The Two Faces of Ash Thorne

It was mid-February. Oakhaven, a state usually blessed with the eternal embrace of spring, was suddenly battered by a freak blizzard.

The roads were a disaster, buried under thick snow, turning the highway into a parking lot of gridlocked steel.

Mason “Mace” Thorne glanced at the endless line of cars ahead and gritted his teeth. He rolled down the window of his beat-up Chevrolet sedan, flicked his lighter, and ignited a cigarette. He took a long, dragging pull.

*Cough. Cough.*

Hearing the delicate hacking from the passenger seat, Mace turned his head, his eyes dancing with malicious amusement. “When you step into my ride, you sign a waiver for second-hand smoke, princess.”

He flicked the ash out the window, blowing a ring of grey smoke into the icy air. “Don’t expect me to play the gentleman. That’s not in my job description.”

Seraphina Vance didn’t grace him with a retort. She simply pulled her scarf higher, burying her nose, red from the cold, deep into the wool for warmth.

Knowing she was freezing, Mason deliberately left the window down. “Do you want me to turn around and drop you back at the airport? You can check into a nice, warm hotel and forget this nonsense.”

“No!” Her refusal was instant, her voice muffled by the scarf. “I’m not staying at a hotel.”

“Suit yourself,” Mason scoffed, taking another drag. “But even if you don’t check in, General Vance is going to find you eventually. Why suffer with me?” He gestured to the dashboard of the car. “Look at this heap. The heater hasn’t worked since the Bush administration.”

“I don’t mind the cold,” Seraphina said, her eyes resolute, staring straight ahead. “As long as you don’t report my location to my father, I don’t care if the car has no roof.”

“Tch. Keep telling yourself that, ice queen.”

Seeing the traffic finally inch forward, Mason tossed the cigarette butt into the snow and rolled up the window. As he went to restart the car, he caught Seraphina’s look of pure disdain.

Mason ran a hand through his dark, tousled hair, his handsome face twisting into a mask of roguish annoyance. “Look, lady! In case you forgot, my cover is a low-life scumbag. What kind of civilized gangster keeps an ashtray in his car?”

Seraphina turned her head toward the window, ignoring him again.

*D*mn it.* Mason felt a vein throb in his temple. He almost cursed out loud, but he held back. She was stunningly beautiful—even the military base’s top models couldn’t hold a candle to her—and she was the General’s daughter, after all.

He remembered their last op together back in Albion. She had driven him to the brink of insanity then, too. She wasn’t just annoying; she was a tactical nightmare to deal with.

An hour later, after detouring onto a muddy service road just miles from Silverbrook, the car gave up the ghost. The engine sputtered and died.

“Son of a b*tch!” Mason slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He kicked the door open and shoved his boot into the front tire. “You piece of junk! You pick *now* to quit on me?”

He popped the hood, staring at an engine he barely understood. After five minutes of futile attempts to restart the engine, he slumped back in the driver’s seat, seething. “Unbelievable.”

Unable to stand his constant swearing, Seraphina pulled a pair of noise-canceling headphones from her bag, plugged them in, and closed her eyes, drowning him out.

*She really thinks she can do whatever she wants just because she’s pretty,* Mason thought, glaring at her profile. Even without makeup, her side profile held a captivating, almost dangerous allure. It made his jaw ache from clenching his teeth.

He stepped out into the snow and dialed the secure number for Commander Theron Blackwood. As the line rang, he lit another cigarette.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Mason barked into the phone. “You’re seriously making me babysit Vance’s daughter on this op? She’s retired, Theron! Why saddle me with her now?”

He paced in the slush. “And does General Vance know his little girl is running off to play undercover in a war zone with me? He’s going to have your head.”

On the other end of the line, Commander Blackwood stood by his office window, watching General Alistair Vance’s car pull away from HQ. “This is her last shot, Mason. She agreed to the terms. If she fails this mission or fails her psych eval again, she accepts full discharge.”

*So she isn’t officially out yet,* Mason realized. “And the General agreed?”

“He didn’t have a choice. She ran away from home rather than accept the discharge. What choice did a father have?”

Twenty minutes later, the roar of a small engine cut through the howling wind. A man on a motorcycle skidded around the corner, sliding to a halt—or trying to. The slick road sent the bike sprawling, throwing the rider into the mud.

Mason pinched the bridge of his nose, looking away. “Good grief.”

“Mason! Boss!” A short, rotund man scrambled out of the muck, wiping mud from his visor. “You okay? I saw the car.”

Mason opened his eyes and looked at the motorcycle. It was in worse shape than his Chevrolet. “Benny… you came to pick me up on *that*?”

