Chapter 14: The Tender Trap
The loft was silent, save for the distant hum of the city through the single skylight. Sarah lay on the worn sofa, a blanket tangled around her legs, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Sleep was a taunt. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the muzzle flash of automatic weapons in the dark, the cold determination in Green Arrow’s stance, and Milo’s pale, pained face as he disappeared into the reeds without her.
The digital clock on the microwave glowed 3:17 AM.
With a frustrated sigh, she threw the blanket off. The cool night air raised goosebumps on her skin. She was dressed only in a simple black bra and matching panties, her suit a discarded shadow on the floor by the armchair. The familiar, safe clutter of Scott’s space—the stacked case files, the framed vintage Spider-Man panel, the faint smell of old paper and gun oil—usually comforted her. Tonight, it felt like a holding cell.
She padded barefoot to the small kitchenette, her feet silent on the cool wooden floor. The fluorescent light under the cabinet buzzed to life, harsh and unforgiving. She filled a glass with tap water, the chill of it sharp in her hand.
She leaned against the counter, drinking slowly, trying to will the static in her mind to quiet. The memory of Milo’s kiss by the levee was a warm, solid thing, but it was immediately followed by the image of Sofia’s efficient hands checking his bandages, the way they moved in sync through the tunnels. A partnership forged in crisis. She took another gulp, the water doing nothing to douse the low burn in her chest.
She didn’t hear him approach.
Rough, warm hands settled on her waist from behind. She startled, water sloshing over the rim of the glass. Before she could react, he pulled her back firmly against his chest. He was solid, a wall of heat and worn cotton. He’d shed his tactical gear, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants.
His voice was a sleep-roughened rumble against the shell of her ear. “Alone at last.”
His lips found the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder. The kiss was not tentative. It was a direct, warm pressure that sent an immediate, unwanted current straight down her spine. One of his hands slid around to her stomach, holding her in place against him. The other came up, his fingers deftly toying with the clasp of her bra.
“Scott,” she breathed, her voice unsteady. She put a hand over his, stopping its progress. “Don’t.”
He nuzzled her hair, inhaling deeply. His stubble scratched her skin. “Why not? He’s not here.” The statement was blunt, devoid of malice, just a fact. “We are. And you’re driving me insane standing in my kitchen like this.”
He kissed her shoulder, his mouth hot. His intentions were unmistakable, a clear, physical answer to the hours of fear and adrenaline. A terrible, logical release.
She struggled, but it was a weak thing. Her body remembered the safety of his hands, the startling rightness she’d felt with him before Milo had re-entered the picture like a gravitational force. It would be so easy to let go, to lose herself in this simpler, more desperate connection.
“I can’t,” she said, with more force, pushing against his forearm. “Not again. Not like this.”
He stilled, but didn’t let go. His breath was warm on her skin. “Like what? While you’re thinking of him?” He turned her in his arms, his hands still on her waist. His face was inches from hers, etched with fatigue and a hunger that had nothing to do with the hour. “He’s with her, Sarah. In some other hole in the wall, planning the next move. He’s alive because of her. That’s the reality.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m just matching your energy, kid. You’re standing here torturing yourself over a man who is, by all accounts, currently fine. Meanwhile, I’m here. We almost died tonight. Again.” His thumb stroked a slow arc on her hip bone. “Seems like a waste to just stand here and think.”
The urge to give in was a palpable pull. To feel something other than fear and gnawing jealousy.
To be wanted so directly, so uncompromisingly. It was a narcotic pull, dulling the sharp edges of her anxiety. Scott’s hands were firm on her hips, his gaze locked on hers, waiting for her to break.
The kitchen light buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her back, a counter-rhythm to her own frantic pulse. His scent—soap, gun oil, old leather—wrapped around her, familiar and unsettling.
“I can’t,” she repeated, but her hands came up to rest on his forearms, not pushing away. “It’s not right.”
“Right?” He let out a short, dry laugh. “After tonight, you’re still talking about right? They shot at us, Sarah. They used sedative arrows and data leaks and police sirens as weapons. Nothing about this is right.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing her temple. “But this feels real. Doesn’t it?”
