Killian's POV
The room was small, dim, and quiet enough that our breaths filled the silence between shadows. Kieran tasted like whiskey and lust, and I needed both. He shoved me back onto the bed, and I let him, my mouth still clinging to his like I'd forgotten how to breathe.
His tongue was possessive, his hands worse. They slid beneath my shirt, dragging across my skin like he owned it. He yanked the fabric over my head. I did the same to him. His body was solid—lean, lightly scarred, the kind that told stories without words. The kind I understood.
I didn't want his name. I didn't want his past. I wanted friction. Sweat. A body under mine to make me forget I had one of my own.
"Turn over," I whispered.
He grinned darkly, rolling onto his stomach, arching slightly. His ass was tight and perfect, framed by the dim light filtering through yellow curtains. I bit his shoulder—he hissed in pleasure—and reached down to stroke him from behind.
He groaned, a low, needy sound torn from his throat.
"Condom?" I asked.
He tossed one over without looking back. My fingers opened it quickly, my heart thudding like a war drum. I rolled it on and spat into my hand, slicking him open with two fingers. He pushed back, impatient.
I didn't ease in. I buried myself in one thrust.
Kieran let out a rough moan, muffled by the pillow. My hands gripped his hips as I set the rhythm—sharp, brutal, unforgiving. He wanted it that way. I needed it that way. The sound of our bodies—skin slapping, breath catching, his low curses—filled the room like music.
I leaned over, my lips on his neck. "You like that?"
"Fuck yes," he rasped.
I reached around and stroked him in time with my thrusts. He tensed under me, shaking, lost to it. I exhaled against his shoulder, heart still pounding from what we'd just done. Kieran—he'd said his name was—lay sprawled beneath me, skin flushed, lips bitten red. My fingers were still tangled in his hair. My muscles trembled from the last wave of release. I'd lost track of how many times I'd taken him, how many times he'd begged for it again.
Sex was the only thing I could still do without guilt. I wasn't built for tenderness, only for heat, roughness, and need. And last night, I needed to feel anything but fear.
Kieran stirred and grinned up at me. "Jesus, you don't sleep either?"
I didn't answer. I slipped out of bed, naked, and began dressing. He didn't try to stop me.
"I knew you weren't a civilian," he said, watching me with lazy curiosity. "Too quiet. Too controlled. Soldier?"
I looked at him once before pulling on my boots. "Thanks for the night."
"Mm. If I'd known I was getting railed by a ghost, I'd have charged a fee."
I smirked despite myself. "That would've ruined it."
He chuckled. "Come back sometime, Ghost."
I left without another word.
The Next Morning
I woke early, but my body felt like it hadn't rested. I hadn't expected to get a message so soon. But there it was—encrypted, ghosted through my secure device.
No sender. Just a codeword and a file. Shadow Protocol. I tapped the file open.
It detailed the mission: I would serve as a shadow operative attached to the current President, Damien Voss. My job wasn't ceremonial. It wasn't visible. I was to be invisible muscle. No recognition. No public assignments. No uniform required unless protocol demanded. Total access. Total silence.
There were attached clearance codes, layout schematics, and a list of approved weapons—my old preferences. Someone had been digging deep into my history.
I stared at the last page. Primary asset: President Damien Voss.
Assignment duration: Undisclosed.
Threat level: Escalated (Internal).
Codename: CINDER.
A single line below chilled me:
> "Failure to protect asset results in asset death, national compromise, and voiding of personal immunity clause."
>
I closed the device and leaned back. So this was it. No more delaying. No more running.
I arrived at the Presidential compound at precisely 5:45 AM.
In a black car, wearing a black suit, with a black heart.
Security barely looked at me as I passed. They knew I was expected. My clearance allowed for invisible entrance. I wasn't here to shake hands or smile. I was here to see the man I might one day die for—and possibly betray.
An aide escorted me through a series of polished corridors. The building reeked of order and control. Marble floors. Steel doors. No clutter. No wasted motion.
She stopped outside a tall oak door and motioned silently.
I entered without knocking.
President Damien Voss stood by the window, back to me, hands clasped behind him. Broad shoulders. Tailored black suit. Hair combed into sharp lines.
He didn't turn when he spoke.
"Mr. Reeve," he said.
"President Voss," I replied, my voice low.
His tone didn't change. "You come highly recommended."
"I don't care about recommendations."
He turned to face me. Goddamn, he was beautiful. Cold jawline, sharp mouth, dark eyes that assessed you like a chessboard.
"You don't speak like someone seeking a job."
"I'm not. I already have it."
He raised a brow, almost amused. "Then let's be clear. You don't answer to protocol. You don't get medals. You exist to keep me alive, and invisible while doing it."
"Understood."
"Any questions?"
"One." I tilted my head just slightly. "How many threats are internal?"
A pause. Then a faint, unreadable smile. "More than external."
I let that sink in. His gaze lingered on mine longer than necessary. Tension simmered between us—unspoken, sharp.
He smelled clean. Clean soap, faint cologne, something sterile and strong. His posture was military even in a civilian suit. I hated how attractive I found him. Hated how he made the room feel hotter without moving an inch.
An aide stepped in—Anita, I guessed. "He'll be assigned a room near your quarters. Briefings at 0600. Armory access has been granted."
Voss turned for the door. "You start now."
He paused just before leaving. "You'll find I don't trust easily."
I let my voice deepen, firm. "Good. I don't protect carelessly."
1:15 PM – Killian's Quarters
The room was spartan, military-style: grey walls, a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. I unpacked quietly, folding my gear into drawers, lining boots under the bed. My knives went into the vent. My gun into the bedside drawer. My entire routine was muscle memory.
But my brain wasn't cooperating.
I couldn't stop replaying his voice. His eyes. The way he studied me like a riddle he could solve with time. I tried to ignore it.
I stripped down to my briefs and sat on the bed, trying to clear my head. It didn't work.
My hand drifted to my thigh, then up, fingers teasing the edge of my waistband. I closed my eyes—and there he was again. Damien, standing behind that desk, full of power, full of cold disdain.
I imagined what it would take to break that. To see his mouth slack in pleasure. To hear him groan, low and uncontrollable.
I shoved my briefs down, wrapped my hand around my cock, already thick and aching. My other hand gripped the sheet.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I stroked hard, fast, my mind painting pictures I shouldn't let live. Damien's mouth on mine. His suit unbuttoned. My tongue tracing that scar on his collarbone.
Would he let go? Would he fight me for control?
I wanted to find out.
I groaned louder as I neared the edge. My hips lifted, my hand moving faster and faster. I imagined him under me, finally undone.
I came hard, spilling over my hand and stomach, my breath shattered.
Silence followed. A different kind. The kind that reminded me how fucked I was.
Because I wasn't supposed to want him.
I was supposed to kill him.
3:45 PM
I suited up again—standard issue black. Vest. Earpiece. Boots. My schedule said I didn't have to start until 4:00. Another guard was posted but I didn't care. I needed to learn the perimeter. The routines. The weak points. That was the official excuse.
The real reason? I wanted to see him again. Not speak. Just... observe. Confirm he was real. Remind myself that I hadn't imagined the way his eyes lingered, the quiet calculation in his voice.
But I knew what this was becoming.
And it scared me more than the mission itself. It didn't matter.