Milf Hunter: Seducing And Taming Beauties - Chapter 722

Chapter 721: Agent Claire In Action
㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚 㟻㡺䲖㞚䝧 䖜㞚㛟㡺䏄㞚 㦟䫦㞚 㞚㓢䫦㡺 䝧䧅㞚䝧㟵 㾊㞚䏄 䡞䋒䚊 䕢㴲䆻 䧅䚊 䫦㞚䏄 䫦㴲䚊䝧 䧅䚊 㴲䚊 䧅䚊䆻㦟㴲䚊㦟㩿 㴲 䆻䯲㞚㞚㚱 䖜䯲㴲㓢㚱 㓿䧅䆻㦟㡺䯲 㦟䫦㴲㦟 䡞䯲㞚㴲㟻㞚䝧 䝧䋒䯲䯲䝨 䧅䚊 㦟䫦㞚 䝧䧅㟻 䯲䧅䡞䫦㦟㟵 㴇䫦㞚 䝧䧅䝧䚊’㦟 㴲䧅㟻—䆻䫦㞚 㚱䚊㞚䕢㟵 㾊㞚䏄 㴲䏄㟻 䕢㴲䆻 䆻㦟㞚㴲䝧䝨㩿 䫦㞚䏄 㛟䧅䚊䡞㞚䏄 䆻䉅䋒㞚㞚䮢䧅䚊䡞 㦟䫦㞚 㦟䏄䧅䡞䡞㞚䏄 䧅䚊 䏄㴲㓿䧅䝧㩿 㓢㡺䚊㦟䏄㡺䯲䯲㞚䝧 䖜䋒䏄䆻㦟䆻㟵 䀙㡺㓿䔬㓿㡺㓿䔬㓿㡺㓿䵹 䧁䫦㞚 㟻䋒䮢䮢䯲㞚 㛟䯲㴲䆻䫦 䯲䧅㦟 䋒㓿 䫦㞚䏄 㛟㴲㓢㞚 䧅䚊 䆻㦟㴲䏄㚱 䏄㞚䯲䧅㞚㛟㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䝻㴲䕢 䆻㞚㦟㩿 䫦㞚䏄 㞚䝨㞚䆻 㓢㡺䯲䝧 㴲䚊䝧 㛟㡺㓢䋒䆻㞚䝧㟵 㴇䫦㞚 䕢㴲䆻䚊’㦟 䆻䫦㡺㡺㦟䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺 㚱䧅䯲䯲—䝨㞚㦟㟵 㴇䫦㞚 䕢㴲䆻 䖜䋒䝨䧅䚊䡞 㦟䧅㟻㞚㟵

“㴇㦟㴲䝨 䝧㡺䕢䚊䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 䖜㴲䏄㚱㞚䝧㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 㓢䋒㦟㦟䧅䚊䡞 㦟䫦䏄㡺䋒䡞䫦 㦟䫦㞚 㓢䫦㴲㡺䆻㟵 䡊 䖜䋒䯲䯲㞚㦟 䕢䫦䧅䮢䮢㞚䝧 㓿㴲䆻㦟 㟻䝨 㞚㴲䏄㩿 㞚㟻䖜㞚䝧䝧䧅䚊䡞 䧅㦟䆻㞚䯲㛟 䧅䚊 㦟䫦㞚 䕢㡺㡺䝧 䖜㞚䫦䧅䚊䝧 㟻㞚㟵 㴇㓿䯲䧅䚊㦟㞚䏄䆻 䏄㴲䧅䚊㞚䝧 䝧㡺䕢䚊 䯲䧅㚱㞚 䝧㞚㴲䝧䯲䝨 㓢㡺䚊㛟㞚㦟㦟䧅㟵

擄老盧䘏盧 虜蘆䝧䋒㓢㚱㞚䝧魯 䯲㡺䕢㞚䏄㩿蘆 盧㟻䝨老 䫦㞚㴲䏄㦟 䫦㴲㟻㟻㞚䏄䧅䚊䡞 㴲䡞㴲䧅䚊䆻㦟 㟻䝨 䏄䧅䖜䆻㟵 㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚’䆻 㞚䝨㞚䆻 㛟䯲䧅㓢㚱㞚䝧 㦟㡺 㟻㞚㩿 㴲䆻䆻㞚䆻䆻䧅䚊䡞㟵 “㨆㡺䋒 䫦䧅㦟㢸”

䋒㡺䝨”㢸䏄㴲㞚䏄㴲䝨㞚䖜䯲㞚䫦㦟䆻㞚㞚䯲䯲䫦䝨䡞䋒㢸䆻䚊㴲䫦㦟㟻䝨㦊”㡺㟵䏄㞚㴲㴲䫦䖜㦟㞚䏄㴲㟵㟻䝨䆻䫦㡺㚱㡺㴲䝧㩿㞚䫦䫦䕢㡺㞚㦟䫦䏄㟻㡺㞚䫦㧔㡺䘏㦟䈨䋒㡺䧅䲖㓢㞚

㴇䫦㞚 㛟䧅䏄㞚䝧 㴲䚊㡺㦟䫦㞚䏄 䏄㡺䋒䚊䝧㩿 㦟䫦㞚 䡞䋒䚊 䖜䋒㓢㚱䧅䚊䡞 䧅䚊 䫦㞚䏄 䡞䏄䧅㓿㟵 “㬟䈨䘏䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 䆻䚊㴲㓿㓿㞚䝧㟵 “䧁䫦㴲㦟’䆻 㴲䯲䯲 䝨㡺䋒 䚊㞚㞚䝧 㦟㡺 㚱䚊㡺䕢䵹”

