Killian's POV
The cold water hit me like a slap.
I stood in the shower long after the routine should have ended, hands braced against the tile, forehead pressed to the wall. The pipes rattled from the force of it, steam curling up from my back—but I kept it on cold. I needed the sting. Needed something to anchor me.
I hadn't slept. My cock throbbed through the night like it remembered every second of his taste. Every gasp. Every denial. And I still hadn't come. Not once. Not even a stray brush of my fingers. Not until he gave permission. I hated that. I hated *him*.
I wanted more. And that terrified me.
My body was a battlefield. Lust burned under my skin, but it was wrapped in barbed wire now. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face in the storeroom—red-cheeked, desperate, broken open by my mouth. And part of me, the part I usually keep buried, wanted to *do it again*. Slower. Rougher. Just to see how far he'd go before he begged.
I turned the tap off violently. Water streamed off me in silence. I dressed in clean blacks—tactical pants, undershirt, sidearm holstered, jacket zipped to the neck. Tight, crisp. Controlled. The opposite of how I felt.
As I opened the door, I paused. The air in the hallway felt *off*.
I scanned the walls. No cameras in this wing, not ones I didn't already know about. But something shifted in the corner of my eye.
A small envelope. Slid beneath my door while I was in the shower.
No markings. No scent. Just white, thick paper.
I picked it up, cracked the seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Anna.
Taken outside the café where she worked. That stupid yellow apron. She was laughing at something off-camera, head tilted back, eyes bright. It was taken *today*. The timestamp printed faintly in the corner. 7:46 AM.
My heart stuttered.
There was a note, typed on plain paper:
> You're getting sloppy. Stop staring at him like you want to save him.
> You forget who owns your leash. We don't.
> One mistake, and she disappears.
I closed my eyes. A slow, controlled breath.
They were watching me. Watching *her*. Which meant someone on the inside. Someone close enough to know about Damien. To know what I'd done. To know where Anna was *this morning*.
My fingers crumpled the letter without thinking. I didn't destroy the photo.
That one, I folded carefully. Tucked into my jacket.
---
The call with Anna had to sound normal.
I waited until noon, pacing in the secure room downstairs. The one I used when reporting mission clearance. Four walls, no windows, soundproofed.
The line rang twice before she picked up.
"Killian?"
Her voice was soft. Music in the background. Something jazzy. She sounded okay. Safe.
"Hey," I said, keeping my voice even.
"Holy shit, it's a miracle. My big brother *actually* remembered I exist."
I almost smiled. "Don't be dramatic."
"Too late. I already made it my Instagram story. *Man Who Vanished From Earth Calls Sister: Shocking!*"
I let out a quiet breath and ask her about her part time job. "How's the café?"
"Still standing. We got a new espresso machine. Marcus broke it the first day."
"Of course he did."
There was a pause. "You sound tired."
"I'm fine."
Another pause. "That's your classic lie voice. You still using that when you interrogate people?"
I leaned against the desk. "Just wanted to check in."
"You sure nothing's wrong?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
She was quiet for a second too long. "K… you promised me. After what happened last time. You said you wouldn't get in too deep again."
"I haven't."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm keeping my head."
"Are you?"
Silence.
She sighed. "I don't want to lose you again."
"You won't."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Even if it was the second lie I told her today.
---
The briefing room was colder than usual. Air conditioning turned up too high. Or maybe it was just me.
Anita was already seated. Richard beside her. Damien arrived last, eyes flicking to me the second he walked in. I didn't return the look.
"Morning," Anita said, her voice professional. "We'll be reviewing the updated security perimeters for the Valeria agreement and prepping for the upcoming Northern Summit."
I stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed behind me. I didn't need to sit. I never did.
As she spoke, I watched Damien. He avoided my eyes at first. Then, halfway through a logistics rundown, he glanced over. Quick. Testing.
I held his gaze.
He looked away first.
Anita paused her slide presentation. "Something wrong, Mr. President?"
"No," he said tightly. "Continue."
Her brow arched. Richard blinked. But neither commented.
When the meeting ended, Damien stood too quickly. Papers nearly slipped from his hands.
"You okay?" Anita asked under her breath.
"I'm fine."
I opened the door before he reached for it. He brushed past me, shoulders tense.
Outside in the hallway, he spoke.
"Whatever this is between us," he murmured, "it's dangerous."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like you own me."
I stepped closer.
"I don't look at things I don't own."
He flinched. The flush that rose to his cheeks was half rage, half arousal. He turned and walked away.
I didn't follow.
---
That night, I sat alone in the shadows outside his quarters.
Second floor. West wing. Hallways silent. Doors closed.
He was inside. Lights still on.
I imagined him on the bed. One hand curled in sheets, the other trying to finish what I'd started. I pictured the frustration. The heat. The groan he'd make when he couldn't quite get there.
I told him not to come. And if he listened, he was hurting.
Good.
Let him ache.
Let him remember every second I *didn't* let him finish.
---
The compound was quiet. But my mind wasn't.
I replayed the note. The picture. My sister's voice.
They were too close.
Whoever issued the threat had access. Inside the compound, or connected to someone who did. Someone who knew where Anna lived. Someone who'd been watching me long enough to know my patterns. My preferences.
Someone who knew I wanted Damien.
That made them dangerous. But worse—it made *me* dangerous.
I wasn't supposed to feel. I wasn't supposed to want.
But I did.
And now, it was costing me.
I stared at the hallway, muscles locked.
"I need to stop," I whispered.
But I didn't move.
Not for another hour.
Not until the light under his door finally flicked off.
---
When I finally got back to my room, I closed the door softly. Didn't turn on the light.
I pulled the photo of Anna from my pocket. Touched the edge of the paper. Memorized the angle. The timestamp. The shadows in the background.
If I could find the camera, I could find the source.
I would.
But first—I had to survive my own obsession.
I placed the photo gently on the nightstand.
Then sat on the edge of my bed, hands folded, pulse still screaming beneath the surface.
I wanted him again.
Worse—I wanted *him to want me*. I wanted the President of Ameria on his knees, saying my name like it hurt. And I hated myself for it.
My phone buzzed.
Unlisted number.
A single message:
> "We're watching you. Stay focused. Or she's next."
No name. No reply allowed.
I deleted it.
Stared at the wall.
And whispered:
"I remember what's at stake."