he said it like that, as if it were both an accusation and a temptation. She hated that. She hated him a little for it. She hated herself more for wanting him to say it again.
She tilted her head.
“You sound upset.”
“You are sitting on me.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“Get off.”
“Ask nicely.”
His eyes narrowed.
She shifted her weight, just enough for her thigh to slide against his. The movement was small, almost innocent and entirely calculated.
Iso’s mouth parted.
There it was.
A crack in the control.
Fadime felt a laugh rise in her chest and swallowed most of it down. She had wanted him to rise to the bait and there he was, fighting not to give her the satisfaction. Poor man. He never seemed to understand that the fight itself was the satisfaction.
“Careful,” she whispered. “You will hurt my feelings.”
“You do not have feelings.”
“I have many feelings. Most of them are about how embarrassing this kidnapping must be for you.”
His glare sharpened.
“This was part of my plan.”
“Of course it was.”
“It was.”
“I am sure being tied to a chair and punched repeatedly was a very sophisticated strategy.”
“You interrupted.”
“I improvised.”
“You stole my operation.”
“I saved your face.”
“My face does not need saving.”
Fadime’s gaze slid over him before she could stop it. The bruised cheekbone. The split lip. The stubborn set of his jaw. The throat moving as he swallowed. The broad chest beneath the torn shirt.
“No?” she said lightly. “But it would be such a shame to damage it.”
A flicker of heat moved through his eyes.
Good.
She wanted him irritated. She wanted him angry. She wanted him to stop pretending he was made of discipline and bad manners. She wanted that control to fray until he said something reckless enough for her to remember later when she was alone, annoyed and unable to sleep.
A movement flickered at the edge of her vision.
Fadime lifted her pistol and fired without looking.
The man behind her dropped his weapon and collapsed with a strangled curse, clutching his thigh.
Iso’s gaze flicked past her, then returned to her face.
Fadime winked.
“You are welcome.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You missed his artery,” he said.
“How sweet of you to notice.”
“You are getting sentimental.”
“I am sitting on your lap with a loaded gun after rescuing you from bargain-bin criminals. I would choose your next words very carefully.”
His mouth curved slightly despite the blood.
That tiny almost-smile was more dangerous than any weapon in the room.
“Is that what this is?” he asked. “A rescue?”
Fadime leaned closer.
Her lips hovered near the cut at the corner of his mouth. She could feel his breath against her skin. She could feel the tension in him, the restraint, the furious want he was too proud to admit and too honest to hide completely.
“It could be,” she said.
His voice dropped. “Then untie me.”
“And ruin the view?”
His eyes darkened.
Fadime’s stomach tightened.
For a moment, she forgot the mission. She forgot the data stick. She forgot the feud between their families, the agency, the lies, the strange little pattern they had fallen into where every assignment became a competition and every argument felt like foreplay with better weapons.
She wanted to kiss him.
The thought arrived without permission.
She wanted to kiss him hard enough to shut him up, or make him worse, or discover which one of them would break first. She wanted his hands free, which was a terrible idea. She wanted them still tied, which was an even worse idea. She wanted him to stop looking at her as if he knew every thought she was trying not to have.
So she smiled, because smiling was safer than whatever psychotic breakdown she was having.
Then, because she had clearly lost her mind, she rocked her hips against him once.
Not enough to give either of them relief but enough to make his breath catch.
Iso’s eyes went molten.
The sound he made was low, unwilling and perfect.
She knew it would haunt her dreams.
Fadime laughed softly.
“There you are,” she whispered.
His jaw clenched.
“You are playing a dangerous game.”
“I am winning a dangerous game.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, bringing his mouth dangerously close to hers.
“If my hands were free,” he said, each word controlled and rough, “you would not be smiling like that.”
Fadime should have moved away.
“Threats, Kılçık?” she asked instead. “From a chair?”
“Promises.”
That word landed low in her stomach.
For a second, Fadime forgot about the armed men groaning on the floor, the data stick, the mission and the family feud that would probably outlive them all. She forgot that she was supposed to be sensible, untouchable and entirely unmoved by him.