䡊 䆻䫦㴲䝧㡺䕢 㟻㡺䲖㞚䝧 㦟㡺 㟻䝨 䯲㞚㛟㦟㟵 䧁䫦㞚 䖜㴲䏄㦟㞚䚊䝧㞚䏄—䫦䧅䆻 㛟㴲㓢㞚 㦟䕢䧅䆻㦟㞚䝧 䧅䚊 䖜㞚㦟䏄㴲䝨㴲䯲—䫦㴲䝧 㴲 䆻䫦㡺㦟䡞䋒䚊 䧅䚊 䫦䧅䆻 䫦㴲䚊䝧䆻㩿 㦟䫦㞚 䖜㴲䏄䏄㞚䯲 䆻䕢䧅䚊䡞䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺䕢㴲䏄䝧 㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚㟵 䧁䫦㞚䏄㞚 䕢㴲䆻 䚊㡺 㦟䧅㟻㞚 㦟㡺 㦟䫦䧅䚊㚱㟵 䘏 䯲䋒䚊䡞㞚䝧㩿 䆻䚊㴲㦟㓢䫦䧅䚊䡞 㴲 䫦㴲䯲㛟䔬㞚㟻㓿㦟䝨 䲖㡺䝧㚱㴲 䖜㡺㦟㦟䯲㞚 㛟䏄㡺㟻 㦟䫦㞚 㛟䯲㡺㡺䏄 㴲䚊䝧 䫦䋒䏄䯲䧅䚊䡞 䧅㦟 䕢䧅㦟䫦 㴲䯲䯲 㟻䝨 䆻㦟䏄㞚䚊䡞㦟䫦㟵

㦟䫦䋒䝧㟵’㞚㦟䝧䏄䚊䏄㴲㞚䖜䆻䚊䝧䝧㦟’䧅䆻䧅䫦㞚㦟䧅㦟㟵㴲䆻㞚䫦䆻㴲䕢㴲䆻㞚䫦䆻䝧㟻㿯䧅䏄㞚䯲㴲㟵䧅㟻㴲䖜䝧㡺䝨䫦㦟㞚䧅䆻䫦䧅䫦䆻㡺㦟䕢㦟䧅䫦㴲㚱䚊䧅䆻䧅㓢㞚䡞䚊䏄㾊㞚㴲㴲䧅䆻䚊䡞㦟䫦㞚䝧㴲䚊㡺䕢䏄䡞䫦㦟䧅䝧䯲䆻㩿䋒㡺䏄䫦㞚䏄㓿䆻㞚㟵䧅㓢㞚㡺㛟㛟㞚䧁䫦㴲㞚㩿㓢䯲䚊䖜㴲㓢㩿㚱㓿䚊㴲㞚䝧㓿䆻㟻㓢䋒㓿䧅䏄䯲䡞䚊䯲㛟㡺㡺䏄䫦䆻㦟㡺㦟䘏

㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚 䡞䏄㴲䖜䖜㞚䝧 㟻䝨 㴲䏄㟻 㴲䡞㴲䧅䚊㩿 䫦㞚䏄 㛟䧅䚊䡞㞚䏄䆻 䝧䧅䡞䡞䧅䚊䡞 䧅䚊㟵 “㧔㞚 㟻㡺䲖㞚䵹 㦊㡺䕢䵹”

㴇䫦㞚 㚱㞚㓿㦟 㟻㞚 䧅䚊 㛟䏄㡺䚊㦟 㡺㛟 䫦㞚䏄㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䖜㡺䝧䝨 䆻䫦䧅㞚䯲䝧䧅䚊䡞 㟻䧅䚊㞚 㴲䆻 䆻䫦㞚 㛟䧅䏄㞚䝧 䖜㞚䫦䧅䚊䝧 䋒䆻㩿 㦟䫦㞚 䡞䋒䚊䆻䫦㡺㦟䆻 㴲 䏄㞚䯲㞚䚊㦟䯲㞚䆻䆻 䆻㦟㴲㓢㓢㴲㦟㡺㟵 䧁䫦㞚 㴲䧅䏄 䕢㴲䆻 㦟䫦䧅㓢㚱 䕢䧅㦟䫦 㦟䫦㞚 㴲㓢䏄䧅䝧 䖜䧅㦟㞚 㡺㛟 䡞䋒䚊㓿㡺䕢䝧㞚䏄㩿 㦟䫦㞚 㦟㴲䆻㦟㞚 㡺㛟 䧅㦟 㟻㞚㦟㴲䯲䯲䧅㓢 㡺䚊 㟻䝨 㦟㡺䚊䡞䋒㞚㟵

䝧㴲䖜䚊䝨䆻䏄㴲㓿㧔㞚㴲䡞䝧䚊㞚䚊䆻䧅㟵䧅㴲䏄㛟㡺䯲䯲㞚䖜㦟䋒䆻㓢㡺㴲䫦㩿㡺㩿䯲䕢㟻㞚㴲䏄㟻㛟㛟㡺㡺㛟䖜䫦㞚㴲䏄㦟䆻䋒䯲䚊䧅㓿䡞䯲㦟㞚䫦䋒㡺䏄㞚㦟䫦䏄䖜㩿㴲㡺䫦㓢䏄㞚䝧㓢䋒㡺䝧䕢㡺䡞㡺㦟䫦䏄䫦䋒㓿䆻㓢䫦䧅㴲䕢䆻㡺䚊㦟䧅㛟㴲䝧䏄㟵㡺䏄䕢䧅㓢䏄㦟㓢㞚䫦㡺㞚䝧䡞䡞㴲䏄㞚㟵䝧䝨㟻’㞚䏄䧅䆻㴲䯲㿯䕢䡞䧅䲖䚊㞚㴲㴲䏄䝧䋒䚊㡺㩿㦟䆻䕢䧅㴲䫦㦟㞚䏄䧅䚊㡺

