Chapter 11

POV: Nora

The place is warm, loud, buzzing with bodies and music.

I forgot what this atmosphere feels like — heat on my skin, laughter curling off strangers, lights flickering like slow heartbeats.

I order a drink.

Something strong.

Bad mistake on an empty stomach.

But I like the burn.

It feels like it scrapes the day off me.

I ordered wine after.

Elena leans across the table, eyes glittering.

“So, Nora… tell me. What’s it like working with the general of your dreams?”

I snort.

“He’s not the general of my dreams.”

Cole lifts his brows.

“Oh? And yet he keeps feeding you.”

I freeze. I shouldn’t freeze. That’s what gives everything away.

Elena gasps dramatically.

“Wait. Wait. He keeps feeding you? WHAT?”

I sigh, defeated.

“I just… forgot to eat. And he sent a couple corporals with lattes. And sandwiches. And granola bars.”

Elena slaps the table.

“So he is feeding you. That’s— oh my God— awkward and cute at the same time.”

Cole whistles low.

“And you’re telling me you can sit in the same room with him, in that uniform, that stupidly perfect body, that voice— and not want to fuck him?”

I choke on my drink.

“Cole.”

He shrugs.

“I’m just saying. You said he was the best sex of your life before you knew he was the general. Back when he was just a hot stranger. Now add the authority, the medals, the power dynamic— what did you expect?”

My mind goes blank. Not blank— dangerous. Images flash that I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.

I stare at my glass.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” I mutter.

Elena bursts into laughter so loud half the bar turns.

“You liar! God, you lie so badly. You literally drifted off into a fantasy. I could SEE it happen.”

I take a long sip of my drink— too long.

“I hate both of you.”

Cole grins.

“Uh-huh. So tell me, in this fantasy you’re not having, is he giving you orders or are you climbing him like a tree?”

Elena winks.

“She’s too proud to answer, but her face already did.”

I drop my forehead to the table.

“I’m going to die.”

Elena pats my shoulder.

“No, honey. You’re just in trouble. Deep, delicious, uniform-wearing trouble.”

Cole and Elena talk, tease, push.

I nod. Laugh. Pretend I’m present.

But my mind keeps drifting back to—

Whiskey, he’d said.

Something to read..

And the way his voice softened when he said wine.

My phone buzzes.

Marketing

Or a random email.

I do not expect what I see.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Did you get your wine?

My breath stops.

I stare.

Heat curls low in my stomach.

Of course it’s him.

Who else would text like he’s standing behind me, whispering in my ear?

My fingers tremble slightly — from alcohol or adrenaline, I can’t tell.

NORA: Who is this?

The reply comes instantly.

UNKNOWN: Funny.

UNKNOWN: What kind of wine?

The nerve of this man.

I take a sip. Too big.

My brain is warm, slow, making questionable choices.

NORA: The red kind.

UNKNOWN: Helpful.

UNKNOWN: Are you alone?

My heart jumps.

Is that concern?

Possession?

Both?

I look around. The bar is crowded, but suddenly it feels like his eyes are here somewhere in the noise, tracking me.

NORA: With friends.

NORA: Being forced to socialize.

UNKNOWN: I can imagine how much you’re suffering.

A laugh escapes me.

Light. Unfiltered.

God, I’m tipsy.

NORA: I’m fine.

UNKNOWN: You’re drunk.

My eyebrows pull together.

NORA: I’m not.

I immediately regret sending it — it looks defensive. Which means not sober.

UNKNOWN: You forgot to eat again.

A shiver rolls down my spine, unexpected and sharp.

He pays attention.

Too much attention.

NORA: How do you even know that?

UNKNOWN: Because I know you.

I swallow.

Hard.

The bar is suddenly too loud.

Too hot.

My skin prickles with awareness — him, his voice, the low certainty like gravity shifting toward me.

I bite my lip, and the wine hits me all at once.

Warmth floods my chest.

My limbs.

Lower.

Another buzz:

UNKNOWN: Send me proof you’re not getting into trouble.

I stare at that sentence for a full second.

Then —

Bad choices, hello —

I lift my phone, snap a quick picture: me with the glass, a soft smile, slightly flushed cheeks, lights behind me like blurred stars.

I don’t think.

I just send it.

The response doesn’t come right away.

When it does, my knees almost give out.

UNKNOWN: Go home, Nora.

Three words.

Not angry.

Not authoritarian.

Something worse.

Something like:

I want you safe.

I want you in my sight.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Heat sweeps over me in a wave.

I mumble something to Cole and Elena — excuses, maybe lies — and leave before they notice my pulse is in my throat.

My apartment feels darker than usual.

Quieter.

Too much room for thoughts.

I kick off my shoes, toss my jacket, lean against the door with my heart beating like I ran.

His texts replay in my head like a pulse.

Because I know you.

Are you alone?

Go home, Nora.

I close my eyes.

And my body betrays me.

I tell myself I misinterpreted the warmth in his tone. Or the bite. Or the fact that he worries about me like he has any right to.

I shower, letting the water pour over me, hoping it’ll rinse the tension out of my body. It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes the thoughts louder.

I pull on an oversized shirt and crawl into bed, my hair damp against my neck. The room is quiet, but my head isn’t. I keep replaying the way he’d looked at me today—sharp, intent, like he was taking me apart piece by piece just to see how I worked.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

God, I liked it too much.

My thighs press together on instinct, a slow burn unfurling low in my belly. I shift, trying to ignore it, but my body betrays me—every nerve remembering him. His hands. His mouth. The way he’d—

“No,” I whisper, though my voice trembles.

I roll onto my back, exhaling shakily. My skin feels too warm, too aware, like I’ve been touched even though I haven’t been touched at all. My fingers drift higher without permission, brushing over the thin fabric of my shirt over my nipples—too lightly, too easily—and a small sound escapes me before I can swallow it down.

I close my eyes.

His face fills the darkness behind my eyelids. His jaw. The scar by his lip. His voice—low, rough, the version of it that exists only for me, my fingers went to the hem if mu shirt, I pushed my panties aside and suddenly i was there again, his blue eyes locked into mine before he kissed my clit. The memories hit too hard, too vivid, and suddenly I’m back there, lost under him, undone by him, every breath, every command, every kiss—

My breath catches. Heat surges through me, sharp and overwhelming. In my mind he was there sucking and licking, while it’s just my fingers brushing my clit.

“Elias,” his name escaped my lips.

The tension winds tight, impossibly tight, I insert a finger inside me the same way he did, and the moment it snaps, it does so all at once, sharp, fast—leaving me trembling, boneless, my chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

But it was nothing like him, nothing like when was with him.

I bury my face in my pillow as the aftershocks ebb, a hot flush crawling up my neck.

“Oh my God,” I whisper into the stillness. “What am I doing?”

He’s Ava’s father.

And—for now—my superior officer.

The room goes quiet again.

Too quiet.

And before I can think about anything else—about him, about the shameful, breathless way my body just responded to a memory—I let exhaustion pull me under.

Chapter 12

POV: Nora

I wake up with my mouth dry, my head pounding, and the very specific sensation that I did something incredibly stupid.

It takes three seconds for the memories to slam into me.

The bar.

The drinks.

Elias’s text.

Me texting him back.

And the part I will absolutely deny on my deathbed — touching myself while thinking about him.

“Oh my God…” I groan, burying my face in my pillow. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

I reach blindly for my phone, terrified to look.

Terrified not to.

His name isn’t saved, but the number is burned into my brain.

UNKNOWN:

You home yet?

And then the last one:

UNKNOWN:

Nora. Answer me.

I didn’t.

Because I’d already slipped under the covers and was on the verge of passing out after… God.

Everything.

Shame twists low in my stomach.

Why did I reply?

Why did I let him get to me?

Why does he still get to me?

I sit up too fast and my head throbs.

Great. Perfect start to the day.

By the time I reach headquarters, I’m still replaying my idiocy when Major Campbell nearly collides with me in the hallway.

“Dr. Castell,” she says, brisk as always. “Briefing in five. Bring whatever you have.”

“Right. Sure. Of course.” I sound like someone who has never spoken English before.

I grab my notes and hurry to the main briefing room.

Everyone’s already inside.

Maps. Files. A dozen officers. The low hum of military efficiency.

And Elias.

He stands at the head of the table in his uniform — that stupid, perfect uniform — issuing instructions like he was born in command.

He looks up the moment I step in.

His eyes hit me like impact.

Sharp. Focused. Knowing.

I freeze for half a heartbeat.

Then he says it — smooth, controlled, and aimed directly at my already fragile composure.

“Good morning, Dr. Castell. Feeling… rested?”

I almost choke on my own saliva.

“Yes,” I answer, voice way too high. “Fine. Great. Let’s… start.”

A couple of officers exchange looks.

I ignore them and slide into a seat.

The briefing begins — updates, dead ends, inconsistencies. Nothing solid. Nothing that breaks open the case.

Until Elias’s voice cuts through the room.

“Dr. Castell,” he says, “your profile?”

Every head turns toward me.

My fingers tighten around my folder.

“Right. Um— okay. Based on patterns, timing, precision, and restraint,” I begin, forcing my brain into gear, “this is not a low-rank soldier. It’s someone with authority. Someone who gives orders, not takes them. Their level of discipline, control, their physical imprint… this is a high-rank military figure. Possibly commanding.”

