Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

13. Ethan

13

ETHAN

AGENT LOG

Personal observation: Killer demonstrates intimate understanding of both poison craft and local power structure. Possible family connection to original case?

The file on my desk has been open for hours, but I’m not seeing the evidence photos anymore. Instead, my mind keeps drifting to the way Celeste’s hands move when she pours coffee—efficient, graceful, like a dancer with a deadly secret. I’ve started categorizing her movements, building a mental catalogue of everything that doesn’t quite add up about her.

The way she enters rooms—always scanning, always aware.

How she holds silverware—like someone taught her the proper way, not like a waitress.

The slight accent that sometimes slips when she’s tired—not quite New Orleans, something wilder, more bayou.

My phone sits next to the file, her number glowing on the screen. I’ve called her three times this week already—twice for the case, once just to hear her voice. It’s becoming a habit, this need to involve her. To keep her close. Any excuse will do.

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, a bloated orange orb that reminds me of the way light catches in her hair. Another detail I shouldn’t notice but can’t seem to stop collecting. The evidence of Gregory’s crew’s movements blurs before me, but one detail stands out crystal clear—coordinates leading deep into the bayou.

I grab my phone, dialing before I can talk myself out of it. Each ring makes my pulse quicken, like some lovesick teenager instead of a seasoned FBI agent.

“Magnolia Diner.” Her voice sends a thrill of anticipation through me.

“Celeste.” Her name comes out rougher than I intended, laden with everything I’m not saying. “I’ve got a lead. Gregory’s crew. A drop point in the bayou. I need your local knowledge on this one.”

There’s that pause—the one I’ve started timing in my head. Two-point-three seconds of silence that feel loaded with secrets. Then her voice, low and husky in a way that makes my mouth go dry. “I’m in. When and where?”

Relief and anticipation war in my gut. I shouldn’t want her anywhere near this case. Shouldn’t keep pulling her into dangerous situations just because I can’t seem to function properly unless she’s within arm’s reach. But here I am, doing it anyway.

God help me, I’d probably burn down half of New Orleans just to keep her looking at me the way she does when we’re chasing leads together.

Two hours later, our airboat roars to life, the engine’s vibration thrumming through my bones like a primal drumbeat. The acrid scent of gasoline mingles with the earthy aroma of decaying vegetation, but all I can focus on is Celeste’s proximity. She sits beside me, rigid and alert, her eyes scanning the shoreline with an intensity that sets off every investigative instinct I possess.

Wisps of her hair, damp with the humid air, cling to her neck. I’ve noticed she always wears it up at the diner, practical and neat. But here, with the wind whipping it wild, she looks more herself somehow.

More real. More dangerous.

“Remind me again why I’m here, Agent Blake?” she shouts over the deafening noise. Agent Blake—always so formal when she’s nervous. I’ve started tracking when she uses my title versus my name, another piece in the puzzle I can’t stop trying to solve.

“Because you know these waters better than anyone,” I grin, despite the seriousness of our mission. “And because I trust your instincts.” The words come out before I can stop them—too honest, too revealing.

She shoots me a look that makes my chest tight. There’s something in her eyes, something that looks like regret mixed with longing. The golden light of the setting sun accentuates the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the slight tremble in her lips that she tries to hide.

“Trust gets people killed, Ethan,” she says, my name soft and dangerous on her tongue. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Her words send a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cooling evening air. It should be a warning. It should set off every alarm bell in my FBI-trained mind. Instead, it just makes me want to prove her wrong.

To be the one person she can trust.

I’m so far off protocol with her that I can barely remember what protocol looks like.

As we navigate the winding waterways, the sun dips lower, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks. The chorus of cicadas grows louder, a relentless drone that matches the thundering of my pulse whenever she moves closer to point out a landmark or marker.

Her fingers suddenly dig into my arm with surprising strength. “There! Cut the engine!”

I oblige, letting the boat drift towards a barely visible path leading into the dense foliage. The sudden silence is almost deafening, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the boat and my own treacherous heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.

