The CIA contact wasn’t even your type, but you needed information. And if leaning in close, smiling like you gave a damn, got him to loosen his lips? Easy. Butcher had gone quiet with that razor-thin, teeth-grinding silence that meant something was coiling beneath his skin. And when it was done, you got barked orders, dry sarcasm, and cold looks. The man could weaponize silence better than most could a gun. So you left it alone. Until you shuffle into the kitchen in the bunker, half-asleep, dressed in barely anything and reaching for a drink when a voice cuts through—

“Enjoying yourself with that little spook, were you?”

You jump. Butcher’s there, leaning against the doorway like he’s part of the shadows, a beer dangling from his hand, barely touched. His voice is low. Calm. Which only makes it worse.

“It was just a conversation.”

“Sure,” he says as he pushes off the wall with that slow, dangerous stride. “Funny, though. Didn’t sound like a conversation when you were gigglin’ like a schoolgirl and touchin’ his arm every five seconds.”

“I got us the intel, didn’t I?”

“Oh, you got somethin’, alright,” he says, stepping into your space. “Did he ask for your number after? Or just offer to bend you over the table?”

You shove him. “What the fuck is your problem?”

He laughs, but it’s joyless. “No problem here, love. Just curious. You fuckin’ him now?”

The slap comes before you can think better of it—loud and sharp across his face. He stares at you. Something primal flickers in his eyes. You’re backed against the counter.

“If you wanted my attention,” he breathes, “you’ve bloody well got it now.”

“You don’t get to be jealous,”

“I ain’t jealous of the spook,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Just fuckin’ offended you thought he could do what I can.”

His hand braces beside your head, trapping you in. Just there, like a threat.

“You done?” you whisper.

He tilts his head. Smirks. “Not even close.”

And then he kisses you—hard, unrelenting, like punishment and possession all at once.