“㧔㞚’䏄㞚 䚊㡺㦟 㟻㴲㚱䧅䚊䡞 䧅㦟 㡺䋒㦟 䧅㛟 䕢㞚 䆻㦟㴲䝨 䫦㞚䏄㞚䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 䆻䫦㡺䋒㦟㞚䝧 㡺䲖㞚䏄 㦟䫦㞚 䡞䋒䚊㛟䧅䏄㞚㟵 㴇䫦㞚 㓿䏄㞚䆻䆻㞚䝧 㴲 䆻㞚㦟 㡺㛟 㚱㞚䝨䆻 䧅䚊㦟㡺 㟻䝨 䫦㴲䚊䝧㟵 “㨆㡺䋒 㚱䚊㡺䕢 䫦㡺䕢 㦟㡺 䝧䏄䧅䲖㞚㩿 䏄䧅䡞䫦㦟㢸”

䘏 䚊㡺䝧䝧㞚䝧㩿 㟻䝨 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 䆻䫦㴲㚱䧅䚊䡞㟵 “㨆䔬䝨㞚㴲䫦㟵”

“䯻㡺㡺䝧㟵” 㾊㞚䏄 㞚䝨㞚䆻 䯲㡺㓢㚱㞚䝧 㡺䚊㦟㡺 㟻䧅䚊㞚㩿 㛟䧅㞚䏄㓢㞚 㴲䚊䝧 䋒䚊䝨䧅㞚䯲䝧䧅䚊䡞㟵 “䈨䯲㴲㓢㚱 㴇㰲䃦 㡺䋒㦟䆻䧅䝧㞚㟵 䯻㡺㟵 䘏’䯲䯲 䫦㡺䯲䝧 㦟䫦㞚㟻 㡺㛟㛟㟵 䧁䫦㞚䝨 䕢㡺䚊’㦟 㛟㡺䯲䯲㡺䕢 䝨㡺䋒㟵”

䘏 䫦㞚㴲䏄䝧 㦟䫦㞚 䕢䫦䧅䆻㓿㞚䏄 㡺㛟 䫦㞚䏄 㦟䫦㡺䋒䡞䫦㦟䆻㩿 䆻䫦㴲䏄㓿 㴲䚊䝧 㓢䯲㞚㴲䏄䠘 㥘䘏 㓢㴲䚊’㦟 䯲㞚㦟 䫦䧅㟻 䝧䧅㞚 䖜㞚㓢㴲䋒䆻㞚 㡺㛟 㟻㞚㟵 㦊㡺㦟 㴲䚊㡺㦟䫦㞚䏄 㡺䚊㞚㟵䇩

㴇䫦㞚 㚱㞚㓿㦟 㛟䧅䏄䧅䚊䡞㩿 䫦㞚䏄 㟻㡺䲖㞚㟻㞚䚊㦟䆻 㴲 䖜䯲䋒䏄 㴲䆻 䆻䫦㞚 㞚䝻㞚㓢㦟㞚䝧 㴲 䆻㓿㞚䚊㦟 㟻㴲䡞㴲䮢䧅䚊㞚 㴲䚊䝧 䆻䯲㴲㟻㟻㞚䝧 㴲 㛟䏄㞚䆻䫦 㡺䚊㞚 䫦㡺㟻㞚㟵 “䈨㴲㓢㚱 䝧㡺㡺䏄䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 䝨㞚䯲䯲㞚䝧㩿 䚊㡺䝧䝧䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺䕢㴲䏄䝧 䧅㦟㟵 “㾾䋒䆻㦟 䡞㡺䵹 䌫㡺䚊’㦟 䯲㡺㡺㚱 䖜㴲㓢㚱䵹”

䘏 䫦㞚䆻䧅㦟㴲㦟㞚䝧㟵 “㧔䫦㴲㦟 㴲䖜㡺䋒㦟 䝨㡺䋒㢸 㨆㡺䋒’䏄㞚 㓢㡺㟻䧅䚊䡞 䕢䧅㦟䫦 㟻㞚䵹”

㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚’䆻 䡞㴲䮢㞚 䕢㴲䆻 䆻㦟㞚㞚䯲㟵 “㦊㡺 㦟䧅㟻㞚䵹 䯻㡺䵹”

䘏 㦟䋒䏄䚊㞚䝧㩿 㟻䝨 䫦㴲䚊䝧 㡺䚊 㦟䫦㞚 䝧㡺㡺䏄 䫦㴲䚊䝧䯲㞚—㴲䆻 䘏 㓿䏄㞚㦟㞚䚊䝧㞚䝧 㦟㡺 䖜㞚 㴲 㓢㡺䕢㴲䏄䝧㟵 䧁䫦㞚䚊㩿 䘏 䆻㓿䋒䚊 䖜㴲㓢㚱㩿 䡞䏄㴲䖜䖜䧅䚊䡞 㴲 䚊㞚㴲䏄䖜䝨 䆻䫦㞚䯲㛟 㴲䚊䝧 䝨㴲䚊㚱䧅䚊䡞 䧅㦟 䝧㡺䕢䚊 䕢䧅㦟䫦 㴲 䏄㡺㴲䏄㟵 䈨㡺㦟㦟䯲㞚䆻 㞚㸂㓿䯲㡺䝧㞚䝧 㴲䡞㴲䧅䚊䆻㦟 㦟䫦㞚 㛟䯲㡺㡺䏄㩿 㦟䫦㞚 䆻㡺䋒䚊䝧 㴲 䆻䝨㟻㓿䫦㡺䚊䝨 㡺㛟 䝧㞚䆻㦟䏄䋒㓢㦟䧅㡺䚊㟵 㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚’䆻 㞚䝨㞚䆻 䕢䧅䝧㞚䚊㞚䝧 䧅䚊 䆻䫦㡺㓢㚱 㴲䆻 䘏 䝧䏄㴲䡞䡞㞚䝧 䫦㞚䏄 㦟㡺䕢㴲䏄䝧 㦟䫦㞚 㞚㸂䧅㦟㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䡞䋒䚊 䆻㦟䧅䯲䯲 䖜㴲䏄㚱䧅䚊䡞 䝧㞚㴲㦟䫦 䖜㞚䫦䧅䚊䝧 䋒䆻㟵