“Well, the other guys took the vans,” Benny wheezed, shivering. “Said they had to pick up new recruits at the station.”

“More recruits?” Mason sneered. “Business is booming, I see.”

“Oh yeah! Ever since we started posting those reels on TikTok, kids are lining up to go to Cindoria for ‘high-paying jobs’!” Benny grinned, then noticed the silhouette in the car. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Who’s the chick?”

“My hometown cousin,” Mason lied smoothly, taking a drag. “Heard I struck it rich in Cindoria. Came to beg for a job.”

“Smart move,” Benny snickered lecherously. “And she’s a looker. Maybe she could—”

Mason kicked him in the shin. “Keep it in your pants, Benny. She’s off-limits. I have plans for her.”

Benny yelped, hopping on one foot. “Just kidding, Boss! Just kidding!”

Mason walked over to the passenger window and tapped on the glass, gesturing for Seraphina to exit. She pulled off her headphones, looking at him with wide, confused eyes.

“Out,” Mason mouthed, exaggerating the word.

She opened the door, and the biting wind immediately attacked her. She shrank into her coat.

“We’re changing rides. Grab your bag.” He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear to ensure Benny couldn’t hear. “Remember, from now on, you aren’t Seraphina Vance. You’re Luna. You’re from Havenbrook, and you’ve been a widow for two years. Got it?”

Any other woman would have balked at being cast as a desperate widow. Mason had done it just to tick her off, hoping she’d throw a fit and demand to go back.

But Seraphina Vance was wired differently. She simply nodded, her expression unreadable.

She looked at the motorcycle. “Where do we sit?”

Mason patted the tiny, sliver of a seat behind him. “We squeeze.”

“All three of us?”

“Unless you want to walk three miles in the snow to my hideout.” Mason swung a leg over the bike. The tires groaned under the weight.

Seraphina hesitated. She looked at the bike, then at the treacherous road. She couldn’t let him leave her behind.

She marched over.

Benny, the driver, scooted forward eagerly. “Make room, Boss!”

Mason knew exactly what the pervert was thinking. He reached back, snatched the only helmet off Benny’s head, and shoved it into Seraphina’s hands. He then scooted forward himself, creating a gap behind him. “She sits behind me. I’m skinny; she can block the wind for me. You drive.”

Seraphina put on the helmet and climbed on behind Mason. The bike sagged dangerously low.

“Ready?” Benny revved the engine. It sounded like a lawnmower dying.

Mason frowned. He suddenly reached back, grabbed Seraphina’s hands, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. “Benny drives like a maniac on ice. Unless you want to be roadkill, hold on tight!”

Before she could process the instruction, Benny released the clutch.

The motorcycle lurched forward, accelerating with terrifying speed. Seraphina, usually unflappable in a fighter jet, found herself thrown forward. She instinctively tightened her grip, pressing herself against Mason’s back to keep from flying off.

Mason felt the impact.

Her chest was pressed firmly against his back, soft and full, despite the layers of clothing.

Suddenly, the cold didn’t seem to bother him anymore. But breathing? That was getting a lot harder.

As soon as they arrived at “The Inkwell,” Mason dismissed the chubby Benny with a wave of his hand.

He yanked the rolling shutter door down and locked it tight. Grabbing Seraphina’s suitcase, he led her up a creaking flight of stairs to the loft apartment above the shop. With a swift kick, the door swung open.

“Lock’s busted,” Mason said, dropping her muddy suitcase onto the floorboards. “I’ll fix it when I get a chance. You’re crashing here for a few days until we get the green light from Cindoria.”

He pointed to the combination lock on the suitcase. “Open it.”

Seraphina knew the drill. This was standard procedure for any undercover operative entering a sensitive zone—the “shake-down.” She knelt and dialed the numbers, popping the lid open.

Mason’s demeanor shifted instantly. Gone was the joker; in his place was a cold, efficient operative. He rifled through her belongings, checking every pocket, turning every piece of clothing inside out. He didn’t spare even her intimates.

He pulled out a stack of neatly folded, plain cotton briefs and thick compression tops—sports bras designed to flatten, not flatter. He frowned, holding up one of the oppressive-looking garments.

He glanced at her. She was standing by the bed in an oversized sweater that completely hid her figure, but he remembered the feeling on the motorcycle—the softness, the pressure…

*She’s huge. Why hide it?*

He dangled the compression top in front of her face. “Don’t tell me you actually wear this crap?”

Seraphina nodded, matter-of-fact. “Standard issue for female officers. It’s practical for training and ops.”

“Practical?” Mason scoffed, hurling the top onto the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He dumped the rest of her underwear onto the floor. “What kind of woman doesn’t wear a real bra? You look like you’re trying to audition for a convent.”

