Damien's POV
It had been months since I stepped foot into my private residence. The marble floors still gleamed, the art still hung precisely as I left it, and the silence—perfect. Thursday mornings were normally tight with briefings and security reports, but today… today I was home.
I didn't miss the cold sterility of the official palace. But I'd grown used to it.
I unbuttoned my cufflinks as I stepped into the dining area. Killian was already there—leaning casually against the far wall, arms crossed, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark eyes tracking every move I made.
"Morning, Mr. Reeve," I said, barely glancing in his direction.
He gave a nod. "President Voss."
No salute. No stiffness. Just that cool, calm presence that clung to him like a second skin.
The cook entered, wheeling in breakfast—eggs, toast, grilled vegetables, fruit, black coffee. She poured the water and stepped back, eyes flicking to me for approval.
But before I reached for anything, Killian was already moving.
He took the glass of water, raised it to his lips, and sipped. No hesitation.
Then he plucked the coffee cup from its saucer. "Black. No sugar. Just how you like it, right?"
He sipped, slowly. His Adam's apple bobbed with the swallow. Then he set it back on the table—his eyes locking with mine across the stretch of fine wood and porcelain.
"Wouldn't want your coffee poisoned, sir," he said, voice low and smooth.
I tilted my head. "You always this dramatic in the mornings?"
"Only when the president looks like he hasn't slept in three days."
There was a flicker of a smirk on his face—but it vanished as fast as it came. Still, the air shifted. Dense. Loaded.
I moved to the table, pulled out my chair, and sat. "So. Playing the food taster now."
"I don't mind the taste of danger," he replied.
His gaze didn't waver. Not even when I picked up my fork and began to eat. Not even when I raised the coffee to my lips, and sipped from the same spot he had.
My pulse didn't speed up, but it threatened to.
"You're very committed to the role," I said quietly.
He stepped forward, just a fraction. "I told you. I don't protect carelessly."
The silence between us stretched, taut. His presence filled the room—not loud, not invasive, just... there. Watching me. Reading me. Always two steps ahead.
I leaned back. "You want me to trust you."
His jaw ticked. "Yes."
"And how do I know this isn't all a performance? That you're not some well-trained wolf in silk clothing?"
He stepped closer. One pace. Another. Then he stopped beside me—close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He leaned down slightly, voice barely audible.
"Because I already had my chance to kill you yesterday. I didn't take it."
I froze. The chair creaked faintly under my weight.
"And if I did," he continued, "I wouldn't need poison. I'd look you in the eye while I did it."
I turned my head slowly to face him.
And there it was. That fire. That heat simmering beneath all that control. His eyes, dark and clear, locked with mine—and for a moment, the air between us wasn't political, or professional. It was something else. Something dangerous.
I exhaled once, quiet. "We're heading to Valeria."
He straightened.
"I need you packed and ready in two hours. The plane departs at 1300. You'll get the full travel dossier from Richard—my personal secretary."
Killian nodded. "Understood."
"Richard doesn't trust easily either. If he gives you attitude—deal with it."
He gave a slight grin. "I like a challenge."
I stood, finishing the last sip of coffee. "One more thing."
"Yes, sir?"
"Pack for both business and unpredictable weather. Valeria's known for its hospitality… and its assassins."
His grin vanished. "I'll be ready."
---
My bedroom was untouched. The curtains still smelled like fresh linen, the closet was full of tailored suits that hadn't seen sunlight in weeks. Normally, one of my aides would pack for me—but we were minimizing contact. Killian's presence changed everything.
I moved through the closet methodically, choosing dark slacks, a few crisp shirts, lightweight coats. As I folded them into the leather case, I felt his gaze behind me—quiet, sharp.
"You don't trust anyone else packing for you?" Killian asked from the doorway.
I didn't turn. "You've seen how easily things can be tracked or tampered with."
"I have."
"And you're still here."
"Because I'm not anyone else."
I zipped the suitcase shut. "Let's go."
---
The ride to my private airstrip was swift. Minimal security, no convoy. Just one armored vehicle with blacked-out windows. Killian rode in the seat beside me, shoulders broad and alert, eyes scanning every shadow through the tinted glass.
"You ever been to Valeria?" I asked, watching the city shrink behind us.
"No."
"You'll hate the media attention."
"I already do."
"Good."
The jet was ready on the tarmac—polished, sleek, presidential. My pilot saluted as we approached, but I gave a subtle shake of the head. No need for formality.
Inside, the cabin was quiet. My private suite at the rear was just large enough for a bed, a desk, and a lounge area. I stepped inside, knowing Killian would follow.
And he did.
The door clicked shut behind him.
He scanned the space. "You travel well."
"Would you expect less?"
"No," he said, eyes grazing the details. "You don't strike me as someone who accepts less."
I moved to the minibar, pouring a glass of bourbon. "We'll arrive in Valeria by evening. There's a summit dinner I may have to attend. You'll stay close, avoid cameras."
He nodded.
I offered the glass. "Drink?"
He shook his head. "Not when I'm working."
"Of course." I sipped. "You really don't let yourself slip, do you?"
He looked at me then, fully.
"Slipping gets you killed."
Our eyes held for a moment. Then another.
He stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. His fingers brushed the edge of the desk. "But you're not afraid of danger. Are you?"
"No," I said quietly. "But I do respect it."
Silence stretched.
"I don't mix business with pleasure," I added, voice cool.
"Neither do I," he said—but there was a heat behind his words. A challenge.
We stood there, breathing in the same air, the thrum of the jet engines a low pulse beneath our feet.
I turned away before I did something stupid.
"You'll be sleeping in the room adjacent," I said. "Ten feet away."
"That's close enough to hear you scream," he said.
I glanced over my shoulder. "Do you expect me to scream?"
He smirked. "I don't know. I haven't heard you in bed yet."
My jaw clenched.
This man was playing a dangerous game. One I didn't have time for. One I couldn't afford.
And yet…
"Go get some rest," I said, voice tight. "We'll need our strength when we land."
He nodded, finally turning. But as he opened the door, he paused.
"One more thing," he said without looking back.
"Yes?"
"I don't protect carelessly, President Voss. But if I'm protecting you…" His voice dipped. "Then no one else gets to touch you."
Then he walked out.
And I stood there, staring into nothing, pulse hammering like I'd just walked into a trap I hadn't seen coming.