The humid air closes around us like a wet blanket as we disembark. I watch her move, the way she navigates the treacherous terrain with practiced ease. Another detail that doesn’t fit with her waitress story. Another piece of evidence I should be logging instead of admiring.

“How did you spot that?” I ask, impressed and a little unnerved by her keen eye. She moves like someone who knows how to hunt, not like someone who serves pancakes for a living.

Celeste’s lips quirk into a half-smile, her eyes glinting with something that looks almost like amusement. I’ve started cataloging her smiles too—this one’s dangerous, a predator’s grin. “Let’s just say I’ve learned to keep my eyes open in places like this. You never know what you might find in the bayou. Could be treasure, could be trouble.”

Like you, I think. My own personal bayou mystery. Every instinct I possess screams that she’s trouble wrapped in an enigma. But God help me, I can’t seem to stay away.

We push through the undergrowth, my eyes drawn more to her movements than our surroundings. The vegetation is thick and unyielding, branches scratching at our arms and faces, but she navigates it like she was born to it. Every step she takes is deliberate, practiced. I find myself mimicking her movements without thinking, like a dance where she’s silently leading.

The light fades, but I can still make out the graceful line of her neck, the way her shoulders tense at each new sound. I should be focused on the mission, on Gregory’s crew, on the evidence we might find. Instead, I’m cataloguing new details about her to add to my growing obsession:

The way she steps heel-to-toe when she’s trying to move quietly.

How her hand keeps brushing her right hip, like she’s reaching for something that isn’t there.

The slight tilt of her head when she’s listening—more predator than prey.

After what feels like hours but is likely only twenty minutes, we stumble upon a small clearing. In the center stands a dilapidated shack, its wood gray with age, the boards warped and splintered. The encroaching darkness lends an eerie quality to the scene, but I’m more focused on how Celeste’s posture has changed—coiled tight, ready for action.

“Well, this is charming,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood, trying to see that half-smile I’ve grown addicted to. “I bet it’s not even on Airbnb.”

Celeste shoots me a look that’s part exasperation, part amusement. My heart shouldn’t skip at that combination, but it does. “Your humor needs work, Agent Blake.” There’s that title again—she’s on edge. “This ain’t no tourist trap.”

“Bingo,” I mutter, drawing my gun. The cold metal is reassuring in my sweaty palm, a stark reminder that this isn’t one of our late-night conversations at the diner. This is real. This is dangerous.

Her hand on my arm stops me, and the touch burns even through my shirt sleeve. “Wait. Look there.” Her breath tickles my ear, sending electricity down my spine. Every point of contact between us feels charged, significant.

She points to a barely visible tripwire stretched across the entrance, glinting dully in the last remnants of daylight. I feel a chill run down my spine, despite the oppressive heat. If she hadn’t spotted that...

“Good eye,” I say, studying her profile in the fading light. Another skill that doesn’t match her cover story. Another reason to investigate further. Another excuse to keep her close. “You’re full of surprises, Celeste.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, this one tinged with sadness. “You have no idea, agent.”

No, I don’t. But God help me, I want to. I want to unravel every mystery she represents, even if it destroys us both.

We carefully make our way around the tripwire and into the shack. The interior is dark and musty, and I find myself hyperaware of her every movement in the confined space. The floorboards creak beneath us, and I notice how she distributes her weight—like someone trained to move silently. Another detail I file away, another red flag I choose to ignore.

“This can’t be it,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice. The air is thick with dust, but underneath it I catch the faint trace of her perfume—something floral and dangerous. Like her.

But Celeste is already moving, her fingers running along the edges of a large armoire. I watch, mesmerized, as those delicate hands that pour coffee and serve plates work with expert precision. The wood is rough and splintered under her touch, but she doesn’t hesitate. With a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the quiet shack, the back panel swings open, revealing a hidden room.

I stare at her, stunned. The questions pile up in my mind like evidence I should be logging. How did she know? Why isn’t she surprised? What else does she know that she isn’t telling me?

