A heavy thud echoed through the apartment as the bedroom door burst inward. Momentum carried them forward, tangled together, and they fell onto the wide two-meter bed in a breathless heap.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Their bodies were still charged with the electric current that had started at the bar and refused to dissipate. Locke lay back against the mattress, steady and controlled even in impact. Natasha shifted above him, red hair spilling down like a curtain, her breath warm against his skin.
She rolled, pinning him lightly, and leaned close enough that her lips brushed his ear. "Want to visit home?"
The question was casual on the surface, but her tone held something else—curiosity, maybe testing the line between past and present.
Locke considered it for a few seconds. He hadn't been there in a long time. "Yeah," he said finally. "It's been a while. Might as well take a look."
Not long after, he was opening the door of his Audi A8. The engine purred to life, smooth and restrained, and they pulled away from the city lights.
Natasha's house sat far from the noise of Manhattan. It had once been tucked into a stretch of rolling hills and clean water, the kind of place that postcards tried to imitate. Years ago, the mountain slopes had been dense with trees.
Now they were bare.
Not stripped by time or disaster, but by deliberate design. Natasha hired professional lumber crews every few years to clear and trim the growth. No blind spots. No concealment. No shadows deep enough to hide movement.
The hills were open and exposed.
Strangely, it had its own stark beauty.
She guided him along a narrow path beside a shallow creek, the sound of water steady against the quiet. "I'll be staying longer this time," she said without looking back.
Locke nodded. "That's fine."
They reached the house. The exterior steps bore faint marks from weather and use, but inside was immaculate. Clean air. No dust. No stale scent of neglect.
It was obvious she returned often.
Still, Locke's gaze sharpened slightly as he scanned the room. "Have you brought anyone here recently?"
Natasha shot him a sideways look. "Since you've been coming here? No."
He studied the surfaces. No dust on the shelves. No footprints out of pattern. "Then why is it this clean?"
She exhaled through her nose. "Because I come back alone. Ever since you got married, that's how it works."
That answer satisfied him.
He tilted his head, eyes lifting toward the ceiling. "The roof's leaking."
"Is it?" She glanced up. "There's a stream nearby. The air's heavy today. Probably going to rain."
Locke extended a hand slightly, sensing the subtle shift in pressure and moisture. His enhanced perception caught the change instantly. "It's not just rain. It's going to be heavy."
"Rainstorm," Natasha corrected.
As if on cue, thunder rolled across the hills.
Seconds later, rain came down hard, pounding against the roof and windows. The sound filled the house with steady, relentless rhythm.
Natasha moved first. "It's coming down fast. Let's head into the bedroom."
Locke followed without comment. The rain wasn't stopping anytime soon.
The next morning arrived pale and damp.
Natasha stepped out of the bedroom wearing nothing but an oversized men's T-shirt. The tactical suit was gone, replaced by something far less armored. Her red hair fell loosely around her shoulders.
Locke was already at the bar.
"Morning," she said with a faint smile.
"Morning."
He had prepared breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee. Simple and efficient. He placed the plate in front of her.
"Eat while it's warm."
She took the stool opposite him. "I'm actually starving."
"Drink?" He nodded toward the Thunder Bourbon on the counter.
She arched an eyebrow. "During work hours?"
He shrugged. "Last year, that would've been a problem. This year, not so much."
Last year he had been a junior agent, answering upward without room to maneuver. This year he led his own team. Autonomy came with rank.
Natasha picked up a piece of toast instead. "You can get away with it. I can't. I've got something later."
Locke leaned back slightly. "Eric Brooks?"
She didn't answer.
"That guy's too clean," Locke continued. "I had to look into him."
Natasha's lips curved faintly. "And?"
"What I saw wasn't what you wanted me to see."
Eric Brooks—Blade. Locke had accessed the available files. On the surface, they were detailed. Thorough. Background, history, affiliations.
Too thorough.
It was the kind of documentation professionals built to be discovered. Clean enough to pass inspection. Controlled enough to conceal the truth.
Natasha finished eating and downed her coffee in a single swallow. Her expression shifted, serious now.
"Since we're on the subject," she said evenly, "I want you to step back from this case."
Locke didn't react immediately. He watched her, eyes steady.
"Give me a reason," he said at last. "A real one. Something that justifies walking away after five of my men died."
"They're vampires," Natasha replied. "Not something you can handle. And it's outside your jurisdiction."
"Brown disagrees."
"Brown doesn't understand what he's facing."
Locke shook his head. "Vampires. Mutants. Enhanced. What's the difference? We've dealt with worse."
Natasha's voice hardened slightly. "Mutants are individuals. Vampires are a network. They don't operate alone. They're organized. Social."
That was the first detail she'd given him.
He didn't flinch. "I'm not handing it over."
She started to speak again. "Lo—"
"But we can cooperate."
He cut her off gently, not aggressive, just firm. "Five people are dead. If I give this up, I might as well retire. No one works for a leader who won't fight for them."
Even if the dead weren't directly his.
Brown and he were aligned strategically. If he stepped aside now, that alliance would fracture. Trust once broken didn't repair easily.
There were other considerations too. Political ones. Personal ones.
Natasha fell silent, studying him.
Locke poured himself another measure of Thunder Bourbon. The warmth slid through him as it had the night before. He set the glass down and met her gaze.
"I'm not giving it up," he repeated calmly. "But I'm open to working together."
He wasn't just stubborn.
He had seen the numbers Blade was collecting—points, gains, results. The system rewarded results, and vampires were high-value targets.
Partnership made sense.
After a long pause, Natasha exhaled slowly. "How?"
"We share what we know."
He leaned forward slightly. "And let's be honest. You weren't sent here just because an informant died."
An informant's death didn't justify deploying someone of her level to New York. Agencies treated informants as expendable assets. Replaceable.
Natasha's jaw tightened. She didn't deny it.
She was weighing the decision.
Locke didn't push further. He gathered her empty plate and set it in the sink, giving her space to think.
Minutes passed.
Finally, she looked up. "Can you make that call?"
He smiled faintly.
"No," he admitted. "But I know someone who can."
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