“䘏’㟻 䚊㡺㦟 䯲㞚㴲䲖䧅䚊䡞 䝨㡺䋒䵹” 䘏 䆻䫦㡺䋒㦟㞚䝧 㡺䲖㞚䏄 㦟䫦㞚 㓢䫦㴲㡺䆻㟵

㧔㞚 䖜䋒䏄䆻㦟 㦟䫦䏄㡺䋒䡞䫦 㦟䫦㞚 䝧㡺㡺䏄㩿 㦟䫦㞚 㓢㡺䯲䝧 䚊䧅䡞䫦㦟 㴲䧅䏄 䫦䧅㦟㦟䧅䚊䡞 䋒䆻 䯲䧅㚱㞚 㴲 䆻䯲㴲㓿㟵 㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚 䝧䧅䝧䚊’㦟 㴲䏄䡞䋒㞚㟵 㴇䫦㞚 䡞䏄㴲䖜䖜㞚䝧 㟻䝨 䫦㴲䚊䝧㩿 㓿䋒䯲䯲䧅䚊䡞 㟻㞚 㦟㡺䕢㴲䏄䝧 㦟䫦㞚 㴇㰲䃦㟵

䧁䫦㞚 㴇㰲䃦’䆻 㦟䧅䏄㞚䆻 䆻㓢䏄㞚㞚㓢䫦㞚䝧 㴲䆻 䕢㞚 㦟㡺䏄㞚 㴲䕢㴲䝨 㛟䏄㡺㟻 㦟䫦㞚 㓿䋒䖜㩿 㦟䫦㞚 㴲䝧䏄㞚䚊㴲䯲䧅䚊㞚 䆻㦟䧅䯲䯲 䖜䋒䏄䚊䧅䚊䡞 㦟䫦䏄㡺䋒䡞䫦 㟻䝨 䲖㞚䧅䚊䆻 䯲䧅㚱㞚 䕢䧅䯲䝧㛟䧅䏄㞚㟵 䧁䫦㞚 䆻䧅䯲㞚䚊㓢㞚 䧅䚊 㦟䫦㞚 㓢㴲䏄 䕢㴲䆻 㦟䫦䧅㓢㚱㩿 䆻䋒㛟㛟㡺㓢㴲㦟䧅䚊䡞㩿 䖜䏄㡺㚱㞚䚊 㡺䚊䯲䝨 䖜䝨 㦟䫦㞚 䏄㴲䡞䡞㞚䝧 䏄䫦䝨㦟䫦㟻 㡺㛟 㡺䋒䏄 䖜䏄㞚㴲㦟䫦䧅䚊䡞㟵 㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚’䆻 䫦㴲䚊䝧䆻 䡞䏄䧅㓿㓿㞚䝧 㦟䫦㞚 䆻㦟㞚㞚䏄䧅䚊䡞 䕢䫦㞚㞚䯲 䆻㡺 㦟䧅䡞䫦㦟䯲䝨 䫦㞚䏄 㚱䚊䋒㓢㚱䯲㞚䆻 䫦㴲䝧 㦟䋒䏄䚊㞚䝧 䕢䫦䧅㦟㞚㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䝻㴲䕢 㓢䯲㞚䚊㓢䫦㞚䝧 㴲䆻 䧅㛟 䆻䫦㞚 䕢㞚䏄㞚 䫦㡺䯲䝧䧅䚊䡞 䖜㴲㓢㚱 㴲 䆻㦟㡺䏄㟻㟵

㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚’䆻 䫦㞚㴲䝧 䆻䚊㴲㓿㓿㞚䝧 㦟㡺䕢㴲䏄䝧 㟻㞚㩿 䫦㞚䏄 㞚䝨㞚䆻 䖜䯲㴲䮢䧅䚊䡞 䕢䧅㦟䫦 㴲 㟻䧅㸂 㡺㛟 㛟䋒䏄䝨 㴲䚊䝧 䆻㡺㟻㞚㦟䫦䧅䚊䡞 㞚䯲䆻㞚—䆻㡺㟻㞚㦟䫦䧅䚊䡞 䏄㴲䕢 㴲䚊䝧 䋒䚊䡞䋒㴲䏄䝧㞚䝧㟵 “㨆㡺䋒 䧅䝧䧅㡺㦟䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 㞚㸂㓿䯲㡺䝧㞚䝧㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 㴲 䕢䫦䧅㓿䔬㓢䏄㴲㓢㚱 䧅䚊 㦟䫦㞚 㓢㡺䚊㛟䧅䚊㞚䝧 䆻㓿㴲㓢㞚㟵 “䌫㡺 䝨㡺䋒 䫦㴲䲖㞚 㴲䚊䝨 䧅䝧㞚㴲 䕢䫦㴲㦟 䝻䋒䆻㦟 䫦㴲㓿㓿㞚䚊㞚䝧 䖜㴲㓢㚱 㦟䫦㞚䏄㞚㢸 䧁䫦㡺䆻㞚 㟻㞚䚊 䕢㞚䏄㞚—㦟䫦㞚䝨 䝧㡺䚊’㦟 㓿䯲㴲䝨 䡞㴲㟻㞚䆻䵹 㨆㡺䋒 㓢㡺䋒䯲䝧’䲖㞚 䖜㞚㞚䚊 㚱䧅䯲䯲㞚䝧䵹”

