The moment you stepped into Price’s office, he was already on you.

“What the hell happened out there?” His voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the thick tension in the dimly lit room. His broad frame was tense, hands braced against his desk, eyes dark and storming with fury. “I needed that intel, and you didn’t bloody have it.”

You swallowed hard, but your voice stayed even. “I told you, it didn’t come through in time.”

“Bullshit.” The word cracked like a whip. He pushed off the desk, pacing like a caged animal, frustration rolling off him in waves. “We walked into a goddamn ambush because of it. Ghost took a bullet. Soap nearly got his throat slit. You had one job, and you—”

He stopped.

The silence was abrupt, jarring.

His eyes had landed on your neck.

You hadn’t noticed how you were trembling until his gaze pinned you in place, his fury slowing, shifting into something colder. Calculating. The mark on your skin—just below your jaw—stood out against your skin, red and raw, shaped like the edge of a blade.

His jaw ticked. “What,” his voice was low, deadly now, “the fuck is that?”

You stayed quiet.

His entire posture changed, anger bleeding into something else entirely. Something lethal.

“You weren’t late with the intel,” he murmured, stepping closer, voice eerily calm. “You were compromised.”

Your breath hitched. One of the shadows had gotten into the safe house, held a knife to your throat, forced you to lie to the team over the comms.

His fingers brushed just under your chin, tilting your face up. Gentle. Too gentle for the way his body was coiled, ready to break something apart.

“Who did this?” The question was barely above a growl.