A lieutenant scoffs.

“You’re saying it’s one of us.”

Elias answers before I even inhale.

“She’s a professional profiler,” he says, voice calm but edged. “If she says military, it’s because it’s military. Wearing a uniform doesn’t make anyone a saint.”

The room goes still.

I clear my throat and continue, leaning into the evidence, walking them through every detail.

The timing.

The injuries.

The psychological build.

The dominance.

The ego.

When I finish, a captain mutters, almost under his breath, “Damn. She’s good.”

Elias’s eyes are still on me — steady, unwavering, unreadable.

Then, quietly:

“She’s exceptional.”

The oxygen leaves the room.

Nobody comments.

Nobody needs to.

His words hang in the air, warm and devastating.

When the meeting ends, people file out, murmuring amongst themselves.

Elias doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

He waits until the last door shuts, then steps closer — not enough to touch, but enough that I feel him, like heat, like pressure.

“You made it home safely,” he says.

It’s not a question.

I lift my chin.

“Yeah. Obviously.”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Then back up.

“You didn’t answer my last message.”

My pulse kicks.

“I didn’t… have to,” I reply. “It’s not your business.”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying a specimen.

“Everything about your safety is my business.”

The words land low in my stomach. Too low.

I swallow hard.

He steps past me — close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm — and pauses at the doorway.

“Oh,” he adds, without turning back, “try to eat today.”

My brows pull together.

He finally looks over his shoulder, meeting my eyes.

“I don’t want to send half the unit to feed you again.”

Heat shoots up my neck.

Infuriating man.

Infuriating.

Controlling.

Impossible.

And the worst part?

A tiny, traitorous piece of me… likes it.

I spend the morning pretending I’m fine.

Pretending I slept well.

Pretending my brain isn’t a foggy, buzzing mess of Daniel’s face, Elias’s voice, and the memory of what I did last night with his name trembling on my tongue.

My mouth is dry. My head is tight, like someone wrapped my skull in wire. And the shame—God, the shame—it keeps rising in slow, nauseating waves.

I work.

I force focus like a punishment.

I drag my eyes across pages, reports, maps, witness interviews, anything that doesn’t involve thinking about Elias Faulkner holding me steady against his body in the hallway last night.

Anything that doesn’t involve remembering the way my body betrayed me when I got home.

But my mind keeps drifting in two directions:

Daniel’s murder.

And Elias’s hands.

It should be easy to prioritize one over the other. It’s not. And that’s what makes me sick with guilt.

At some point, I rub my fingers over my face hard enough to hurt. I have to get out of this room before I chew through my lip or my thoughts.

So I go to the cafeteria.

I don’t even want food; my stomach is a knot pulled tight. But I pick up a tray anyway and choose something—rice, grilled chicken, vegetables. I sit at one of the smaller tables, the kind placed against the wall like it was designed for people who want to disappear.

I pick at the food with zero intention of finishing it.

And then—like my body senses him before my eyes do—I look up.

Elias is across the room, surrounded by officers, an entire table of uniforms and clipped voices and authority. And yet—

He’s watching me.

Not obviously. Not intensely. Just… aware. His gaze flicks to my tray, to the barely-touched food, and then back to my face.

He gives me the smallest nod.

Approval.

It shouldn’t affect me.

It shouldn’t do anything at all.

But my chest warms, stupidly, traitorously, like a pathetic kind of pride flaring to life.

I hate it.

I hate that I feel anything at all.

I hate that I like the way it feels.

I take another bite just to spite myself.

His eyes stay on me for one heartbeat longer—two—before he turns back to whatever briefing he’s trapped in. The cafeteria noise swallows everything again, but my pulse is still too fast.

By the time lunch ends, I’m no less distracted, but at least I’ve eaten something. Enough for him not to lecture me again. God knows I don’t need another reminder of how intimately aware he is of my well-being.

Back at my desk, I bury myself in the profile.

And that part, at least, goes well.

Too well.

The more details I underline, the more the shape of the UNSUB hardens into something sharp and undeniable. This isn’t a low-rank soldier or a civilian copycat.

This is someone who commands.

Someone who controls.

Someone trained.

I circle the possibility of a lieutenant—someone respected enough to be obeyed, someone with access, someone Daniel could have gotten too close to.

Daniel.

His smile appears behind my eyes and for a moment I have to stare at the desk to steady myself.

By the time I’m done, the sky outside is deepening, the light turning golden by the windows. I’ve stayed late the last two days; I’ve made a point of pushing through exhaustion and grief like it might repay some imaginary debt.

But today… I can’t.

Because I have the address.

Daniel’s last confirmed location before everything went wrong.

And I need to go. I need to see it with my own eyes.

I pack my bag and sling it over my shoulder, rolling stiffness out of my neck as I step into the hallway.

Halfway to the exit, Major Campbell appears from a side corridor, folders clutched under her arm.

She stops when she sees me.

“Oh, you’re leaving already?” she says, arching a brow. “Lucky you. We still have three more briefings lined up before we can even look at a clock.”

I blink. “Already?”

It comes out before I think.

Campbell laughs softly. “Sweetheart, you’re leaving at a normal human hour. The rest of us are just cursed.”

There’s something in her tone—something almost sympathetic.

Something that makes me think of Elias sitting in a room for hours, shoulders tight, voice clipped, jaw locked in that way he probably doesn’t even realize he does.

Something that makes guilt tug at my chest again.

I shake it off. “Good luck,” I tell her.

She snorts. “We’ll need it.”

As she disappears toward the briefing wing, I keep walking. The corridor curves, and when I reach the doorway of the main briefing room, I feel that familiar pull again—like a tug beneath my ribs.

I shouldn’t look.

I do.

Elias is inside, standing at the front of the room, elbow bent, one hand on the table as he listens to an officer speak. He looks exhausted in the way only men carrying entire operations on their backs do. And yet—

When I appear in the doorway—

His eyes lift.

Instantly.

Unfailingly.

Like he knew I was there before I even stopped walking.

A jolt shoots through me.

God, I hate how my body reacts to that look.

Before I can stop myself—before my brain returns online—my hand lifts in a tiny wave. Just a tilt of fingers. Barely anything.

And the regret is instant.

Heat crawls up my neck.

What am I doing?

But he sees it.

He sees everything.

And his mouth curves.

Barely.

A ghost of a smirk that he tries to hide but doesn’t quite succeed.

It’s not mocking.

It’s knowing.

It ruins me a little.

I turn quickly and force my feet toward the exit before I can embarrass myself further. Outside, the cold air hits my face like a slap, sharp and grounding. I take a breath. Then another.

I grip the folded paper in my hand—Daniel’s last-known location.

I’m not leaving early.

I’m leaving on time.

I’m doing my job.

The job I came here to do.

He doesn’t get to take that from me.

My feelings don’t get to take that from me.

I force the nausea of nerves down and start walking toward my car.

Tonight, I go to the address.

Tonight, I get closer to understanding what happened to Daniel.

Tonight, I move alone.

And I tell myself that nothing will go wrong. That I’ll be fine. That I don’t need backup or military escorts or—

—him.

But the truth?

Underneath every breath, trembling like a warning I refuse to acknowledge:

Something’s coming.

And I feel it.

Chapter 13

POV: Nora

The address leads me to the outskirts of the city—past the industrial district, past the last gas station, past the point where streetlights thin out like they’re exhausted and giving up. I check my phone’s GPS every thirty seconds just to reassure myself I’m not going the wrong way.

But I’m not.

This is exactly where the map leads.

Remote.

Empty.

Forgotten.

A perfect place for a crime scene.

And of course it was a crime scene.

Exactly the kind of place Daniel would’ve gone when he was digging too deep.

Exactly the kind of place he died.

Just a quick check, I tell myself. Five minutes. In-and-out. No big deal.

I pull into the gravel lot—if you can even call the uneven patch of rocks and weeds a lot. The warehouse sits ahead of me like a carcass someone forgot to bury. Long. Rectangular. Sides rust-eaten. Windows shattered into jagged shapes, like broken teeth.

The air smells like oil and old rain.

The sun is bleeding out behind the trees, orange fading to violet.

My pulse flickers with unease.

“This is stupid,” I whisper. My voice sounds too loud. Too alone.

“It’s probably nothing. Just a quick look.”

But my hand already grips the strap of my bag.

My boots already crunch over gravel.

I walk toward the building.

Every step vibrates up my spine like a warning.

Not danger—at least, not at first.

Just wrong.

Like the air is holding its breath.

Like the silence is watching me.

Maybe it’s adrenaline. Or nerves. Or the grief I haven’t processed and never will. I’ve been jumpy since the funeral—hell, since before that.

I reach the warehouse.

The side door is cracked open.

My breath stutters.

It was sealed for months after Daniel’s death. And when the property went back to the “company” that rents this space—some shell corporation with no online footprint—I checked the paperwork myself.

A money-laundering front.

A perfect place to hide bodies, evidence, operations.

And now the door is open.

A cold twist of dread curls under my ribs.

I swallow hard, push the metal door just wide enough for me to slip inside.

It groans.

The sound scrapes along my nerves.

The interior is dim and shadowed. The smell of old machinery clings to everything—dust, rust, oil. Rusted shelving divides the warehouse into long aisles. Stacks of unmarked crates rise up around me like silent tombstones.

