Secrets we cradle in the.., p.1
Secrets We Cradle in the Dark: MM Spy Romance, page 1
SECRETS WE CRADLE IN THE DARK
MM SPY ROMANCE
IVY LOVELL
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Secrets we cradle in the dark
Copyright © 2025 by Ivy Lovell Works
Cover Art by Brandi
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Additionally, no part of this book may be used in training AI, creating AI audiobooks, or in creating generative AI content in any capacity.
Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9923518-1-1
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9923518-3-5
Formatted with Vellum
To Kate, for not punching me even though you wanted to. True friendship <3
CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS
This stories deals heavily with mental health including:
- Depression and depressive episodes
- Anxiety
- Panic attacks
- PTSD
- Suicidal ideation (implied)
As well as mentions of:
- Body image issues
- Restrictive eating
- Over-exercise
- Childhood abuse
- Financial manipulation
- Physical injuries
- Loss of loved ones.
If any of this content may be triggering or cause harm, please do not proceed with reading this book.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgments
ONE
The long hand on the clock twitched, jerking in an endless loop while trapped behind smudged glass.
“...your carelessness cost us…”
What was the point of making vintage clock hands so pointy if Dimitri couldn’t stab his boredom into oblivion with it?
“Oh, and another thing! Next time don’t…”
He figures anything can be a weapon if he tries hard enough.
“Dimitri?” A voice interrupts his scheming, and Dimitri turns to find Handler Ramírez red-faced and panting as if they were the one who was tasked with running across a scorching lava field that afternoon. “As I was saying…”
Dimitri scrunches his face, imagining Handler Ramírez scouring rooftops and deploying cameras.
“How could you lose the essential…”
There’s a reason the National Spy Organization only has two active spies, and it isn’t due to a lack of trying
“And what about communicating…”
For trying is the reason—
“Have you been listening to a word I said?” Handler Ramírez drags a hand across their face with a loud groan.
“Not particularly,” Dimitri says before he can stop himself. He usually tries to not be as rude with Handler Ramírez, especially not after he found them sobbing in the printing room a few weeks back, but today has been exhausting as is. Dimitri is all out of neutral words and faux smiles.
“This is the second time this has happened!”
Surely, Dimitri has zoned out on more than just two occasions? He isn’t exactly subtle about his distaste for spontaneous scoldings.
Handler Ramírez plops back into their office chair, the momentum sending their chair twisting in one direction before they can swiftly correct the over-rotation and scoot tightly up to the desk. They set aside a few papers and place their elbows on the wooden desk, pointing to a stack of ominous beige folders. “The higher ups expect quality results!”
“And?” Dimitri probes for more context, crossing his sore left leg over his less sore right leg. He was dragged out of post-op mid-stretch on the premise of an urgent performance evaluation. He didn’t even have a chance to visit the infirmary for muscle cream, and a quick glance at the time reveals it closed five minutes ago.
“You completed Operation Sharks twenty-six minutes, forty-nine seconds, and thirteen milliseconds late,” Handler Ramírez emphasizes the milliseconds as if a fraction of a second could change Dimitri’s fate. “How hard is it to deliver an envelope to the base of an active volcano in the middle of winter? The two should cancel each other out.”
When Dimitri was still training to become a spy, he would defend himself, citing insomnia and injuries as the reason why he had struggled. For complaining, the instructors made him do it ten times over only for him to stay up all night reliving the exhaustion. Failure wasn’t an option…until Dimitri stopped caring about the consequences.
Dimitri stays quiet. Talking back will only make the reprimanding drag on.
“Time was of the essence! Our correspondence was expecting the delivery urgently. Are we just supposed to provide an additional half an hour for you to be leisurely?” Handler Ramírez grasps their hair, exposing premature grey hairs likely caused by Dimitri.
Dimitri opens his mouth to respond, but it runs dry. The only benefit to rushing on a mission is increasing his chance to meet the grim reaper. “I’ll keep it under twenty-six minutes next time,” Dimitri says when he regains control over his vocal cords.
Handler Ramírez groans, their face falling into their hands.
Dimitri sinks further into the chair as the next lecture resumes. Something-something about increasing training hours around extreme terrain and how Dimitri needs to be resilient around fire or he’ll put Levi in danger.
Handler Ramírez places paper after paper in front of Dimitri, all while keeping their posture perfectly straight. Their tinted glasses—to hide the stress-induced eye twitch—stay perched high up on their nose, never sliding down no matter how many times they shake their head in disappointment.
The monotonous drone of the lecture summons the melancholy out of every corner of the office, from the grey walls to the even greyer floors. The circular rug’s frayed edges stretch out like tendrils searching for an ounce of light or a reason to continue living.
The very least they could do is add a pop of color, maybe chartreuse or burgundy to give their victims something to ponder about while they are nagged to exhaustion.
A thick flyaway strand of black hair flails out of Dimitri’s short ponytail, and flops indignantly onto his eye. He blows on it, trying to get it to flee, but the greasiness glues itself onto his face. Like all his problems, the strand requires manual intervention.