“How did you?—”

“I read a lot of mystery novels,” she says quickly, but there’s a tension in her voice that I’ve started recognizing. It’s the same tone she uses when she’s deflecting questions about her past. I’m learning all her tells, collecting them like precious gems, even as they warn me of deeper dangers.

The hidden room is a stark contrast to the decaying shack. State-of-the-art computers hum softly, their screens casting an eerie blue glow that plays across her features, making her look otherworldly. Dangerous. Beautiful. I shouldn’t be noticing how the light catches in her eyes at a time like this, but I can’t help myself.

“Ethan,” she breathes, my name soft and urgent on her lips. The way she says it makes my pulse quicken. “Look at this.”

She’s examining one of the computer screens, which shows a complex web of connections between various names and organizations. At the center is a name that makes my blood run cold: Senator William Hawthorne. But even as I process this bombshell, I’m distracted by how natural she looks navigating the sophisticated system. Like she’s done this before.

“Shit,” I curse, my mind reeling. “It’s not just local corruption. This goes all the way to Washington.”

Celeste nods, her face pale in the screen’s glow. The blue light casts shadows under her cheekbones, making her look haunted. Hunted. “We need to get this information out of here.”

I reach for my phone to call for backup, but her hand on my arm stops me. Her skin is cool against mine, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. The touch lingers longer than necessary, and I find myself acutely aware of her proximity. The floral scent of her shampoo mingles with swamp water and fear-sweat, creating an intoxicating mixture that makes my head spin.

“Listen,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. The intimacy of the moment makes my heart stutter, even as my training screams at me to focus.

That’s when I hear it—the low rumble of approaching boats, a sound that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. Outside, the last vestiges of daylight have faded, plunging the bayou into darkness. I watch how Celeste’s body tenses, the way her hand instinctively moves to her hip again. Like muscle memory. Like a soldier’s reflex.

“We’re compromised. Evac protocol, now,” I say, drawing my gun. The familiar weight of it is comforting in my hand, but not as comforting as Celeste’s presence at my side. When did that happen? When did I start trusting her more than my own training?

But it’s too late for self-reflection.

The door to the shack bursts open with a splintering crack, and three armed men rush in. The sudden influx of night air carries the scent of sweat and gunpowder, and beneath it all, the lingering trace of Celeste’s perfume. Even in this chaos, she fills my senses.

“FBI! Drop your weapons!” I shout, but they open fire instead. The deafening sound of gunshots fills the small space, leaving my ears ringing. Muzzle flashes light up the room in strobe-like bursts, casting bizarre, dancing shadows on the walls.

What happens next burns itself into my memory with terrifying clarity.

Celeste moves with a speed and precision that steals my breath. Her body flows like water, each movement fluid and purposeful. She strikes like a viper, fast and deadly, her fist connecting with one man’s jaw with a sickening crunch. There’s nothing of the waitress in her now—this is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous. Someone trained.

I should be alarmed. I should be questioning everything.

Instead, I’m entranced. Aroused.

I manage to take down another, the recoil of my gun jolting through my arm. The acrid smell of cordite fills the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. But the third has me in his sights, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Suddenly, Celeste is there, tackling me to the ground. The rough floorboards scrape against my skin as a bullet whizzes overhead, so close I can feel the displacement of air. Her body covers mine, protective and fierce, and for a split second, I forget we’re in danger. All I can focus on is the press of her against me, the racing of her heart echoing my own.

We roll, and I come up firing, taking out the last assailant. For a moment, we lay there, breathless, Celeste’s body still pressed against mine. The scent of her hair, a mix of river water and something distinctly floral, fills my senses. Our eyes meet in the darkness, and I see a mixture of fear, exhilaration, and something else—something that makes my heart race even faster.

“Tell me you’re not hit,” I say, my voice hoarse with fear and something deeper, darker.

She shakes her head, slowly getting to her feet. Her hand brushes against mine as she stands, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “We need to go. There will be more coming.”

I want to grab her, to demand answers about those combat moves, about how she’d known exactly what to do in a firefight. But more than that, I want to pull her back into my arms, to feel that deadly grace pressed against me again. The intensity of the desire terrifies me.