It did. That was the terrible truth. In the chaos of vigilantism and conspiracy, his desire was a straightforward, tangible thing. No masks, no modifiers, no hidden agendas. Just heat and want and the offered solace of shared exhaustion.
She closed her eyes, leaning into him for a second, allowing herself the weakness. His arms tightened around her, one hand sliding up her spine to the clasp of her bra again. This time, she didn’t stop him. The clasp gave way with a soft click.
The garment loosened, a slight release of pressure that felt monumental. Sarah froze, every muscle tense. The cool air of the loft kissed her newly exposed skin, raising another wave of goosebumps.
She didn't move.
Scott’s hands smoothed up her sides, his touch turning from demand to exploration. He was giving her space to refuse, to pull away. The choice was starkly, silently hers. She could feel the hard line of him against her, a blunt fact that made her breath hitch.
The memory of Milo’s kiss was a ghost on her lips. But here was heat, and solidity, and a dangerous kind of peace. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, a silent surrender.
His lips traced the line of her jaw, a slow, deliberate path. Sarah exhaled, a shaky release of breath that fogged the dark windowpane in front of her.
Her resolve, already cracked, began to crumble at the edges. He felt the slight loosening of her muscles, the minute lean into his touch. It was all the permission he needed.
His mouth left her neck, traveling down the slope of her shoulder. He kissed a slow, burning path over her collarbone and down her sternum, his hands guiding the bra straps off her arms. The fabric fell away. He didn’t pause, his lips continuing their descent over her ribs, the flat plane of her stomach, to the soft indentation of her midriff. His stubble was a rough contrast to the gentle path he traced.
Then his hands gripped her hips, firm and certain. He lifted her onto the cool granite countertop in one smooth motion, the empty glass tipping over with a clatter she didn’t hear. He stepped between her knees, his gaze dark and consuming.
He buried his face in her chest, a low groan vibrating against her skin. His mouth was hungry, insistent. She arched into the heat of it, a moan torn from her throat as his lips closed around her nipple. The sensation was electric, obliterating thought. This is Scott, her mind supplied, a frantic, guilty echo. Milo’s friend. His mentor. The old detective with the weary eyes.
That thought only made the forbidden thrill more acute. Her fingers tangled in his short, greying hair, holding him there. He suckled deeply, his hand cupping her other breast, his thumb grazing its peak until she was gasping, her head thrown back against the cabinet.
He didn’t linger. His mouth trailed lower again, over the shuddering muscles of her stomach, his hands pushing her thighs apart. He knelt on the kitchen floor. The sight of him there, his weathered face between her legs, made her breath stop.
He put his head between her legs, his mouth finding her through the damp silk of her panties. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound. The fabric was a frustrating barrier he quickly dealt with, pulling it aside, his tongue finding her with an intimacy that felt less like lovemaking and more like a claiming. She trembled, her heels slipping on the cabinet doors, every nerve alight.
It was too much and not enough. She pulled at his shoulders, a wordless plea. He understood, rising to his feet, his sweatpants pushed down. There was no preamble, no gentle asking. He entered her in a single, deep stroke that punched the air from her lungs.
She locked her legs around his hips, anchoring herself to the sheer physical reality of him. The counter’s edge dug into her back, a bright counterpoint to the fullness inside her. His rhythm was relentless, a direct answer to the night’s violence, each thrust silencing the ghosts of gunfire and the image of another woman leading Milo away.
She came with a choked gasp, her body clamping around him. He followed, his own release a harsh grunt against her sweat-dampened hair, his hips stuttering as he finished inside her. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the hum of the refrigerator.
He held her there, his forehead against her shoulder, until her legs began to shake from the strain. Gently, he pulled out and lifted her again, cradling her against his chest. He carried her the short distance to the unmade bed in the alcove, laying her down on the tangled sheets.
She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow, dragged under by exhaustion and the chemical void after the storm.
She woke to daylight and the slow, warm sensation of lips tracing the knobs of her spine. She was on her stomach, the sheet pooled around her waist. Scott’s bed. His mouth moved down her back, kiss after deliberate kiss, as if mapping her.