“Are you firing me?” Dimitri asks, swiping the strand behind his ear. A temporary solution at best because if they are revoking his spy license, then there’s no need for him to stay here any longer.
Handler Ramírez sighs, exasperated. “If your performance doesn’t improve, we will have no choice but to.”
The words don’t scare Dimitri the way they should—the way they used to when he was naïve and impressionable. Back when the whole world felt like it would collapse with a single breath out of line. Then it did, and nothing changed. People died. The world moved on. The fire was extinguished, and everyone acted like it was simply part of the job.
Dimitri scans the awards and certificates adding to the blandness of the office. “Who will you send on missions then? The fourteen-year-old trainees you keep in the basement dormitories—”
“We do not keep them in the basement!” Handler Ramírez’s face falls in horror. They try a breathing exercise to calm themself but give up after a few moments and place their head in their hands again.
“So you’ve levelled up the facilities since I graduated,” Dimitri says with a pleased hum. Surely, it would’ve been nice if he and Levi got to experience the outside world in their first eighteen years of life, but at least their juniors might get away with normal vitamin D levels.
“Those were different times. The regulations have been updated,” Handler Ramírez says like they are trying to convince themselves the atrocities weren’t as bad as they sound on paper. As someone who lived it, Dimitri believes the paper doesn’t do the cramped conditions and thirteen-hour training days justice.
“Ah yes, four years ago. Very long time. Where have the years gone?” Dimitri attempts a smile and tries to twirl in his chair for emphasis, but the stiff leather protests from a lack of wheels. Readjusting from the slight embarrassment, Dimitri corrects his posture and then slouches again, his back muscles aching. “Listen, if you choose to show the children some sunlight and put them on the frontlines, the government won’t be happy,” Dimitri reminds Handler Ramírez.
The last time they did that, all the spies on that specific mission died except for one. Rest in peace and, unfortunately, pieces. Dimitri only escaped being burned alive because he got such poor marks as a trainee that he didn’t qualify for the mission. In the end, it got him a promotion and a traumatized spy partner.
“The government… Dimitri, we appreciate your concern, but we will not be repeating what happened to Levi. He was an exception.” Handler Ramírez grabs a folder from the remaining stack, pretends to look at it, and then drops it on the table. It’s the A-grade manual for tomorrow’s mission, which Dimitri has yet to be briefed on.
“So you can’t fire me?” Dimitri has at least four more years. If he can survive that long, he’ll figure out what to do from there. But Dr. Sanon always says to take it one day at a time. And if that’s too much, one hour at a time, or a second if life gets real dire. Or Dimitri could take a page out of Handler Ramírez’s book and pace himself at milliseconds.
“We do what we must to ensure order.” Handler Ramírez runs a hand through their mostly black curls. “Dimitri, I beg of you. We just ask you to do your job. Is that difficult?” Spy work isn’t exactly known for being easy. If it were easy, everyone would do it. “We will be forced to cut your pay again if we have to. You’re already being paid a third of what Levi gets. Do you wish to be so stubborn that you enter poverty alongside the ones you seek to help?”
This one stung, though it shouldn’t have. Most conversations with Handler Ramírez end on what Dimitri will lose, what will be taken. He needs money to survive, and they hope it’ll be enough to conjure the motivation he needs. Being a spy no longer means much to Dimitri, but he has dedicated so much of his time, life, and energy into becoming a spy, and for what? To give up? To be deemed such a failure the NSO can no longer find an excuse to pay him?
Handler Ramírez fiddles with the corner of the folder. “Do the mission tomorrow. No mistakes. No hang ups. Just complete it, and we’ll consider today’s hiccup absolved. Trust doesn’t grow overnight, but we can take steps to—”
“Ramírez, did you know Dimitri has been obtaining therapy?” The screechy voice of Varvara and the accompanying body burst through the door. Knocking? An unfamiliar concept to her. Thankfully, she interrupts Handler Ramírez during their problem-solving mode, which requires Dimitri to lie and say he will put in more effort. The lie isn’t that he wants to be a good spy but that he knows when the time comes, he would much rather stay in bed and sleep than go out and stop a villain.
Dimitri feigns shock and splays a hand across his chest. “Therapy? Why would I be going to such a ludicrous thing? Getting help to deal with the trauma, lack of energy and desire to live would be ridiculous! Why, I much rather serve the NSO until my last dying breath. Or until the fourteen-year-olds in the basement become of age,” Dimitri fails to hide the sarcasm in his voice. His last hope is that the decade or two between Varvara and Handler Ramírez is enough to pre-concede the invention of sarcasm.
Varvara whips her flared nostrils at Handler Ramírez. “You told him about the basement?”
“We still have trainees in the basement?” Handler Ramírez apparently is not aware of how little the NSO cares about the government regulations update. The NSO is married to the government but also cheats and has a love affair with abuse on the regular. Most of which Dimitri only realized when he started seeing his therapist, Dr. Sanon. She is nice—and familiar with the concept of knocking. “Dimitri, you are excused. Director Young, may I have a word?”