Then—

Footsteps.

My heart lurches violently.

Not one set.

More.

Two? Three? Maybe more.

Voices—low. Muted. Sharp with irritation.

I flatten behind a stack of crates, the metal biting into my spine. My pulse hammers so loudly I’m terrified they’ll hear it. The voices drift through the beams and walls—just out of reach, like a nightmare you know is there but can’t see.

I can’t make out the words.

Only the tone.

Urgent. Short. Angry.

Something scrapes against concrete. Something heavy shifts.

I strain to hear more.

Nothing.

Just muffled noise and the jittery buzzing inside my skull.

I shouldn’t be here.

I know that.

Every instinct screams go back.

But Daniel’s face rises behind my eyelids—soft, steady, patient—and my feet move before logic can stop me.

I inch toward the next aisle.

Careful.

Slow.

Silent.

I step onto a wooden crate to try to peer over. The top is covered in fabric—some kind of tarp or old material—and I plant my foot gently, trying to balance.

The fabric sinks.

Just a little.

But enough.

My boot slides forward.

The crate shifts beneath me—half-empty, unstable.

I grab for balance—too late.

My foot shoots out from under me.

I gasp—too loud—arms failing as gravity yanks me forward.

I crash onto the crates with a violent thud, wood splintering beneath me. My forehead slams against a metal beam. My arm scrapes down the edge of a rusted box, the skin splitting open.

A shock of pain bursts through me—but panic swallows it whole.

Because I realize, in that awful ringing silence—

The men heard me.

The voices stop.

Silence slams into the room.

Three heads turn toward me at once.

All the blood drains from my face.

Ice floods my veins.

They start moving toward me.

And then—

They raise their guns.

Three barrels.

Three dead-black circles aimed straight at my chest.

My breath freezes.

My body turns to stone.

The world tunnels down into those guns and the hands holding them steady.

This is it.

This is how I die.

Not in some heroic moment.

Not on some daring chase.

Not after figuring out the truth.

Just me—stupid, stubborn, grieving—slipping like a rookie and landing in the path of the men who killed the only person who ever loved me without hesitation.

My heartbeat becomes a roar.

My mouth goes dry.

A cold, eerie calm washes over me, the kind that feels like the body already preparing for pain.

One of them steps forward.

His finger tightens on the trigger.

Heat drains from my limbs.

My lungs forget how to work.

This is the moment I die.

This is how I die.

Because I was stupid enough to follow a dead man’s trail into the middle of nowhere.

I suck in a shuddering breath—

And the metal door behind them slams shut.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot.

All three men whip around.

And I see him.

Elias.

Not the Elias from headquarters.

Not the man who walked me through rules and protocols and glared at me every time I pushed back.

This is the other one.

The one they whisper about.

The Monster.

He stands framed in the doorway, rigid and terrifyingly still, his military uniform immaculate, sleeves rolled, chest rising in slow, controlled breaths like he’s holding the rest of himself back.

His eyes lock on me—

and something inside them snaps.

Not softness.

Not relief.

Purpose. Rage. Claim.

The men raise their guns.

Elias doesn’t blink.

His hand goes straight to the holster at his hip—smooth, fast, practiced—and everything explodes at once.

The first shot rings through the warehouse, deafening.

His bullet hits the nearest man’s hand, sending the gun spinning across the floor. The man screams, dropping to his knees.

The second man tries to fire.

Elias is already moving.

I don’t even see the transition—one second he’s behind the crates, the next he’s slamming the man against a pillar, wrenching the weapon from his grip so violently the man cries out.

The third man hesitates—

big mistake.

Elias levels his gun at him, voice like ice cracking:

“Drop it.”

The man drops it.

Elias kicks it away so hard it skids ten feet across the concrete.

He turns back to the first guy, the one clutching his ruined hand, and steps forward with that deadly, calm gait—

the kind that says he doesn’t need to threaten you; the threat is his existence.

And for a second…

I understand why soldiers are afraid of him.

Why criminals use his name like a warning.

Why his enemies don’t sleep well.

He is terrifying.

And he came for me.

His eyes flick back to mine—

and the monster flickers.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then his attention snaps back to the men.

“Get on your knees,” he orders. His voice is low, controlled, but still vibrating with something violent underneath.

They obey instantly.

The men stayed on their knees.

Not because they were handcuffed.

Not because they were trapped.

They stayed there for one reason—

because he told them to.

Because when Elias gives an order, people obey.

Even men who don’t know his name feel it—the instinct, the threat, the weight of a man who carries authority like a second skin.

That’s the kind of power he has.

The kind that shifts the air.

The kind that makes everyone else smaller.

A shiver crawls down my spine.

He speaks into his comm, clipped and cold, calling for a team to sweep the warehouse, detain the men, and check the area.

And then—

only then—

he turns toward me.

Then Elias turns toward me.

And the world tilts.

His whole body changes.

Up close, the monster is still there—coiled under his skin, in the sharpness of his jaw, in the tension vibrating through his shoulders.Like someone cut the power to the monster and switched the man back on, only the rage stays burning beneath the surface.

His uniform is immaculate, dark and imposing, his hair mussed from moving fast, and those impossible blue eyes—

God.

They burn.

With anger.

With fear he refuses to show.

With something sharp and personal.

But the moment his gaze lands on me, something inside him shifts.

Softens.

Releases.

“Nora.”

My name isn’t spoken.

It’s exhaled.

a breath I think he didn’t realize he was holding until he saw I was still in one piece.

And I hate it.

I hate how good it feels to be looked at like that.

Like I matter.

Like someone is relieved I’m alive.

Like someone is furious because I could’ve died.

I hate it.

But I love it more.

And that…

that might be the most dangerous part.

I open my mouth, but the pain hits all at once—my arm, my forehead, my knee. I flinch instinctively, curling my arm toward my chest to hide the blood.

Elias sees it.

His jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice shakes—not loud, not aggressive. Worse. Controlled. Dangerous. “You came here alone?”

Chapter 14

POV: Nora

“I— I just needed to check, I thought—”

“You thought what?” he snaps. “That this was safe? That you’re invincible? That I wouldn’t care if something happened to you?”

My throat burns.

He steps closer, eyes dragging over every injury, every bruise, every scrape. His breath goes uneven, fury twisting into something raw, almost painful.

“Your safety is my responsibility,” he says quietly, like it’s a truth carved into him.

“Whether you accept it or not.”

“I can walk,” I whisper, as he crouches beside me.

“Don’t,” he mutters, voice rough. “Just… let me.”

Not an order.

Not a request.

A plea.

He slides an arm under my knees and another around my back.

I gasp as he lifts me, pain flaring—but his grip is careful, protective, holding me like I’m something precious he nearly lost.

“I said I can walk,” I insist weakly.

“And I said let me,” he murmurs, breath hot against my hair.

“Please.”

Please.

From a general.

From Elias.

My chest pulls tight.

He carries me out of the warehouse, his steps fast, determined, every muscle still tense like he’s fighting the urge to go back and kill those men with his bare hands.

But he doesn’t.

Because right now, his entire world is me.

He just lifts me off the ground like he’s done it a thousand times—one arm behind my back, the other under my knees—careful but furious, the tension rolling off him like heat.

I should tell him again, I can walk.

I should tell him again, that I’m fine.

But my voice never makes it past my lips.

He sets me gently onto the passenger seat of a black SUV—one of those massive military-grade models that looks like it could drive through a building if he told it to. The door stays open as he moves around me, fast and controlled, pulling a first-aid kit from the floorboard.

He kneels.

A general kneels.

My breath stutters.

He doesn’t look at me yet—his jaw is clenched, his hands steady as he sprays lidocaine over my knee, my forearm. The cold bite of anesthetic hits my skin. I hiss, and his shoulders go rigid.

“Did they do this to you?” His voice is raw. Low. Dangerous.

“No,” I whisper. “I… fell.”

He exhales, long and shaky, like that answer saved him from something.

But he still doesn’t calm. If anything, the fear under his anger only sharpens.

He takes a sterile gauze pad and begins cleaning the cut on my forehead. His fingertips brush my temple, and the contact is so gentle it nearly breaks me.

He’s angry—furious, even—but every touch is careful.

Controlled.

Terrified.

The blue of his eyes flicks to mine for a fraction of a second, and the intensity in it almost knocks the air out of me. His breath mixes with mine, close enough that if either of us leaned the smallest bit—

God.

I swallow. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His hand stills against my skin.

He lifts his gaze. Locks onto mine fully this time. And something electric cracks between us—hot, forbidden, trembling with all the things we shouldn’t think about right now.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low, rough, almost pained.

My pulse skitters. My knees press together involuntarily.

He notices.

His jaw flexes.

I open my mouth—but my throat is dry.

“How…” My voice shakes. “How did you know I was here?”

Something shifts in his expression.

The air thickens.

He leans back slightly, not breaking eye contact, and closes the first-aid kit. He places it on the floorboard with military precision, then stands. He contours the car and climb in the driver sit.

I can feel him withdrawing.

I hate it.

“Elias,” I press, heart hammering. “How did you know where I was?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Did you—” My breath catches. “You put a tracker on my phone.”

His silence is an answer.

I stare at him, stunned. “What the hell, Elias? You can’t just—”

“You would be dead,” he snaps, the words cutting through the night like a blade, “if I hadn’t.”