“Mmm,” he mused, his voice gravelly with sleep. His hand smoothed over the curve of her hip. “Been a while. It’s good to have you back in my bed.”
The words, and the reality they cemented, crashed over her. She didn’t move, her face buried in his pillow that smelled like him. The Ravenswood pump yard, the chase, the terrifying separation—it all rushed back. And she was here, in Scott’s bed, with the distinct, sticky feeling of him dried between her thighs.
Milo was out there with Sofia. She was here. The division felt absolute, and terrifying.
Her silence stretched. Scott’s kisses slowed, then stopped. He rested his palm flat between her shoulder blades, a heavy, warm weight. “He’s alive, Sarah. That’s what matters today. Anything else is just noise.”
She finally turned her head to look at him. His face was close, his expression unreadable. “Is that what this was?” she whispered. “Drowning out the noise?”
A faint, tired smile touched his eyes.
“It was a start,” Scott stated, his voice softer now. He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow beside her. His free hand didn’t stop its journey, his calloused fingers tracing the arc of her spine with a proprietor’s ease. He bent his head, nuzzling the junction of her neck and shoulder, his breath warm. “Forgot how well you fit right here. Like the last piece of a damn annoying puzzle.”
She closed her eyes, the intimacy of the gesture a deeper violation than the sex. It spoke of history, of a claimed territory. He kept kissing down the length of her back, each press of his lips a soft brand. “Also forgot the sound you make. That little catch in your throat right before you—“
“Scott.” Her warning was half-hearted, muffled by the pillow.
“What? It’s a scientific observation.” He kissed the small of her back. “For a relic, I’m holding up okay, don’t you think? Not bad for a pension-plan candidate.”
A surprised, wet laugh escaped her. She turned her head further, looking back at him. “Fishing for compliments, Detective? That’s not very world-weary of you.”
“World-weary’s for the street. This is indoors.” His hand slid over her hip, possessive. “And you weren’t complaining last night. Moaning my name, sure. Complaining, no.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”
“But memorable.” He grinned, a flash of white in his stubbled face. He resumed his lazy path downward. “And now I get to say I’ve slept with the infamous Black Cat. Twice. The woman every badge and bad guy in the country has a fantasy about. Makes a man feel young again.”
“Stop it.” She pushed herself up, pulling the sheet with her, the movement breaking his touch. The morning light from the skylight was accusingly bright. “That’s not… that wasn’t about the suit.”
“Wasn’t it?” He sat up, leaning against the headboard. His tone was lighter, but his eyes were sharp. “A little bit? The danger’s part of the package, Sarah. Always was. Deny it if you need to.” He reached out, tucking a strand of her fiery hair behind her ear. “Point is, we’re here. He’s there. And we’ve got a city full of people who’d skin us all to find those files. We need a plan that isn’t just waiting to see who finds us first.”
The shift to business was a cold splash of water. She nodded, clutching the sheet to her chest. The guilt was a lead weight in her stomach, but it was compartmentalized, shelved beside the fear. “The upload finished. The data’s out there in your cloud.”
“My secure, encrypted, fragment-scattered cloud,” he corrected. “But Finch and The Clearing will be in full containment mode. They’ll be tracing every digital breadcrumb, pressuring every contact. Milo and your new green friend are vulnerable if they try to access it.” He swung his legs out of bed, the joints popping. “We need to be the distraction. A big, loud, obnoxious distraction that pulls all their eyes onto us.”
She watched him walk, naked and unselfconscious, to where his clothes were piled. The daylight showed every scar, every year. “How do we do that?”
“We give them a target they can’t ignore.” He pulled on his sweatpants. “We leak a location. Somewhere visible. We let them come to us, and we make sure the right people are watching when they do.”
“That’s a trap. For us.”
He shrugged. “It’s a draw. We control the ground. We choose the audience. CPD’s Internal Affairs, maybe a fed I still halfway trust. We serve them Finch’s operatives on a platter, in the act. It turns the hunters into evidence.”
It was reckless. It was the kind of plan Black Cat would love. Sarah felt a flicker of the persona’s daring cut through her shame. She slid from the bed, keeping the sheet wrapped around her like a toga, and gathered her discarded underthings. “We’d need a good venue. Somewhere with visibility, but not civilians.”