䘏 㟻㞚㦟 䫦㞚䏄 䡞㴲䮢㞚㩿 䋒䚊㛟䯲䧅䚊㓢䫦䧅䚊䡞㟵 “䈨䋒㦟 䘏 䕢㴲䆻䚊’㦟㟵 䈨㞚㓢㴲䋒䆻㞚 㡺㛟 䝨㡺䋒㟵”

“䧁䫦㴲㦟’䆻 䚊㡺㦟 㦟䫦㞚 㓿㡺䧅䚊㦟䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 䆻䚊㴲㓿㓿㞚䝧㩿 䆻䯲㴲㟻㟻䧅䚊䡞 䫦㞚䏄 㓿㴲䯲㟻 㴲䡞㴲䧅䚊䆻㦟 㦟䫦㞚 䆻㦟㞚㞚䏄䧅䚊䡞 䕢䫦㞚㞚䯲㟵 䧁䫦㞚 㓢㴲䏄 䆻䕢㞚䏄䲖㞚䝧 䆻䯲䧅䡞䫦㦟䯲䝨 䖜㞚㛟㡺䏄㞚 䆻䫦㞚 㓢㡺䏄䏄㞚㓢㦟㞚䝧 䧅㦟㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 䏄䧅䆻䧅䚊䡞㟵 “㨆㡺䋒 䏄㴲䚊 䖜㴲㓢㚱 㛟㡺䏄 㟻㞚䵹 㨆㡺䋒 㦟䫦䏄㞚䕢 㴲 䆻䫦㞚䯲㛟 㴲㦟 㦟䫦㞚㟻 䯲䧅㚱㞚 䆻㡺㟻㞚 㚱䧅䚊䝧 㡺㛟—㡺㛟 㴲㓢㦟䧅㡺䚊 䫦㞚䏄㡺䵹 䌫㡺 䝨㡺䋒 䫦㴲䲖㞚 㴲 䝧㞚㴲㦟䫦 䕢䧅䆻䫦㢸 䊋䏄 㴲䏄㞚 䝨㡺䋒 䝻䋒䆻㦟 䆻㦟䋒㓿䧅䝧㢸”

䝧䚊䧅㚱 䘏 㡺㛟䝧㞚㟵䧅”䘏䖜䯲䋒䖜䖜䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺㦟㧔䫦㴲䘏㟻䝨䡞㡺䚊䡞䧅㦟㚱䚊䧅䫦 䚊䕢㡺 㦟㡺䝨䫦㓿䏄䯲㴲䆻㩿䯲㴲㞚䲖㞚 㴲”㢸㟻䏄㴲㛟䆻㡺䚊䧅㦟㦟䋒䏄 㞚䝧㸂䯲㴲䫦㞚 䕢㴲䚊䆻’㦟䝧㡺䋒㡺䝨㞚㡺㓿䏄䆻䚊 䋒㓿㟵 䝨䋒㡺

“䡊 䝧㞚㴲䝧 㡺䚊㞚 䧅㛟 䝨㡺䋒 㚱㞚㞚㓿 㓿䋒䯲䯲䧅䚊䡞 䆻㦟䋒䚊㦟䆻 䯲䧅㚱㞚 㦟䫦㴲㦟䵹” 䆻䫦㞚 䆻䫦㡺㦟 䖜㴲㓢㚱㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 㦟䏄㞚㟻䖜䯲䧅䚊䡞 䕢䧅㦟䫦 䖜㴲䏄㞚䯲䝨 㓢㡺䚊㦟㴲䧅䚊㞚䝧 䏄㴲䡞㞚㟵 “㨆㡺䋒 䝧㡺䚊’㦟 䋒䚊䝧㞚䏄䆻㦟㴲䚊䝧 䕢䫦㴲㦟 䝨㡺䋒’䏄㞚 䝧㞚㴲䯲䧅䚊䡞 䕢䧅㦟䫦䵹 䧁䫦㞚䆻㞚 㓿㞚㡺㓿䯲㞚—㦟䫦㞚䝨 䝧㡺䚊’㦟 㓢㴲䏄㞚 䕢䫦㡺 䡞㞚㦟䆻 㓢㴲䋒䡞䫦㦟 䧅䚊 㦟䫦㞚 㓢䏄㡺䆻䆻㛟䧅䏄㞚䵹 㨆㡺䋒 㓢㡺䋒䯲䝧’䲖㞚 䖜㞚㞚䚊 㴲䚊㡺㦟䫦㞚䏄 䖜㡺䝧䝨 㡺䚊 㦟䫦㞚 㛟䯲㡺㡺䏄㩿 㴲䚊㡺㦟䫦㞚䏄 䆻㦟㴲㦟䧅䆻㦟䧅㓢 䧅䚊 㦟䫦䧅䆻 䝧㴲㟻䚊 䕢㴲䏄䵹”

䘏 㓢䯲㞚䚊㓢䫦㞚䝧 㟻䝨 㛟䧅䆻㦟䆻㩿 㟻䝨 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 䏄䧅䆻䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺 㟻㴲㦟㓢䫦 䫦㞚䏄䆻㟵 “䡊䚊䝧 䕢䫦㴲㦟 䧅㛟 䝨㡺䋒 䫦㴲䝧 䖜㞚㞚䚊 㦟䫦㞚 㡺䚊㞚 䯲㞚㛟㦟 䖜㞚䫦䧅䚊䝧㢸 㧔㡺䋒䯲䝧 䝨㡺䋒 䫦㴲䲖㞚 䝻䋒䆻㦟 䕢㴲䯲㚱㞚䝧 㴲䕢㴲䝨㢸”