Silence slams into the SUV.

And he’s right.

Damn him, he’s right.

I press back into the seat, chest tight. He looks away, running a hand over his face, frustration radiating off him.

I swallow hard. My voice is barely a whisper. “Is it just a tracker?”

His jaw works. “Nora—”

“Elias.” The name comes out like a plea.

Another silence.

His gaze drops for a second. Just a second.

And that’s all I need to know it isn’t just a tracker.

It’s a full hack.

Which means…

He heard me.

Last night.

Every breath.

Every moan.

Every broken sound I made thinking about him.

Heat explodes up my neck.

He sees it. He knows I know.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

I turn my face away, heart thundering. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” he says immediately, climbing into the driver’s seat. His tone has shifted—colder, more clipped, more military. “You’ll stay there until I identify who those men were and what threat remains.”

“I can be safe at my place,” I argue weakly.

He brakes. Hard.

The SUV jerks to a stop on the gravel, and he turns toward me—fully, entirely—like he can’t believe what I just said.

His voice drops to a quiet, lethal whisper.

“Someone is watching you. Tracking you. You walk into a warehouse and nearly get executed, and you want to go home?”

My breath stutters.

“I spend every second trying to keep you safe,” he continues, anger braided with something more vulnerable, more dangerous. “And even that isn’t enough.”

“I didn’t ask you to spend that energy,” I snap, too shaken to hide behind softness anymore.

His chest rises with a deep, shuddering breath.

“I can’t not.”

The words crack through me like lightning.

I don’t even know what to say.

So I say nothing.

He puts the SUV back in gear, the engine rumbling beneath us, and pulls away from the warehouse—driving fast, like he needs to put distance between me and danger before he falls apart completely.

The tension in the SUV is suffocating.

But beneath it—

beneath all the anger, fear, and fury—

…there’s something else.

Something I’m afraid to name.

The drive is quiet.

Not silent—quiet in that charged, suffocating way where neither of us speaks because if we do, something dangerous might slip out. Elias keeps one hand on the wheel and one clenched on his thigh, the tension rolling off him like heat.

He asks once—only once—if I need a hospital.

I tell him no.

His jaw tightens like the answer hurts him.

We don’t talk again.

His house appears at the end of a long, private road, hidden behind trees and a perimeter fence that looks like it could stop a tank. Cameras watch every angle. Motion lights flick on across the yard as we approach.

It’s… immaculate.

Every line straight.

Every surface sharp.

Every detail intentional.

Of course it is.

He’s a general. He lives like a man who doesn’t allow chaos inside his walls.

He opens my door before I can touch the handle.

Inside, the security is even more intense—retinal scanner, digital locks, reinforced windows. Everything hums with controlled power. And for the first time since the warehouse, I feel something like safety crawl down my spine.

He leads me down a hallway.

“You’ll stay here,” he says, opening a guest room. His voice is clipped, still storming. “Tomorrow morning we’ll get your belongings. Until then, you’re here. No arguments.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

It isn’t even a request.

It’s an order wrapped in worry.

He hands me a folded bundle of fabric. “Clean clothes.”

I blink. “Yours?”

His throat moves, a subtle swallow. “They’re the smallest I have.”

It’s a black T-shirt and a pair of soft cotton boxers.

They smell like him before I even hold them to my chest.

I take a slow breath. “Thank you.”

He nods once, stiff, then steps back.

I shower, letting the water wash the dirt and fear off my skin. My body aches everywhere, but the adrenaline crash is worse—my hands shake, my chest tightens, and the realization hits like a punch.

I could’ve died today.

If Elias hadn’t shown up—

If he had been minutes late—

If I’d hit my head a little harder—

The thought makes my stomach twist.

I was reckless.

Inconsequential.

Daniel wouldn’t have wanted me to do this alone.

But Elias—

Elias came for me.

The warmth that floods my chest is embarrassing. Dangerous. Addictive.

After I towel off, I pull on the T-shirt and boxers. The shirt hangs loose, almost a dress on me, swallowing my frame. The boxers rest low on my hips. His scent surrounds me—clean soap, cedar, something warm and masculine.

I catch my reflection in the mirror.

My cheeks are flushed.

My hair damp.

His clothes draped over me like I belong in them.

I look like a woman who just crawled out of his bed after a night tangled beneath him.

And a part of me—

not a small part—

wants that to be real.

I scrub a hand over my face. “No. Stop.”

He’s your boss.

He was your fake date.

He’s Ava’s father.

He’s forbidden.

But God, it’s getting harder to remember why.

I step out into the hallway.

The house is quiet, dimly lit, warm in a way that surprises me. I find him in the living room, sitting in an armchair, still in full uniform—boots, tactical belt, the whole thing. His light-brown hair is a little messy, like he’s raked his hand through it a thousand times.

He has a glass of whiskey balanced in one hand.

He looks up the moment I enter.

His eyes—those impossible blue eyes—drag over me slowly, taking in the oversized shirt, the bruises, the damp hair, the exhaustion written all over my face.

Something tightens in his expression.

Not lust.

Not exactly.

Something deeper.

Something that terrifies me.

I walk to the sofa across from him and sit. My knees brush each other. His gaze flickers there, then back to my face, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees, whiskey dangling from his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I was reckless. I shouldn’t have gone there. I could’ve…” My breath shakes. “I know I could’ve died.”

His jaw clenches. Hard.

“And I don’t like the tracker. Or the hack. Or whatever the hell you did to my phone.”

His eyes close for a moment. Like he expected me to bring it up. Like he’s bracing for the blow.

“But,” I add. “I’m glad you did. I’m glad you saved me.”

His eyes open.

Something raw flickers there.

Without a word, he stands, moves to a cabinet, and takes out a bottle of red wine. He pours a glass—full, generous—and hands it to me without meeting my eyes.

I take it.

He returns to his chair.

We sit in silence.

A heavy, charged silence that feels like more than quiet—like a confession neither of us has spoken yet. Like the air between us has weight.

I sip the wine.

He watches the movement.

He drinks his whiskey.

I watch his throat.

The silence grows thick.

He’s across the room, but it feels like he’s everywhere.

I held the wineglass between both hands, letting the warmth of it steady me. Elias sat across from me, elbows braced on his knees, head slightly lowered, like he was still trying to slow his own pulse down. Mine hadn’t slowed at all.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… loaded. Like we both knew this moment was different — the first time neither of us had adrenaline or anger or orders in our mouths.

So I inhaled and asked the first thing that came to my mind.

“Does anyone else live here?”

Chapter 15

POV: Nora

“Does anyone else live here?”

His blue eyes lifted to mine. “No.”

A beat.

“It’s just me.”

There was something in the way he said just me — like solitude wasn’t simply a fact, it was a habit. A long one.

“I remember… Ava’s mom,” I said softly. “Her name was Olivia, right?”

His jaw tightened for a second, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“What… what happened to her?”

He didn’t look away. He faced it head-on, like he did with everything else.

“She died ten years ago. Cancer.”

“Oh,” I whispered. My chest ached for him — for the young father, the soldier, the man who had probably carried that grief alone. “I’m really sorry.”

He gave me a nod that looked more like acceptance than gratitude.

I hesitated, then: “Did you ever have anyone after her?”

His eyes locked on mine. Intense, unreadable, warm and cold at the same time.

“Oh— sorry, that’s… that’s not my business,” I blurted.

But he answered anyway. Quiet. Honest.

“No. No one.”

I nodded, taking a sip to hide the way that admission twisted something in me.

“Do you talk to Ava?” I asked.

“Yes. She calls every week.”

That made me smile. Ava always had a good heart.

“You know… she used to make fun of everyone because her dad was an ‘army hero.’” My voice softened with the memory. “She’d say you were basically a superhero. She was really proud of you.”

His breath left him slowly. Almost painfully.

“I worked a lot,” he murmured. “Too much. I missed a lot of her growing up. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my own knees now. “Elias, she adored you. She still does. You didn’t ruin anything.”

His eyes flicked to mine again — a small, grateful look that felt like being trusted with something fragile.

I took a longer sip of wine and exhaled.

“Actually, I don’t remember you very clearly from when we were kids. I just remember… shadows. A uniform going up stairs or coming back from somewhere. You were never still.”

He huffed a breath — not exactly a laugh but close. “I was always working.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

Another beat of silence. Warmer now.

I swallowed hard. My fingers tightened around the glass.

“Do you know… why I was at that warehouse today?”

He looked up immediately. Sharp. Focused.

I told him. Everything.

“My boyfriend — my ex — he was an FBI agent. He had a case that the local police couldn’t handle. They passed it to him. And I always helped with profiles. I always got them right.” My throat went tight. “But this time, I didn’t have one. I only had ideas. A scratch. Nothing concrete. And he insisted. He insisted I write it anyway.”

Elias’ jaw worked as he listened. Silent. Steady.

“I did,” I whispered. “And he followed it. Alone. No backup. And he was murdered.”

My eyes burned.

“Because I made a wrong profile.”

His response was immediate, harsh, protective in a way that hit me right in the ribs.

“You didn’t make a wrong profile,” he said, voice firm enough to pin me in place. “You didn’t have one. He was the one who insisted. He was the one who walked into a warehouse without backup. Don’t you dare carry the guilt for his decisions.”

The conviction in his tone made my throat close.