What kind of agent am I becoming, when solving the mystery matters less than keeping the mystery close?

We grab what evidence we can and make a run for it. I let her lead, telling myself it’s because she knows the bayou better. But the truth is, I can’t take my eyes off her. The way she moves through the darkness like she owns it, each step sure despite the treacherous ground. The night air is thick with moisture, carrying the sounds of distant pursuit, but all I can focus on is the shadow of her ahead of me.

As we reach the airboat, the sound of gunfire erupts behind us. Celeste leaps into the driver’s seat with lethal grace, starting the engine before I’ve even fully climbed aboard. The sudden roar is deafening, drowning out everything except the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

“Hang on!” she yells, and there’s an edge of excitement in her voice that matches the adrenaline singing in my veins.

We tear through the bayou, bullets splashing into the water around us. Celeste handles the boat like a professional racer, taking turns so sharp I think we’ll capsize. The wind whips at our faces, carrying the scents of the swamp—mud, vegetation, decay—and beneath it all, that haunting floral scent that’s become synonymous with danger in my mind.

As we race through the waterways, I can’t help but marvel at her skill. Every moment reveals another layer of this woman who’s completely dismantled my carefully constructed worldview. The confident set of her shoulders, the precise movements of her hands on the controls, the way she anticipates each curve of the bayou—none of it fits with the waitress from the Magnolia Diner.

The moon rises, casting her in silver light, and my breath catches. Even now, soaked with swamp water and grimy with evidence of our fight, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The most dangerous too, a voice whispers in the back of my mind.

Finally, we emerge onto the open water of Lake Pontchartrain. The lights of New Orleans twinkle in the distance like a promise—or a warning. As we speed towards the city, I have to ask, even though I know she’ll lie.

“Where did you learn to do all that?” I force the words out, hating how they break the spell between us.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon, the city lights reflecting in her determined gaze. “You pick up a few things, growing up in Louisiana. Not all of them legal, not all of them pretty.”

Another deflection. Another mystery. Another reason I should be investigating her instead of falling for her.

As we cross the vast expanse of the lake, the first hints of dawn begin to color the eastern sky. I become acutely aware of Celeste’s proximity, of the way her hair whips in the wind, of the determined set of her jaw. The same jaw I’ve caught myself staring at across the diner counter, imagining how it would feel under my fingers, against my lips.

In that moment, the truth hits me like a physical blow: I’m not just falling for her—I’m drowning in her. Every instinct honed over years of FBI work is screaming that there’s more to Celeste than meets the eye. That she’s dangerous. That she’s probably involved in my case somehow.

And God help me, I don’t fucking care.

As we finally dock at a small, out-of-the-way marina, the sky has lightened to a pale gray. Celeste turns to me, fatigue evident in the slump of her shoulders and the shadows under her eyes. In the pale light of dawn, I can see the conflict in her gaze, the way she bites her lower lip in indecision.

“Ethan,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the creaking of the dock and the calls of awakening seabirds, “what happened tonight... it changes things.”

I nod, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin is soft under my fingertips, still damp with sweat and river water. I want to trace every inch of her face, memorize it with my hands the way I’ve memorized it with my eyes. “I know.”

For a moment, I think she might tell me everything. I can see the words forming on her lips, can almost taste the truth in the air between us. But then she pulls away, her walls slamming back into place. The loss of her warmth is like a physical ache.

“Your team needs to see this yesterday,” she says, her voice steady once more. Professional. Distant.

As we make our way back to the city, the sun finally cresting the horizon, I realize I’ve crossed a line tonight. Not just professionally, but personally. I’ve seen a side of Celeste that both thrills and terrifies me, and instead of running, I want more.

Celeste turns back to me, her teeth bruising her bottom lip. “Drive me home?”

I can’t tell her no. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to tell this woman no. I nod once, knowing I’m sealing my fate. Because I’d follow this woman into hell itself if she asked. I’d throw away my badge, my career, everything I’ve built, just to unravel the mystery of her.

And God help me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.