“In the field, sure, wear your tactical gear. But you’re going into Cindoria, Seraphina. You’re going to be living in communal dorms. If the syndicate sees you stripping down to *this*,” he gestured at the pile, “what do you think they’re going to say?”

“You think these guys are idiots? They’ve survived twenty years in the lawless zones of Cindoria and Myanoria. They can spot a cop a mile away. Do you know how many undercover agents have been buried in the jungle because they forgot to dye their regulation underwear?”

The gravity of his words hit her. Her face paled. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun,” Mason snapped. The low ceiling of the loft was making him claustrophobic, or maybe it was just her naïveté that was suffocating him.

He stomped down the stairs to the back alley to get some air, lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves. He smoked it down to the filter, and when he reached for another, he found the pack empty.

“Cheap habit,” he muttered.

When he returned to the loft, Seraphina was standing exactly where he left her. Her eyes were rimmed with red; she’d been crying.

Mason rolled his eyes. “Save the tears. They don’t work on me.”

Despite his harsh words, he walked over to the small bathroom across the hall and turned on the water heater. “Go take a hot shower. If you get sick, you’re just dead weight.”

As he headed back downstairs, he called out, “I’m going out. I’ll be back in thirty. I’m locking the door from the outside. If anyone knocks, pretend you’re a ghost.”

Twenty minutes later, Mason returned with a black plastic bag in hand. He locked the shutter behind him and trudged up the stairs.

Seraphina had just finished her shower. The steam billowed out as she opened the bathroom door, unaware of his return. She had wrapped herself in nothing but a thin, white towel.

Mason cleared the top step just as she stepped out.

They froze.

His eyes were drawn instantly to the deep V of her cleavage, glistening with droplets of water. The towel barely contained her.

His throat went dry. *Holy hell.*

Seraphina, acutely aware of her exposure and his burning gaze, gasped. She clutched the towel tighter and bolted back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

Mason stood there for a second, the image burned into his retina. He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling a familiar tightness in his jeans.

He walked into the loft and tossed the black bag onto the bed. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Get dressed and come out. We need to talk.”

Once he heard her footsteps retreating into the loft, Seraphina cautiously opened the door. She saw the black bag and peeked inside.

Lingerie. And not the practical kind.

Her face burned as she pulled out a lace-trimmed bra. She checked the tag. *34C*.

*How did he know?*

Downstairs, Mason was on his third glass of ice water, trying to cool down. When Seraphina finally descended, wearing her loose sweater again, the difference was unmistakable. The fabric draped naturally now, hinting at the curves beneath.

*At least she listens,* he thought.

He bent down and rummaged through a cabinet under the counter. He pulled out two DVD cases. The covers were lurid—women with heaving chests, frozen in poses of ecstasy. The letters were bold and unmistakable: *XXX*.

Seraphina’s face flushed a deep crimson. Even if she’d never watched one, she knew exactly what they were. Her eyes darted to the back cover—a naked woman on her knees, a man behind her…

“Here.” Mason slapped the cases down on the counter.

He flashed her a wicked grin. “You’re on probation for two weeks. Every day, I give you a task. I score you. Pass is an 80.”

“Three scores below 80, and you fail. You go home.”

He slid the DVDs toward her. “This is your first test. I’m giving you a head start.”

“By midnight tomorrow, I want a report. You need to count exactly how many times the female lead screams ‘Yamete’ and how many times she screams ‘Iku’.”

Seraphina stared at the plastic cases, then up at him. It was absurd. Humiliating. “What does this have to do with my mission?”

“Everything.” Mason stood up, leaning over the counter, invading her personal space. His voice dropped to a husky whisper.

“You’re playing a widow, Seraphina. A woman who’s known a man. If you blush like a virgin every time someone cracks a dirty joke, or if you don’t know the basics of how the world works…”

He gestured to the DVDs. “You’re going to get us both killed. A real widow knows the score. You say you’re a widow? Prove it.”

Seraphina clutched the DVDs, her knuckles white. She couldn’t argue with his logic, however twisted it was. She turned to head back up the stairs to the loft.

“Hold it.” Mason tapped the arm of the rusty metal chair beside him. “Sit. I’m not done with you.”

His playful demeanor vanished, replaced by the cold, hard edge of a superior officer. “You know exactly why the Albion op went sideways last time.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, taking in the innate sensuality of her face that contrasted so sharply with her clueless, detached expression. “I won’t tolerate a repeat performance. As of right now, ‘Seraphina Vance’ ceases to exist. You aren’t a pilot. You aren’t a soldier.”

He stood up, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his calloused fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. He saw the resistance flaring in her eyes.

“You are ‘Luna,’” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “A helpless widow who couldn’