And for the first time in a year, I believed someone.

I took a huge gulp of wine and let out a shaky laugh. “God. It’s going to be a year next week. And my friends are trying to set me up on a blind date.”

I chuckled harder. “And I thought it was you.”

He blinked — startled — before I kept going.

“I literally sat at your table and told you I expected something different from my date.”

And then — for the first time since I’d met him — he laughed.

Not a smirk. Not a huff.

A real laugh. Deep, rough, warm, shocked out of him.

I stared, stunned, then laughed with him.

“That was so embarrassing,” I groaned into my hands. “I still want to disappear.”

He shook his head, still smiling — actually smiling.

“I had a terrible day,” he said. “We had a meeting at the hotel, and someone suggested the bar after. I don’t go out. Ever. But I went. And then when everyone left, I sat there wondering what the hell I was doing.”

“And then I arrived,” I laughed.

“And then you arrived,” he agreed.

“Saying that I was… larger than expected.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned, face in my hands again. “Please stop.”

Elias’s laugh faded slowly, like he wasn’t used to the sensation and didn’t know how to let it go.

His smile lingered for a second more.

Then it changed.

Not the smile —

him.

The air tightened, like he had suddenly remembered exactly who we were, exactly what this was supposed to be.

He leaned back slightly, whiskey glass turning between his fingers. His eyes drifted over me and stopped — stayed — on my face. On my mouth. On the oversized T-shirt of his that hung too loose on my body.

My breath stuttered.

He took a slow sip of whiskey before speaking, voice lower now, heavier.

“I was having a terrible day,” he said. “A terrible meeting.”

His eyes locked into mine.

“And then a terrible night.”

I swallowed, waiting.

“Until,” he continued, “the most stunning woman with auburn hair, a black dress, and intense green eyes walked straight to my table.”

Heat crawled up my throat.

He wasn’t teasing.

He wasn’t smirking.

He was remembering.

“You told me,” he said, voice deepening, “that all you wanted was a night with no names. No story. Just a date.”

My pulse slammed inside my neck.

“And I—” He paused, eyes dragging down to my lips again.

“I couldn’t say no.”

The room felt too small. Too warm. Too intimate.

His words wrapped around me like fingers.

Elias didn’t flirt.

He didn’t even know how to flirt.

But this?

This was him admitting something I wasn’t sure he even meant to say.

The energy between us changed —

from vulnerable

to dangerous.

We stared at each other for a long moment, breaths syncing without permission.

His eyes softened and sharpened all at once, a contradiction only he could hold.

I felt it —

how easily this could go wrong.

How easily he could lean in and I wouldn’t stop him.

Not for anything in the world.

But he stood first.

He rose slowly, finishing the last of his whiskey in one swallow like he needed the burn. The muscles in his jaw ticked once, twice, like he was holding something back with both hands.

“You should rest,” he said, voice rough.

Command and struggle woven together.

“You have work tomorrow.”

I nodded, but didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

He took a step away, then stopped and looked at me again.

Like he had to force himself to remember something important.

“You can go anywhere in the house,” he said.

A pause.

“Except my office.”

My heart jumped for a completely different reason.

“Why?” I whispered.

His eyes darkened.

“Because it’s forbidden.”

Forbidden.

Like he knew the word would land exactly where he wanted it to — low in my belly, hot and dangerous.

I swallowed, my voice shaky. “Alright.”

He nodded once, then turned toward the hallway.

“Good night, Nora.”

As he walked away, his boots heavy on the hardwood, I watched the broad line of his back, the holster he still hadn’t taken off, the tension in his shoulders.

Like keeping distance from me hurt.

Like saying good night was harder than fighting three armed men.

I stayed on the couch for a moment longer, letting my pulse calm down, letting his scent cling to his shirt on my skin, letting the memory of his voice — the most stunning woman — burn in my lungs.

And then I went to the guest room, closed the door behind me, and exhaled into the darkness.

Knowing sleep wouldn’t come.

Knowing he was on the other side of the house.

Knowing something between us had finally cracked open — too wide to pretend anymore.

I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the ghost of Elias’s gaze on my skin.

Every breath smelled like him — cedar, smoke, something darker underneath — clinging to the shirt he gave me.

I tried to sleep.

I even tried to touch myself again, like the other night.

But the thought of doing it while wearing his clothes, in his house, after what happened tonight…

It felt like crossing a line I wasn’t ready to admit I wanted to cross.

So I pushed the thought away.

Swallowed it down.

Buried it.

Eventually, exhaustion won and I drifted off, wrapped in a scent that felt… safe.

Dangerously safe.

• • •

I woke up early, the room dim with morning light.

A soft sound echoed down the hall — not loud, but rhythmic. Something gentle. A pan? A utensil?

I yawned, stretching sore muscles, and padded out of the room still wearing his shirt and boxer shorts. His clothes swallowed me, hanging loose on my body, smelling like his skin.

Like last night.

A part of me flushed at the thought.

For a second, I paused outside a door halfway down the hall. Massive. Dark wood. Heavy lock.

His office.

Forbidden.

I felt something pull at me — curiosity, danger, instinct — but the noise came from farther down.

The kitchen.

I followed the soft sizzling sound and—

Stopped.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.

General Elias Faulkner was standing by the stove wearing nothing but gray sweatpants. Low on his hips.

Very low.

Nothing else.

Not even socks.

Bare feet on marble.

Bare chest.

Bare shoulders.

His body was… God.

Hard muscle and scars, all sharp lines and strength. The kind of man carved from war, not born. The kind of man you don’t stare at unless you want to burn.

And I was staring.

Chapter 16

POV: Nora

The scars I’d felt under my palms the night we had sex were now right in front of me — on his ribs, his side, his abdomen. Marks of knives, bullets, something jagged near his hip.

His light brown hair was messy, sticking up from sleep or frustration, and the gray at his temples made him look even more devastating.

He was flipping pancakes.

Pancakes.

This giant of a man, shirtless, scarred, lethal, flipping fucking pancakes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

His back was a map of scars and hard muscle—straight lines, jagged ones, old and white, new and angry. Evidence of a life spent walking straight into hell and surviving anyway.

My breath snagged.

He didn’t look like a man.

He looked like a carved monument. A relic. A warning

I couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even turn around.

He didn’t have to.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he said.

My stomach flipped violently.

“I— I wasn’t staring,” I lie pathetically.

“Of course not.”

He flipped a pancake with infuriating calm.

“You stared the first time you saw me shirtless. You’re staring now.”

Heat shot up my cheeks.

“I wasn’t—”

I swallowed.

“I was just… looking at your scars.”

He paused for the first time.

Slowly, he turned, eyes locking into mine — blue, intense, unreadable.

“Why?” he asked softly.

I hesitated, then moved closer, pointing to the scar across his chest. “This one?”

“A blade,” he said. “Trinit.”

I pointed to the deep one on his side. “And this?”

“Knife. Close quarters.”

My eyes drifted down to the faint circle near his lower abdomen.

“And that?”

He exhaled slowly.

“Bullet. Afghanistan.”

Something fluttered in my chest — fear, fascination, something I shouldn’t feel.

I lifted a hand without thinking, almost touching—

He stepped closer.

Too close.

His breath brushed my cheek.

His chest rose and fell inches from my fingertips.

His eyes dropped to my lips.

If I leaned forward even a little—

The smell of burning hit the air.

“Shit,” he muttered, stepping back abruptly.

The spell shattered.

He dumped the burnt one, grabbed a new scoop of batter, and acted like he hadn’t just almost kissed me against a counter while half-naked and carved by war.

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to a stool. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” I breathed. Too quickly.

He served me coffee.

And pancakes.

And for ten minutes, we sat in the soft morning light, eating in a silence that felt strangely… peaceful. Domestic.

Like we’d done this before.

Like people who woke up together.

Too intimate.

Dangerously intimate.

After a few bites, he said quietly, “We leave in thirty minutes. I’ll take you to your apartment to get some clothes.”

I nodded.

“Any news about the men from the warehouse?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet. But you’ll know as soon as I do.”

There was something final in his tone.

Protective and absolute.

When we finished, he collected the plates with military precision, not touching me, not looking at me too long.

But I felt it.

The almost-kiss still pulsing between us.

The tension stretching thinner, hotter, ready to snap.

When I walked away from the kitchen, my legs were unsteady.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how close we had been.

How much closer we were going to get.

Elias barely said a word after breakfast. He just handed me a jacket—his jacket—and led me outside like it was the most natural thing in the world for a four-star general to escort an FBI consultant to her apartment.

The black SUV waited in his garage.

“Get in.”

God, that voice.

I slid inside before I let myself think too much about what it did to me.

My pulse wouldn’t settle.

When we reached my building, he got out first, scanned the sidewalk, then motioned.

“Let’s go. I won’t take long.”

I wouldn’t take long?

He was the one who insisted on coming.

I unlocked my door, the familiar scent of my small apartment wrapping around me. Soft detergent. Vanilla. My life. My things. My comfort.

It felt suddenly vulnerable to have him standing in the middle of it.

His presence didn’t match the space—he was too large, too sharp, too carved from war. He looked like a statue placed in a children’s bedroom. All wrong. All overwhelming.

“I’ll just… grab some clothes,” I muttered, heading to the bedroom.

But I felt him follow.

I turned sharply. “No. Stay in the living room.”