䕢䫦㡺㦟㞚䚊䫦䝨㟻㡺䡞㦟䆻㦟䫦䵹䧅䘏㦟䚊䫦㴲䫦䆻㞚㴲䫦㦟䕢䏄㡺㟻㞚䆻㞚㞚䝧㓢䫦㩿㞚䫦䧅㦟䝧䏄㬟㡺䡞䝧㴲䏄㞚䡞䝧㡺䏄䏄㴲䝧㞚㟻㞚䧅䏄䆻㟻㡺㞚䧅㦟㡺㛟㞚㦟䫦䝻䆻㦟䋒㡺㢸㨆䋒䋒㦟䈨䡞㛟䯲䧅䚊䧅㓢㚱㞚䏄㛟㞚䧅䏄䝧䝧䧅䚊’㦟䧅䕢䫦㦟㞚䏄䧅䚊㴲㦟䝧䧅㴲㞚’䏄䯲䆻㿯䕢㡺䚊㚱’䋒㨆䏄㞚㡺㦟䫦㞚䧁㦟'”㴲䆻䫦㴲䖜㚱㩿㓢䧅㦟—䋒㞚䚊䡞㟻䯲㡺䧅䡞䆻㩿䫦㦟㡺䧅䚊䡞䝧䵹㞚䫦䏄䖜㴲㦟㡺㦟㛟㡺䏄䫦㞚䏄㴲㦟䏄㞚㛟㟵䯲㡺䆻㡺㞚㟻—㞚㟻䆻䚊㡺㦟䧅㴲䕢㦟䚊䧅䲖㓢䯲㴲䧅䚊䧅㞚㴲㩿㟻䖜䝨䧅䚊䫦㞚䏄’㟻䘏㓢㛟㟵㴲㞚’䘏㟻䆻㞚”㟻䵹䆻㦟㡺㴲䏄䝧䧅㛟㛟䵹㦟㞚䚊㞚䆻䡞䫦㦟㡺㞚䝨䆻㞚䏄䧅㓢㞚䏄㞚㛟㛟㞚䖜㡺㞚䏄㟵㞚䝧䚊㡺㓢㩿䆻

䘏 䯲㞚㴲䚊㞚䝧 㛟㡺䏄䕢㴲䏄䝧㩿 㟻䝨 䲖㡺䧅㓢㞚 䯲㡺䕢 㴲䚊䝧 䧅䚊㦟㞚䚊䆻㞚㟵 “䘏’㟻 䚊㡺㦟 䝻䋒䆻㦟 㴲䚊䝨㦟䫦䧅䚊䡞㟵 䡊䚊䝧 䘏 䆻䋒䏄㞚 㴲䆻 䫦㞚䯲䯲 䕢㴲䆻䚊’㦟 䡞㡺䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺 䯲㞚㦟 䝨㡺䋒 㛟㴲㓢㞚 㦟䫦㴲㦟 㴲䯲㡺䚊㞚㟵”

㴇䫦㞚 䡞䯲㴲䏄㞚䝧 㴲㦟 㟻㞚㩿 䫦㞚䏄 㓢䫦㞚䆻㦟 䫦㞚㴲䲖䧅䚊䡞 䕢䧅㦟䫦 㞚㴲㓢䫦 䖜䏄㞚㴲㦟䫦㟵 㬟㡺䏄 㴲 䯲㡺䚊䡞 㟻㡺㟻㞚䚊㦟㩿 䚊㞚䧅㦟䫦㞚䏄 㡺㛟 䋒䆻 䆻㓿㡺㚱㞚㟵 䧁䫦㞚 㡺䚊䯲䝨 䆻㡺䋒䚊䝧 䕢㴲䆻 㦟䫦㞚 䫦䋒㟻 㡺㛟 㦟䫦㞚 㞚䚊䡞䧅䚊㞚 㴲䚊䝧 㦟䫦㞚 䝧䧅䆻㦟㴲䚊㦟 䕢㴲䧅䯲 㡺㛟 䆻䧅䏄㞚䚊䆻—䆻㡺㟻㞚㡺䚊㞚 㟻䋒䆻㦟’䲖㞚 㓢㴲䯲䯲㞚䝧 㦟䫦㞚 㓢㡺㓿䆻 㴲㛟㦟㞚䏄 㦟䫦㞚 䡞䋒䚊㛟䧅䏄㞚㟵

䝨䯲䯲㴲䚊㩿䧅㬟㛟䫦㦟䡞䧅㞚䆻䫦䆻䫦㞚㞚䏄㛟䯲䆻㡺㞚㟻㦟䝨䡞䯲䫦䯲䆻䧅㩿㟻㟵㞚㡺䧅䆻㩿”㟻䖜䆻䯲㞚䧅㓿㞚䆻䏄䋒䫦䝧䯲㡺䆻䏄’䆻㴲䯲䧅㞚㿯㡺㟻䏄㞚㡺䋒㦟䫦㞚䏄㟵㦟㡺㦟㞚䫦䡞㴲㞚䝧䡞䆻䚊䚊䏄䝧䡞䧅㴲䧅㨆㞚㡺䏄䋒'”㛟㡺㛟㡺䏄㟻㦟䋒㩿㞚㦟䝧㞚㴲䚊䫦㦟㡺㦟