“I’m thinking the old Grayson Mill. Top floor. Abundant, photogenic escape routes.” He pulled a clean t-shirt over his head. “We send the whisper out this afternoon. They’ll move by dusk.”
She stepped into her panties, then fastened her bra, her back to him. The mundane acts felt surreal. She could feel his eyes on her. The silence stretched, filled with the unspoken things—Milo, the kiss in the marsh, the warmth of Scott’s mouth on her skin.
As she bent to pick up her jeans, he was there. He came up behind her, his chest against her bare back. He nuzzled her neck again, his lips brushing her ear. “Coffee’s on me.”
His hand came down in a swift, playful slap on her backside, the sound crisp in the quiet loft.
She jumped, a yelp leaving her lips. A shocking jolt of pleasure-pain bloomed where his hand had connected, mingling with the soreness from the night before. She glared at him over her shoulder, her face burning. “You’re a child.”
“You liked it,” he said, his voice a low chuckle. He turned and walked toward the kitchenette, the picture of nonchalance.
She stood frozen, jeans in hand. The tingling warmth on her skin was a guilty, secret truth. She had. For a split second, it had been simple, carnal, and free of consequence. It made the knot of guilt over Milo tighten viciously, a painful counterpoint to the fading warmth on her skin.
She dressed quickly, the soft cotton of her t-shirt feeling like a penance. The smell of fresh coffee began to permeate the loft, a mundane anchor. She joined him in the kitchen, taking the chipped mug he offered. Their fingers brushed.
“So we bait the trap,” she said, her voice steady now, leaning against the counter. “What’s step two?”
“Step two,” Scott said, sipping his black coffee, his eyes scanning the sunlit dust motes in the room, “is we make sure we’re not the ones who get caught in it.”
Sarah snorted, the sound brittle in the quiet kitchen. “That’s your whole plan? Don’t get caught?” She set her mug down too hard. “Inspiring.”
“Plans with more steps tend to unravel,” he said, his gaze finally landing on her. It was assessing, stripping away the sarcasm. “You know that. The core is simple: we make ourselves the loudest problem in the room so everyone looks our way. Your boy and the archer get the breathing room to do whatever they’re doing with those files. Maybe they even help.”
She didn’t like him calling Milo ‘her boy.’ It felt like a reduction, a dismissal of everything that was churning inside her. “And what are we doing while we’re being looked at? Posing for pictures?”
“We’re surviving.” He pushed off from the counter, closing the distance between them. He didn’t touch her. “We’re proving we’re harder to kill than they think. We’re giving your green-shadowed rival a clear shot, if she’s half as good as you seem to think she is.”
The jab was precise. It landed. Sarah looked away, toward the hidden door behind the bookshelf. “I don’t think anything about her.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was low, matter-of-fact. “You’ve been weighing her worth like a damn jeweler since you saw her. Her tactics. Her gear. The way he looked at her. It’s written all over you.” He finally reached out, his thumb brushing a faint bruise on her forearm from the pump yard. The touch was clinical. “Use it. That burn in your gut. Turn it into focus, not noise.”
His words carved through the static of her guilt. He was right. The jealousy was a useless, spiraling thing. The anger, however—that had edges she could grip. Anger at the trap, at Finch, at the sheer audacity of being hunted in her own city. She could use that.
“Grayson Mill,” she said, nodding slowly. “The rooftop access is from the old elevator shaft. They’ll have to come up single file or use the exterior ladders. We can bottleneck them.”
A grim smile touched Scott’s mouth. “See? You’re already planning. The Cat’s back.” He finished his coffee. “Get your suit. We’ll need to modify the comms, create a bypass channel not tied to anything. And we’ll need a burn phone to send the invitation.”
They spent the next hour in a focused, silent choreography of preparation. Sarah laid out her suit on the old leather armchair, checking the graphene-weave panels for stress fractures. Scott disassembled and cleaned his service pistol on the coffee table, then started on a compact backup piece, its components gleaming dully in the sun.
The loft filled with the smell of gun oil and the soft rustle of tactical fabric. It was a familiar ritual, but charged now with the new, uneasy space between them. The memory of his hands on her skin was a live wire neither acknowledged.