He raised a brow. “Profiler, if I wanted to dig through your belongings, I would’ve done it long before you got out of bed.”

I glared, cheeks warming, and pointed toward the couch.

He didn’t sit.

Of course he didn’t.

I shut myself in the bathroom to get my things, trying to calm my breathing. I shoved clothes into a bag mechanically. Underwear. A sweater. Jeans.

When I stepped out, he wasn’t in the living room.

He was in my bedroom.

Standing by my nightstand.

Looking at it.

Looking at—

“What the hell?” I snapped. “Don’t be—don’t be fucking nosy! Stop looking at my things!”

He didn’t move.

And then—

Then he picked up the one thing I absolutely did NOT want this man to touch.

My vibrator.

My soul left my body.

He held it in his hand like it was a weapon. Like he was evaluating the damage it could do. His eyes dragged up to mine, and the look on his face—God, I wanted to die and combust and melt and scream all at the same time.

My cheeks went nuclear hot. “It was—it was a gift,” I blurted out. “From a friend.”

“Mhm.”

His thumb brushed the silicone, slow, deliberate.

“You use it?”

“Elias—”

He stepped closer.

Just one step.

But it was lethal.

“When you touched yourself moaning my name,” he said softly, voice like smoke, “was it this you used?”

Every cell in my body lit up like a fuse.

My anger, my humiliation, my desire—they all collided in my ribs. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to run. I wanted him to pin me to the wall.

“Put it down,” I demanded, voice trembling.

He did. But he didn’t step back.

He stayed right there, towering over me, chest rising slow and deep, eyes fixed on my mouth like he was choosing whether or not to ruin me.

I swallowed hard.

“No,” I whispered, unable to look away. “I didn’t use that.”

His jaw flexed. “No?”

“I used…”

My lips parted.

God, why was I saying this?

“…my fingers.”

His breath left him in one sharp exhale.

Everything in him—

the control,

the military discipline,

the iron restraint—

fractured.

He grabbed my waist.

I gasped.

He backed me into the wall in two steps, his body caging mine completely, his hand sliding up the side of my neck—

“Nora,” he warned, like I was the one about to break him.

And maybe I was.

My heart hammered. I felt his breath on my cheek, on my mouth, felt the heat pouring off his skin.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“I used my fingers.”

His control snapped.

He kissed me.

Hard.

Devouring.

Like he’d been trying not to since the moment I walked into that bar. His mouth crushed against mine, one hand gripping my jaw, the other sliding down my waist, pulling me flush against him.

I moaned.

I didn’t mean to.

But I did. And he swallowed it like he was starving.

His body pressed me harder into the wall. His lips moved with hunger, with frustration, with something dark and fierce that made my knees weaken.

I couldn’t think anymore.

I only knew one thing:

He kissed me like a man who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to.

And I kissed him back like a woman who had run out of reasons to lie to herself.

His mouth devoured mine like he’d waited years for it.

I barely had time to breathe before Elias’s hands slid down my waist, gripping my hips, pulling me impossibly close. The wall pressed against my back; his body pressed against my front. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to think—only him, hard and warm and overwhelming.

I gasped into his mouth when I felt the unmistakable press of him through his pants.

He growled.

Actually growled.

My knees threatened to give, but his hand caught the back of my thigh, lifting, guiding, forcing my leg around his waist. The shift dragged me right against the hard length of him.

My head dropped back with a moan.

He kissed down my throat immediately, like he’d been waiting for the sound.

“Elias—”

It was barely a whisper.

His teeth grazed my skin. “You shouldn’t say my name like that.”

“Why?”

His lips brushed my pulse. “Because I’ll lose whatever control I have left.”

“You already did.”

He pulled back just enough to stare into my eyes—blue, burning, questioning, daring.

“This time,” he murmured, “you’re sober. You know who I am. You know what this is.”

I nodded. My breath trembled.

“I know.”

“And you still want it?”

I swallowed hard, my hands sliding up his chest, over his uniform.

“Yes,” I whispered.

God, there wasn’t a single cell in me that didn’t want him.

Something in him broke at the word.

He kissed me again—deeper this time, slower, like he wanted to taste every part of the answer.

His hand slid under my shirt.

Warm. Rough. Claiming.

My breath caught when his palm cupped my breast directly, no hesitation, no question. My nipple hardened instantly, and he groaned against my mouth, thumb brushing the sensitive peak.

I arched into him helplessly.

“Fuck, Nora…”

His voice was low, ruined, undone.

He grabbed the back of my thighs with both hands then, lifting me off the ground in one smooth motion. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, a soft cry escaping me as my core pressed fully against the rigid outline of his cock.

He pushed my back into the wall, supporting all my weight with his body, his hands gripping under my ass, squeezing, adjusting my hips exactly where he wanted them.

I felt the slow grind of him between my legs—

My head fell forward, forehead against his. “Please—”

The sound I made was breathless, pleading, humiliating and honest.

He kissed my cheek, my jaw, my mouth again, desperate.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered.

“You are.”

“I can’t stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He cursed, deep and rough.

Then he carried me.

Off the wall.

Across the room.

Into my bed.

My heart was a drum. My pulse electric.

He laid me down gently—then immediately pulled my underwear down my legs, tossing it aside. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Just determined.

I shivered when he knelt between my thighs, his eyes dragging over me with an intensity that made me feel naked in a way clothes never could.

“Nora,” he whispered, “open for me.”

I did.

God help me, I did without hesitation.

His hand slid up my inner thigh, fingers brushing where I was already warm, already wet, already so fucking ready for him it was embarrassing.

He exhaled sharply.

“That’s from me?”

“You know it is.”

He stroked me once—slow, deliberate. My back arched.

“You touched yourself thinking about me,” he said. “Show me how.”

Chapter 17

POV: Nora

I swallowed, cheeks burning, but I reached down, gently parted myself—

He watched.

He watched every second.

His breath hitched.

“Jesus Christ.”

Then the restraint in him disintegrated.

He replaced my fingers with his own—one sliding inside me, then another, stretching, curling, finding the spot that made my vision blur. His thumb circled my clit, firm, controlled, precise.

My moan was raw.

Almost a sob.

His lips crushed mine to swallow it.

I clung to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he fucked me with his fingers, deliberate and unrelenting, pushing me toward the edge faster than I wanted.

“Elias—Elias, I’m—”

“I know.”

His voice was gravel. “Let me feel you. Let go.”

His thumb pressed harder—

And everything in me shattered.

My orgasm hit like a wave, impossible to fight, tearing the air from my lungs. I cried out against his mouth, shaking, clinging to him as he kept moving his fingers through every pulse of pleasure until I was trembling uncontrollably.

He didn’t move away.

He stayed right there, forehead against mine, breathing like he was the one undone.

“Nora…”

My name sounded like a confession.

His mouth is on mine before I even manage to pull the door fully closed. One second I’m breathing, and the next I’m drowning in him—his hands, his heat, the low sound he makes when my fingers slide into his hair like I’ve been aching to do for months.

“Let me taste you,” he says. It’s not a request. It’s a need.

He is lowering himself, his shoulders pushing my thighs open wider, his breath hot against me before his mouth even touches—

“Oh—God—”

My hand flies to his hair because the first slow lick feels like molten fire.

He groans against me, tongue circling, teasing, tasting, claiming.

He eats me like he wants to memorize every reaction, like he knows exactly how long I’ve wanted this and he refuses to rush.

My hips keep lifting, chasing his mouth, and he locks his arms around my thighs to hold me exactly where he wants me.

“Don’t run,” he murmurs against me before he sucks harder.

I’m not running. I’m falling apart.

He finds the perfect pressure, the perfect pace—slow enough to drag me out of my mind, strong enough to break me open. Every time my breath catches, he moans like it’s feeding him. Like my pleasure is his oxygen.

I want to tell him I’m close, but he already knows.

I feel him smile against me right before he does exactly what I need—tongue circling tight, then flicking, then sucking until—

“Don’t stop—don’t—”

He doesn’t.

My second orgasm hits so fast and so hard my vision goes white. I pull his hair, gasp his name, curse, tremble, fall apart against his mouth while he keeps licking me through every wave like he refuses to let me come down.

When I finally collapse, thighs shaking, he kisses the inside of my knee, then the other.

I opened my eyes, still shaking, and realized—

He was hard.

Painfully hard.

Straining against his pants.

And he was looking at me like he didn’t know whether to kiss me again or pin me to the mattress and ruin me.

I reached for him.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Touching his cheek.

“Elias,” I whispered, “I want you.”

His jaw locked. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”

“I’m not.”

Then I reached for his belt.

He unbuckled his belt with a single sharp pull.

The sound alone made my whole body tense.

Elias’s eyes never left mine—not when he opened his pants, not when he pushed them down, not even when he freed himself, thick and hard and angry-red at the tip. It was almost obscene how big he was, how ready he already seemed, how the sight alone made heat rush between my legs again.

“Your turn,” I said.

Something inside me sparks again.

He was watching my face like he’s been waiting for this reaction. His cock is already hard, thick, flushed, and my mouth waters on instinct.

“Come here,” I whisper sinking to my knees on the bed.

His breath stutters.

Good.

I grip the base of him, slow, deliberate, feeling every tense line of his body as I stroke him. He’s hot and heavy in my hand, and when I lick the tip, tasting him, his head falls back.