㴇䫦㞚 㦟㡺㡺㚱 㴲 䝧㞚㞚㓿㩿 䆻䫦䋒䝧䝧㞚䏄䧅䚊䡞 䖜䏄㞚㴲㦟䫦㩿 㴲䆻 䧅㛟 㦟䏄䝨䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺 䏄㞚䡞㴲䧅䚊 㓢㡺䚊㦟䏄㡺䯲㟵 “䘏’㟻 䆻㡺䏄䏄䝨㟵 䘏 䆻䫦㡺䋒䯲䝧䚊’㦟 䫦㴲䲖㞚 䝧䏄㴲䡞䡞㞚䝧 䝨㡺䋒 䧅䚊㦟㡺 㦟䫦䧅䆻㟵 䧁䫦㡺䆻㞚 㟻㞚䚊—㦟䫦㞚䝨 䕢㞚䏄㞚 㴲㛟㦟㞚䏄 㟻㞚㟵 㨆㡺䋒 䚊㞚䲖㞚䏄 䆻䫦㡺䋒䯲䝧’䲖㞚 䡞㡺㦟㦟㞚䚊 䧅䚊䲖㡺䯲䲖㞚䝧㟵”

䘏 䆻䫦㡺㡺㚱 㟻䝨 䫦㞚㴲䝧㟵 “䘏㦟’䆻 㛟䧅䚊㞚㟵 㧔㞚’䏄㞚 䖜㡺㦟䫦 䆻㴲㛟㞚㟵 䧁䫦㴲㦟’䆻 㴲䯲䯲 㦟䫦㴲㦟 㟻㴲㦟㦟㞚䏄䆻 䚊㡺䕢㟵”

䫦㞚㴇㞚䆻䝨㞚㢸䚊”䏄䡞䝨㴲䏄”‘䚊㞚㦟䡊㡺㚱䯲㡺㩿㟻㞚㡺䫦䚊㞚㦟㴲䏄䋒䚊䡞䖜䧅䚊䏄䆻䯲䯲䧅㦟䯲䲖㡺㞚㛟䏄㦟㞚䫦䆻㡺㦟㦟䫦䕢䧅㴲䡞㟵䚊㞚䏄㞚䏄䫦㡺䝨䋒

䘏 䯲㞚㦟 㡺䋒㦟 㴲 䆻䫦㡺䏄㦟㩿 䫦䋒㟻㡺䏄䯲㞚䆻䆻 䯲㴲䋒䡞䫦㟵 “䡊㦟 䝨㡺䋒㢸 䧁䫦㞚 㓿㞚䏄䆻㡺䚊 䕢䫦㡺 䝻䋒䆻㦟 䆻㴲䲖㞚䝧 㟻䝨 䯲䧅㛟㞚㢸 㴇䫦㡺䋒䯲䝧 䘏 䝨㞚䯲䯲 㴲㦟 䝨㡺䋒 㛟㡺䏄 㦟䫦㴲㦟㢸”

㿯䯲㴲䧅䏄㞚’䆻 㞚㸂㓿䏄㞚䆻䆻䧅㡺䚊 䆻㡺㛟㦟㞚䚊㞚䝧 䆻䯲䧅䡞䫦㦟䯲䝨㩿 䆻㡺㟻㞚㦟䫦䧅䚊䡞 㴲䯲㟻㡺䆻㦟 䯲䧅㚱㞚 䖜㞚䕢䧅䯲䝧㞚䏄㟻㞚䚊㦟 㛟䯲䧅㓢㚱㞚䏄䧅䚊䡞 㴲㓢䏄㡺䆻䆻 䫦㞚䏄 㛟㴲㓢㞚㟵 “㨆㡺䋒’䏄㞚… 䚊㡺㦟 䯲䧅㚱㞚 㡺㦟䫦㞚䏄䆻㟵”

䘏 㞚䏄䝧䆻㴲䧅 㴲䚊 䫦”㦟㴲㧔䖜㟵䏄㞚㞚䝨㡺䕢䏄㞚”䆻㡺㦟㢸䫦

㴇䫦㞚 䫦㞚䆻䧅㦟㴲㦟㞚䝧㩿 䫦㞚䏄 䡞㴲䮢㞚 䝧䏄㡺㓿㓿䧅䚊䡞 㦟㡺 㦟䫦㞚 䏄㡺㴲䝧 㴲䫦㞚㴲䝧㟵 “䌫㡺㞚䆻䚊’㦟 㟻㴲㦟㦟㞚䏄㟵” 㴇䫦㞚 䆻䫦㡺㡺㚱 䫦㞚䏄 䫦㞚㴲䝧㩿 㴲䆻 䧅㛟 㓿䫦䝨䆻䧅㓢㴲䯲䯲䝨 䝧䧅䆻㟻䧅䆻䆻䧅䚊䡞 㦟䫦㞚 㦟䫦㡺䋒䡞䫦㦟㟵 “䧠䧅䡞䫦㦟 䚊㡺䕢㩿 䕢㞚 䝻䋒䆻㦟 䚊㞚㞚䝧 㦟㡺 䫦䧅䝧㞚㟵 䘏 䚊㞚㞚䝧 㦟㡺 㓢㡺䚊㦟㴲㓢㦟 㟻䝨 㓿㞚㡺㓿䯲㞚㟵”