“We have plenty of words to speak,” Varvara says with a scowl entrenched into her features. “Therapy? Has he gone mad? The security risk. The violations. I feel a migraine coming…”
Dimitri doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of the conversation while they condemn him for trying to undo the damage of growing up in a system designed to make spies into well-oiled machines. Unfortunately, the metaphorical wiring never connected correctly or wasn’t soldered right; either way, Dimitri was never good at being perfect. That is what Levi is for—their golden child.
Dimitri steps out into the hall and comes face to face with Levi. His golden skin pales under the fluorescent lights, and his wavy brown hair sticks to his forehead, damp from exercise. His training shirt, drenched with sweat, hangs limply off his bony body. He’s supposed to be in his endurance conditioning class, yet he’s in front of Dimitri.
His rosy cheeks have Dimitri mentally halting his brain from going into admiration mode. He only allows himself to think of Levi when he is alone in his room at night. Any other time, it becomes inconvenient quickly. Especially when Levi wears a particular bodysuit that accentuates each of his curves and his ass seems optimally grabbable. Dots connect, and Dimitri’s insides twist.
He regrets telling Levi about his therapist.
Levi’s forced calm falters. His fingers twitch at his sides, chest rising and falling, eyes wide. “She asked.”
“I didn’t,” Dimitri says. “Go back to class.”
Levi’s face falls. Whatever guilt or regret Levi may be feeling now won’t stop him from doing it again, and they both know it.
Dimitri walks past Levi. It’s what they usually do, ignore one another while on the NSO campus because they are coworkers. Levi is number one, and Dimitri is number two, and the gap only grows wider.
“Wait! Let me explain,” Levi calls out, reaching for Dimitri’s jacket, but his fingers get stuck in the burn holes.
Dimitri tugs his jacket away, removing it from Levi’s hold. He sends Levi a stern look. He knows better than to break NSO rules where staff can observe them; in these halls, they are always watched.
The door to Handler Ramírez’s office opens, and Levi’s face returns to its stoic facade at the sight of Varvara.
“Agent Levi,” she says, ushering him inside.
Levi casts his head down, and in a quiet, obedient tone, he says, “Yes, Director Young,” before entering. The door closes with a click, basking Dimitri in the isolation he had yearned for just a few minutes prior.
Levi’s loyalties have always been to the NSO. Dimitri knows that, and in a moment of weakness, he still chose to confide—thought Levi would consider therapy a viable option. Those who aren’t loyal to themselves above all else are always the least trustable with secrets.
Dimitri meanders through the windowless halls and up the stairs to the back exit. Clouds lay heavy in the sky above, ready to split open and cleanse the city thrice over. The runoff will sweep into the sewers to stew and collect, hidden from the world above.
His watch reads 18:40; the day is almost over before it has even begun. The first few drops of rain hit his shoulder as he enters the grocery store. By the time his shopping is complete, the gutters gush with water as the torrential downpour strengthens. He heads home without an umbrella since he still hasn’t found a reason to buy one after Levi borrowed and broke his last one.
His boots splash through puddles, echoing into the busy streets. Honks and tires mesh into a chaos of white noise. Dimitri pulls his hood up over his head, drowning out the bustle. He hopes the rain soaking through his jacket and into his core will be chilly enough to make him feel something besides the never-ending numbness.
Dimitri doesn’t like crying. Especially when the tears running down his face aren’t emotionally rooted. Goddamn onions! Ever since Dimitri learned he can refrigerate his onions for a few days and then dice them without feeling the heavens raining down on him, he’s been blessed.
However, as of late, he’s had company for dinner and has needed to go shopping more frequently.
That’s a lie. Before, Dimitri mostly used to eat out. He had a higher paycheck, too, with the fancy title of Special Operations Officer. Now he’s simply a Technical Operations Officer since he can’t be trusted with weapons or equipment apparently. But eating out was convenient since he never learned how to cook in the basement dorms.
While Dimitri doesn’t always enjoy cooking for himself, especially when the onions terrorize him, he does enjoy the food. Dr. Sanon usually reminds him during their sessions that, “It’s the small things in life that bring us joy, even if it seems like it should be the big things.”
So, Dimitri spends his little free time cooking because the food tastes better when it’s homemade. Once he manages to dry his eyes with the backs of his sleeves, he dices the vegetables while heating olive oil on the stove.
The rain pitter-patters on the window, too late into spring for another snowfall. He plays his favorite rock band, the Lilypads, to complete the atmosphere, and sings to himself as he cooks.
He sautés the onions and adds the diced potatoes along with a handful of spices. After the savory fragrance gnaws at his stomach, he adds the broth and tomatoes and opts for a fraction of the jalapeno he would prefer to use. His occasional guest has the spice tolerance of a brick. He turns the stove knob to bring his stew to a boil. The smells have already entranced his hunger into something ravenous.