“Fuck—”

His voice breaks.

I take him into my mouth, slowly at first, savoring, letting him feel every inch.

He tries to keep control—hands curling at his sides, breathing harsh—but when I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, his hand goes to the back of my head like he can’t stop himself.

“God, your mouth…”

I go faster. Deeper. Letting him lose control, letting him meet my pace until he’s cursing under his breath, hips moving just enough to tell me he’s close.

He pulls back suddenly, panting, eyes burning down at me.

“Get up,” he says, voice rough, desperate, nearly broken. “If I come now, I’m not stopping. Get up.”

I stand, breathless, lips swollen, and he laid me down.

He closed his eyes for a second—only a second—then opened them again, full of decision.

“Tell me to fuck you,” he said, voice low and lethal.

My breath stopped.

“Tell me,” he repeated, leaning down until his lips brushed mine, “so I know you understand what you’re asking.”

I cupped his face.

“Elias,” I whispered, “fuck me.”

He inhaled—sharp, ragged, hungry.

Elias knelt at the edge of the bed, hands sliding up my thighs with quiet reverence, like he was memorizing the path.

“Are you sure?”

His voice was tight. Controlled. Shaking at the edges.

I nodded, breath unsteady. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you,” I whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

Something dangerous and soft flickered in his eyes at the same time.

He grabbed my hips, pulled me toward him with a roughness that made my breath catch. I felt the heavy, hot length of him slide against my entrance, teasing, testing the slickness he created with his fingers.

I gasped.

He groaned.

“Christ, Nora…”

He pushed in—

Slowly.

Deeply.

Deliberately.

The stretch stole the air from my lungs. My hands flew to his shoulders, gripping, grounding, desperate. He paused halfway inside me, chest rising hard, muscles trembling with restraint.

“You’re so tight…” he whispered, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “I forgot… I fucking forgot how good you feel.”

“Don’t stop,” I breathed.

He lifted his head, looked down at me like he was seeing something holy—then pushed the rest of the way in, filling me completely.

My moan was broken.

His was worse.

He stayed still for a moment, buried to the base, jaw clenched, his breath shaking against my neck.

Then—

He started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that made the bed creak and my pulse throb in every inch of my body. His hands gripped my hips like he was holding on to something slipping away.

I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, needing him deeper.

Elias groaned into my mouth, kissing me like he wanted to devour the sound. “You’re going to kill me,” he muttered. “You’re going to fucking kill me.”

I arched beneath him, overwhelmed by the heat, the pressure, the intimacy, the sheer intensity of being fully, completely taken by him.

His thrusts grew faster, harder—

But never careless.

His forehead pressed to mine as he breathed, “Look at me.”

I did.

And the world fell away.

His blue eyes held me there—no distance, no armor, no rank, no lies—just Elias and Nora and the unbearable truth of how much we wanted this.

He kissed me again, deep and hungry, thrusting harder, his pace pushing me closer, closer, unbearably close—

“Elias—” I gasped.

He lifted my hips, changing the angle, driving into me so perfectly my vision went white. “Come for me,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “I want to feel you come. I need to feel it.”

His thumb found my clit—

Firm.

Precision.

Possession.

The pleasure ripped through me so hard I cried out, clutching at him, my orgasm exploding in waves that wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop—

He groaned like he’d been punched, hips stuttering.

“Fuck—Nora—”

He thrust once, twice—

And came with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself inside me as his body shook against mine.

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

We were just breath and heat and tangled limbs, his weight braced above me, my fingers sliding weakly along his back, both of us ruined in the best possible way.

He finally lowered himself gently, resting his forehead on my collarbone, his breath warm and uneven against my skin.

I ran my hand over his hair.

He actually shivered.

Elias didn’t move for a long second. His chest rose and fell beneath me, still uneven from the way he’d just come apart inside me. One of his hands slid up my back, slow and possessive, like he needed to feel all of me to believe I was real.

I felt him—everywhere.

Between my legs.

Under my skin.

Inside my skull.

God.

I’d just slept with General Elias Faulkner.

My breath trembled. I lifted my head, and he was already looking at me.

Not just looking—

branding me.

Those impossible blue eyes burned like I’d just done something irreversible. Like he’d let me see him without the armor he wore in front of the world.

My heart stuttered painfully.

“We… we shouldn’t have done that,” I whispered, even though my body was still humming, begging for round two.

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.

“Do you regret it?” His voice was gravel. Low. Almost dangerous.

I swallowed. Hard.

“No,” I said, and then the truth ripped straight out of me.

“I don’t regret a second of it.”

Something shifted in his eyes—heat sharpening into something deeper. Something that felt like a warning and a promise.

“Good,” he said quietly.

“Because I could stay here all day.”

I felt the words all the way down my spine, like a finger dragging along my nerves. Heat flooded me again way too fast.

But then—

His phone buzzed on the floor.

Loud. Authoritative. Reality punching the moment in the throat.

He exhaled, long and slow, like he wanted to crush the device with his hand. I rolled off him reluctantly, limbs shaky, gathering the first pieces of clothing I could find. He watched me dress from the bed, forearm draped over his eyes for a second, as if he needed to collect himself.

When he finally stood, he moved like a man with purpose again—uniform posture, sharp lines, soldier returning. Except the way his eyes followed me was anything but disciplined.

“We need to get to headquarters,” he said.

“I know.”

I packed fast—too fast. A pair of jeans, a blouse, underwear, toiletries. My hands were still trembling, and I didn’t know if it was embarrassment, adrenaline, or the ghost of his mouth on my skin.

Maybe all of it.

When we walked out of my apartment, the air between us was still thick, electric, unfinished. We didn’t touch, but I felt him at my back, a silent gravitational pull.

He unlocked the car and I climbed in. The moment the door closed, the tension snapped tight again.

His cologne.

The faint marks on my thighs.

The memory of his voice in my ear while I was falling apart.

I tried to stare out the window.

Tried.

But then his hand slid to my thigh at a red light—barely a touch, just the heat of him hovering over my skin.

“Still not regretting it?” he murmured.

I turned my head slowly, breathing uneven.

“Not even a little,” I whispered.

Chapter 18

POV: Nora

His jaw flexed.

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

For a terrifying second, I thought he might pull over and take me right there on the side of the road.

Instead, he inhaled sharply and forced himself to face the traffic again.

The rest of the drive was silent.

But not calm.

It was loaded.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

And I knew, as we pulled into headquarters, that whatever line we crossed…

there was no going back.

By the time we reached headquarters, my body was still humming from him.

No… humming was a delicate word.

I was wrecked.

And walking like someone who had just been thoroughly—

Yeah. That.

He parked with military precision, killed the engine, and looked at me like he could drag me back across the console and take me again.

Instead he said, low and controlled:

“Get inside before I forget we have work.”

My thighs clenched traitorously.

We entered separately, because we had to.

But the moment he wasn’t at my side, my body missed him like an ache.

I sat in my office trying to look normal, opened my laptop—

And my phone buzzed.

GROUP CHAT

(Nora, Elena, Cole — FBI psychopaths who love gossip)

Elena: WELL???? 👀👀👀

Cole: Did you bang Captain America or not???

Elena: GENERAL America, bitch.

Cole: STOP—NORA TALK NOW.

Elena: Are you limping??? Tell me you’re limping.

Cole: I BET YOU ARE.

Elena: She is SO limping.

I groaned into my hands.

They were bloodhounds. Sex-obsessed bloodhounds.

But the truth was…

Yeah. I was limping.

I didn’t answer. I tried to focus on my crime scene photos—

Buzz.

New message.

I expected Elena. Or Cole.

It wasn’t.

It was him.

Elias:

You ignored your friends. Good. I want your attention.

Heat shot straight to my core.

Elias:

Stop pretending you’re working. I know that stare you get.

Elias:

You’re thinking about the way you came around my fingers. Aren’t you?

My breath stuttered.

I typed back before my brain caught up.

Me:

You’re impossible.

His reply came instantly.

Elias:

And you’re shaking in your chair right now.

God.

He knew me in ways he shouldn’t.

I was dying—actually dying—when suddenly I noticed something on the crime scene photo.

A detail I’d missed.

The first victim’s shirt pulled over his face. Not random. Deliberate.

A sign of remorse… or familiarity.

I didn’t saw the hours passing…

I scribbled notes, heart pounding, when—

A knock.

I looked up.

And all the oxygen left my lungs.

General Elias Faulkner stepped inside, closing my door behind him with the confidence of a man who always gets his way.

He held a latte.

For me.

But it wasn’t sweet.

Not soft.

Not cute.

He set it on my desk like an order.

“You’ll drink it,” he said.

I blinked. “Do you—do you need something?”

His eyes dragged over me in a slow, heated sweep that made my spine go hot.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You.”

My breath caught.

He came closer, towering, the scent of his uniform and aftershave curling straight into my bloodstream.

“I can’t concentrate,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for my pulse to panic, “knowing you’re sitting two doors away… tight, sore, and pretending to work.”

I nearly choked.

“My—my work is important.”

“So is not distracting your general.”

“You started it,” I whispered.

He leaned closer, voice a dark ribbon of heat:

“And you loved every second of it.”

My thighs pressed together involuntarily.

He saw it. Of course he did.

A corner of his mouth lifted, wicked and male and entirely in control.