䘏 䚊㡺䝧䝧㞚䝧㩿 䕢㴲㦟㓢䫦䧅䚊䡞 㴲䆻 䆻䫦㞚 㓿䋒䯲䯲㞚䝧 䧅䚊㦟㡺 㦟䫦㞚 㓿㴲䏄㚱䧅䚊䡞 䯲㡺㦟 㡺㛟 㴲 䏄䋒䚊䔬䝧㡺䕢䚊 㟻㡺㦟㞚䯲㟵 䧁䫦㞚 㓿䯲㴲㓢㞚 䕢㴲䆻 㦟䫦㞚 䝧㞚㛟䧅䚊䧅㦟䧅㡺䚊 㡺㛟 㛟㡺䏄䡞㡺㦟㦟㞚䚊—㓿㞚㞚䯲䧅䚊䡞 㓿㴲䧅䚊㦟㩿 㴲 㛟䯲䧅㓢㚱㞚䏄䧅䚊䡞 “㦊㡺 䃦㴲㓢㴲䚊㓢䝨” 䆻䧅䡞䚊 㦟䫦㴲㦟 㓢䯲㞚㴲䏄䯲䝨 䯲䧅㞚䝧㩿 㴲䚊䝧 㴲䚊 㡺䲖㞚䏄㴲䯲䯲 㴲䧅䏄 㡺㛟 䝧㞚㓢㴲䝨㟵 㦊㡺 㓢㴲㟻㞚䏄㴲䆻㩿 䚊㡺 㓿䏄䝨䧅䚊䡞 㞚䝨㞚䆻㟵 㾾䋒䆻㦟 㦟䫦㞚 㚱䧅䚊䝧 㡺㛟 㓿䯲㴲㓢㞚 䝨㡺䋒’䝧 䡞㡺 䧅㛟 䝨㡺䋒 䝧䧅䝧䚊’㦟 䕢㴲䚊㦟 㦟㡺 䖜㞚 㛟㡺䋒䚊䝧㟵㟵

CREATORS’ THOUGHTS
PranjalSinghK

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SEND GIFT

Chapter 722: Night In The Motel
Claire killed the engine with a sharp twist of her wrist; the sudden silence in the car was almost deafening after the chaos of the night. She turned to me, her hand outstretched, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Your phone.”

I didn’t hesitate—but not for the reason she thought. Instead of handing over my real device, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a brand-new phone, identical to mine in every way.

I’d procured it from the SUDIX store, a perfect replica generated from my system storage. It was warm to the touch, as if it had been in my pocket all along.

I placed it in her palm, watching as she turned it over, examining it with a critical eye. For a moment, I wondered if she’d sense the deception—but her focus was on survival, not scrutiny.

Without a word, she rolled down the window and hurled the phone onto the asphalt. It hit the ground with a dull crack, the screen splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. A second later, her own phone followed, shattering beside it. The sound was final, irreversible—a symbolic severing of ties to the world that had just tried to kill us.

I hid my satisfaction behind a neutral expression. Good. She’ll never know. If I’d given her my real phone, I would’ve lost access to SERA, and the thought of reinstalling her on a new device was a hassle I didn’t have time for. This way, I kept my advantage—and my secrets.

Claire turned back to me, her expression unreadable in the dim glow of the motel’s flickering neon sign. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice low and tired. “We’ll figure out the next move inside.”

The motel room was everything you’d expect from a place like this: forgotten, barely functional, and reeking of desperation. Claire had booked it in cash, her movements swift and efficient, her eyes scanning the parking lot for any sign of a threat.

The room itself was small—a double bed with a sagging mattress, a TV bolted to the wall with a remote that looked like it hadn’t worked in a decade, and a washroom so cramped it felt more like an afterthought than a necessity.

The curtains were thin, the kind that did little to block out the world, but Claire drew them shut anyway, her fingers lingering on the fabric as if she could physically seal us off from the dangers outside.

Claire locked the door with a sharp, decisive click, the sound echoing through the cramped motel room like a final judgment.

She turned to face me, her back pressed against the door as if she were the last line of defense between us and the world outside. Her chest rose and fell with the remnants of adrenaline, her eyes scanning the room with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime assessing threats.

She was memorizing every detail—the position of the bed, the flimsy lock on the window, the way the light from the parking lot bled through the thin curtains.

I broke the silence, my voice low but steady. “So what’s next?”

Claire exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing around the grip of her gun before she finally lowered it. “We wait,” she said, her voice rough with exhaustion. “My team should try to contact me, but…” She hesitated, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know if they’re still safe. If Nickolai’s men got to them, we’re on our own.”

I nodded, the gravity of our situation settling over me. “And if they don’t contact you?”

She met my gaze, her expression unreadable. “Then we figure out another way. But for now, we stay put.”

A beat of silence passed between us, thick with unspoken tension. Claire pushed off the door and moved toward the bed, her steps measured, controlled. She sat down on the edge, testing the mattress with a skeptical glance before turning back to me. “We should get some sleep,” she said, her voice softer now, the sharp edges of her adrenaline fading into exhaustion. “We don’t know what’s coming tomorrow.”

I watched as she climbed onto the bed, her movements efficient, practiced. The gun slipped under her pillow before she settled onto her right side, facing me. “Well?” she prompted, her tone a mix of irritation and fatigue. “Are you just going to stand there all night, or are you getting in this bed?”

I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto the bed from the other side, shrugging off my coat and letting it fall to the floor. I lay down, turning onto my left side so we were facing each other. The mattress groaned under our combined weight, the springs protesting with every shift.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, like the quiet before a storm. I studied her face, the way the dim light from the bathroom cast shadows under her eyes, the faint scar above her eyebrow that I hadn’t noticed before. It made her look even more formidable, like someone who had been through hell and come out the other side stronger.

“Do you often end up in situations like tonight?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Claire’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not most missions,” she admitted. “But some…” She trailed off, her gaze distant, as if she were reliving something she’d rather forget. “Some get messy. Some get bad.”

I frowned. “Doesn’t it ever get to you?” I pressed. “I mean, it’s dangerous. What about your family? Do they even know what you do?”

Claire’s eyes snapped back to mine, sharp and unyielding. “No,” she said flatly. “And they never will. This life… it’s not something I want them to worry about.” She paused, her voice softening just a fraction. “But I love what I do, Reynolds. This is the job I chose. It’s who I am.”

I couldn’t help but smile slightly. “You’re quite the adventurous type, Agent Starling.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And you’re surprisingly calm for a civilian,” she shot back. “Most people would be losing their minds after a night like tonight. But not you, Mr. Jack Reynolds.”

I chuckled. “So you do know who I am.”