Then she remembered she was Fadime and if there was one thing she refused to do, it was lose.
She brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth, so lightly it was almost nothing. Her tongue touched the drop of blood there before she could talk herself out of it.
Iso stopped breathing for half a second.
Fadime pulled back just enough to look at him.
His eyes were heavy-lidded now, his pupils blown wide, his mouth parted as if he was deciding whether to curse her or chase her.
Either option would have delighted her.
“Fadime,” he said again and this time her name sounded like the last warning before disaster.
She reached into the back pocket of her trousers and pulled out the data stick.
Iso’s gaze snapped to it.
The heat in his expression changed instantly, fury cutting through desire so fast she nearly laughed.
There he was again. Her furious, beautiful, impossible storm of a man.
She held the data stick between two fingers and waved it in front of his face.
“Looking for this?”
His eyes returned to hers.
“You stole it.”
“I retrieved it.”
“From my mark.”
“From a man who tied you to furniture. I think ownership became flexible.”
“Fadime.”
“Yes, Kılçık?”
“Give it to me.”
She leaned close again, close enough that her mouth almost touched his.
For one suspended breath, his attention dropped to her lips despite the data stick in her hand.
Fadime grinned.
“Better luck next time, Furtunacuk.”
Then she rose from his lap.
Iso’s hands strained against the ropes hard enough that the chair groaned.
His expression shifted from desire to outrage with such speed that Fadime could not help laughing. It was almost unfair, how much fun he was when he lost his temper.
She tucked the data stick safely away and moved backward, keeping her pistol trained loosely toward the room. Iso watched her with the kind of fury that should have frightened her and instead made her want to laugh against his throat.
It was a problem.
A serious one.
Probably his fault, somehow.
“You are welcome for the rescue,” she said, backing away. “I am sure a man of your many talents can manage freeing himself.”
“You are leaving me tied up?”
He would be out of them in under three minutes if he was as good as he thought he was. Under two if he was angry and she had gone to some effort to make sure he was.
“You are a trained professional,” she said. “I believe in you.”
“You took down seven men and stole my objective.”
“Eight, if we are counting the one behind me. Also, I saved your face from further damage, which I think we can both agree was a public service.”
“My face is not your concern.”
“That is where you are wrong. Your face is everyone’s concern. It is very distracting.”
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
Iso went still.
Fadime went still too, but only on the inside, where it was no one’s business.
His eyes changed again, the fury parting just enough to let something hotter slip through.
“Distracting?” he asked, tilting his head.
She should have retreated. She should have made a clever comment, thrown a smoke pellet and disappeared with the data stick like a sensible agent and a loyal daughter of her family.
Instead, she smiled.
“Don't look so pleased. I said distracting, not impressive.”
“You were thinking impressive.”
“I was thinking expensive. Reconstructive surgery is not cheap.”
His mouth curved despite the blood.
A smile. Small, dangerous and entirely undeserved.
Fadime felt it like a hand at her waist.
She hated him.
Probably.
“You are enjoying this too much,” he said.
“I have had a difficult week. Let me have hobbies.”
“Making me angry is a hobby?”
“No, Kılçık. Making you angry is a calling.”
This time, he laughed under his breath.
It was brief and rough and it did something to her that no sound from him had any right to do. She wanted to hear it again. Worse, she wanted to be the reason for it again.
That was unacceptable.
“This is not over," he promised.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
His gaze followed her as she moved toward the side exit, full of enough promise to make her pulse misbehave all over again.
At the door, she looked back.
Iso had already started working one wrist loose, his eyes locked on her as if he intended to hunt her down the moment he was free.
Perfect.
Fadime blew him a kiss.
“Catch me if you can.”
Then she slipped out into the night with the data stick safely inside her bra, his voice still in her ears and a smile she had no intention of explaining to anyone.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
Dangerous, inconvenient, possibly career-ending fun.
Somehow, that only made her smile more.