“You think he’s safe?” The question left her lips before she could cage it.
Scott didn’t look up from the slide he was oiling. “Safe? No. None of us are. But he’s canny. And he’s got a motivated guardian angel with a high-tech bow.” He snapped the slide back into place with a final, metallic click. “Worry about the bullet in front of you, not the one across town.”
He stood, the backup gun in his hand, and walked over to her. He held it out, grip first. “Here. You’re a shit shot, but at three feet, even you can’t miss. Stow it in that thigh compartment.”
She took the weapon. It was heavier than it looked, cold and definitive. She slid it into the hidden holster sewn into her suit’s leg. The weight was strange, a last-resort truth she didn’t want to need.
“Comms are patched,” he said, tapping his own ear. “Scrambled frequency, hops every thirty seconds. Short-range only. We go dark once we’re in position and the party starts.”
“And the invitation?”
From his pocket, he produced a cheap, prepaid phone. He thumbed a single message, showing her the screen before sending. The recipient field was a number he must have pulled from a deep, dark memory. The text was simple: `Grayson Mill Rooftop. 8 PM. Bringing the heat. -BC`
“They’ll know it’s a trap,” she said.
“Of course they will.” He sent the message and immediately pried the back off the phone, removing the battery. “They’ll also know they have to spring it. Letting Black Cat and a disgraced cop run around making offers is bad for business. They’ll come loaded for bear.”
The finality of it settled in the room. There were no more preparations to make, only the waiting. The afternoon light through the skylight was sliding from gold to a deeper, burnished orange. Dusk was maybe two hours away.
Sarah pulled her suit on, the familiar constriction of the armored panels a second skin. She felt the persona settle over her, the Cat’s calculated calm layering atop Sarah’s fraying nerves. She fastened her mask, the world narrowing through the lenses. She was Black Cat again.
Scott watched her transform, his expression unreadable. He shrugged into his own ballistic vest, checking the plates.
The silence became a tangible thing. It was the silence before the storm, filled with everything they hadn’t said. The trust and the betrayal, the duty and the desire, all knotted together in this dusty room.
He walked over to her, stopping just inside her personal space. He didn’t wear a mask; his face was all weathered lines and resolve. He reached up, his fingers adjusting the fit of her hood near her temple, a strangely tender gesture amidst the gear.
“You ready for this?” His voice was rough.
“No,” she answered honestly, her modulator stripping the word of emotion.
“Good. Only idiots are ready.” His hand stayed, cupping the side of her masked face. His thumb stroked the hard polymer where her cheek would be. “Stay close to me up there. Use the environment. Don’t go hero.”
“You’re one to talk.”
A faint grin. “I’m too old to be a hero. I’m just a stubborn bastard.” His gaze held hers through the lenses. The air between them thickened, charged with the memory of the kitchen counter, with the looming gamble of the rooftop.
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.
His lips captured hers through the mask’s thin visor, the cool polymer pressing against the soft heat of her mouth. It was a claiming kiss, his stubble scraping against the thin fabric, his hands cradling her masked face like something fragile and precious. The world narrowed to that single point of contact—no looming trap, no jealousy, no guilt—just the solid feel of him, the unmistakable rightness of his body against hers, the way his breath hitched when she kissed him back. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, a silent communication that said more than words ever could. When they finally pulled apart, her gloved hands were still gripping his vest, her masked forehead resting against his chest, the steady beat of his heart reverberating through the thin layers between them.
Then, as if it had been caged behind every other thought, Milo’s name escaped her.
“Milo,” Sarah blurted, her voice muffled through the visor but raw with guilt. The word was a crack in the armor she had just slipped into—the Cat faltering, just for a second, beneath the weight of her own actions. She pushed back, breaking the contact, her breath ragged behind the mask. “He’s out there right now, doing God knows what, and I’m—”
Scott’s hands settled on her shoulders, firm. “He’s alive. Sofia too.” His voice was low, grounding. “That’s more than Finch can say for any of his operatives tonight. Whatever game they’re playing, it’s not over.” His thumbs pressed gently into the tension knotting her trapezius.