“Tonight,” he said. “Dinner with me.”

“Ordering me around?” I breathed.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

The audacity made something in me melt. “And if I say no?”

His eyes darkened.

Dangerous.

Commanding.

“Then I’ll ask again. Until you stop lying.”

Air left my lungs.

He placed one hand on my chair’s armrest, caging me in.

“Nora,” he murmured, “say yes.”

My voice was barely a sound. “Yes.”

The word changed him.

He grabbed my jaw with a gentleness that felt like restraint—

And kissed me.

Not soft.

Not patient.

He devoured me.

Like he owned my mouth.

Like he’d been starving.

I whimpered into the kiss, grabbing his uniform, dragging him down. His hand slid to my waist—then lower—

I felt his fingers skim the inside of my thigh—

And then:

“General Faulkner?”

Campbell’s voice echoed outside.

Elias growled. Actually growled.

He pulled back, breath uneven, forehead resting against mine.

“This conversation is not finished.”

“It never is,” I whispered.

He straightened, imposing, collected, the perfect general again.

Before he opened the door, he murmured:

“Be ready at seven.”

He walked out, boots heavy, shoulders broad and lethal.

I collapsed back in my chair, heart in my throat.

Tonight he was going to destroy me.

And I was going to let him.

By the time lunchtime crawls in, I’ve read the same damn sentence in the report twelve times and absorbed exactly none of it. My body still feels warm, used, stretched from earlier — and every time I shift in my chair, my breath catches.

It’s ridiculous. I’m a federal profiler. I’ve stared serial killers in the eyes without flinching.

But one morning with Elias Falkner and suddenly I can’t even focus on crime scene photos.

I force myself to stand, grab my badge, and head down to the cafeteria. I need food, water, cold air, an exorcism — anything to calm my pulse.

I’m debating whether to get a sandwich or salad when I feel it.

That heavy, magnetic stare.

I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. My whole body recognizes the weight of Elias’s gaze now — like a hand sliding up the back of my neck. When I finally look, he’s sitting at his table with a stack of reports untouched, dark uniform stretched across his shoulders, jaw set, eyes locked on me.

Not looking.

Consuming.

My phone buzzes.

I already know who it is.

ELIAS:

If you bend one more time to look at the menu, I’m going to drag you out of here and take you home.

My breath stutters. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting a smile.

ME:

Compose yourself, General. You’ll see me in five hours. Try not to combust.

He raises an eyebrow at me across the cafeteria as if to say, Five hours? Cute.

Another message lands immediately.

ELIAS:

Five hours is a threat, Nora.

Heat rockets through me so quick I have to step away from the line and force myself to breathe. I grab the first thing I see — a turkey sandwich — and escape before I do something stupid, like walk to his table.

Upstairs, I eat mechanically while trying to get my brain back on the case.

For a few blessed minutes, I manage it.

That’s when I spot it.

A pattern so small I almost miss it: in one of the crime scene photos, the killer covered the victim’s face. Only one. Not reported. Not mentioned anywhere.

Why cover her?

Why only her?

A knot tightens in my stomach. This is personal. He knew her. Or recognized her. Or couldn’t bear to look.

I’m scribbling notes when my group chat pings.

ELENA:

Nora, how’s the view from HQ? Still hot? Still tall? Still brooding?

Then Cole jumps in.

COLE:

Did you confess your undying love? Or just jump him? Either works for me.

I choke on air.

ME:

Can you both shut up? I’m working.

ELENA:

Translation: she totally slept with him.

COLE:

Pics or it didn’t happen.

My face burns. I lock my phone before I accidentally confess to a federal crime.

Another message lights up the screen. My pulse jumps — Elias again.

ELIAS:

You didn’t finish your lunch.

I blink.

He’s not wrong — I’m staring at the sandwich like it’s a crime scene.

ME:

I ate enough.

ELIAS:

Nora.

One word. A warning.

Eat.

I roll my eyes — and then take another bite solely so I can text him back.

ME:

There. Happy?

ELIAS:

Not even close.

My stomach flips.

ELIAS:

Good. You ate half. Finish the rest or I’m coming there.

A shiver crawls straight down the back of my neck.

I look around my empty office like someone might hear the way my body reacts just to his words.

ME:

Bossy much?

ELIAS:

You’ll call it something else later.

I squeeze my thighs together.

Mother of God.

Another message.

ELIAS:

Dinner tonight — meat or pasta?

I frown. Already choosing dinner?

ME:

I don’t know. Surprise me.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

My pulse jumps.

ELIAS:

Meat, then. You’ll need the protein.

I slap a hand over my mouth because a sound almost escapes me.

ME:

You’re impossible.

He sends a new one immediately.

ELIAS:

Also deciding the positions for tonight.

My lungs lock.

ME:

ELIAS.

ELIAS:

Don’t pretend you’re not thinking about it.

I am.

All day.

Especially the look on your face when I make you—

The rest of the message cuts off.

He deleted it.

The fact that he deleted something?

That does things to me.

I shove my phone in the drawer before I combust.

I need to work.

Focus.

Do literally anything besides imagine Elias Falkner pinning me to a wall.

I open the file. I breathe.

Slowly, my brain switches gears.

The covered face.

Why only one?

If the killer knew the victim…

Who did she know? Who did he know?

I start cataloging names — coworkers, classmates, neighbors, family friends, old exes, anyone who overlapped. My pen flies across the page.

And then it hits me:

Two victims shared a workplace years apart.

Not an obvious one — but enough to create familiarity.

Enough for a killer to hesitate.

A rush shoots through me — that sharp, electric jolt of a breakthrough.

I try working again. Really try. But every shift of my legs reminds me of his hands on my hips hours ago. Every inhale tastes like him.

I’m useless.

My brain is mush.

My body is hot.

And my pulse hasn’t gone back to normal since… God, since this morning. Since his hands. His mouth. His everything.

When seven finally hits, the hallway outside my office door darkens — not from the lights, but because something huge is blocking it.

I look up.

Elias.

He stands in my doorway like he owns it.

Like he owns me.

Uniform perfect, sleeves rolled just enough to expose those forearms that ruin me, his jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“I thought you forgot the time,” I tease weakly.

He doesn’t even blink. “I haven’t forgotten a single thing about you today.”

My bones liquefy.

I pack my things with shaking hands. He takes the bag from me even though I didn’t ask.

He doesn’t have to.

He wants to.

“Ready?” he asks.

The word vibrates through me.

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

He waits for me to pass.

His hand rests at the small of my back, light but impossible to ignore.

We walk through HQ in silence—filled, buzzing silence—until we’re outside. He opens the car door for me, and the second I sit, I feel his eyes on me.

Once he’s inside and the car doors close, the air shifts.

It’s just us.

And suddenly this SUV feels too small.

He doesn’t start the engine right away.

He just… looks at me.

Like I’m something he’s starving for.

“You’ve been torturing me all afternoon,” he says, voice low enough to scrape down my spine.

My mouth goes dry. “Me?”

His gaze flicks to my lips. “You.”

I try to deflect, teasing. “General, control yourself. Dinner is in—what?—twenty minutes?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Keep talking like that and we won’t make it to dinner.”

My thighs clench.

He starts the car.

The ride is quiet, but not calm.

It’s thick with everything we’re both pretending we can hold back.

His fingers drum once on the gear shift—restless.

My pulse won’t settle.

When we pull into his driveway, the security gates close behind us with a heavy metallic finality.

Like I’ve been locked in with him.

Inside his house, he lets me walk in first.

I barely make it three steps before he’s behind me again, his heat at my back.

“I ordered dinner,” he says, voice controlled. “It’ll be here in ten.”

Ten.

Ten minutes of pretending I can breathe.

He goes to the kitchen, pulling out wine.

A red I like.

He remembered.

Of course he remembered.

He pours one glass, hands it to me, watching my fingers wrap around the stem.

“Drink,” he says softly.

I do.

One slow sip.

And his eyes follow the movement of my mouth like it’s something indecent.

I lean on the counter across from him.

“What positions?” I ask casually.

He looks up sharply.

“Don’t start unless you want to finish it right now,” he warns.

I shrug, swirling my wine. “Just curious what you planned.”

His jaw ticks.

“Come here,” he says.

My breath hitch—

But I go.

He steps toward me until my back meets the edge of the counter. His hand comes up to my cheek, thumb brushing lightly, too lightly.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs.

“I thought you liked fire,” I whisper.

Something breaks in his eyes—

And then suddenly his mouth is on mine.

The kiss isn’t soft.

It’s not even patient.

It’s days of tension exploding at once—his hand gripping my waist, the other sliding into my hair, tipping my head exactly how he wants.

I gasp—

He takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m melting, clutching his uniform, unable to think.

He breaks away just long enough to speak against my mouth:

“I said ten minutes.”

His voice is gravel.

“And we lasted four.”

My laugh dies when he lifts me—effortless, decisive—placing me on the counter like I weigh nothing.

His body slots between my knees.

Heat to heat.

Hunger meeting hunger.

“You keep provoking me,” he growls, kissing down my neck, “and then you act surprised when I lose control.”

My head falls back. “Maybe I like when you lose control.”

“Good.”

His mouth crushes mine again, deeper, hotter.

“Because I’m done pretending I can hold back with you.”

His hands grip my thighs—tight.

And in one swift, commanding motion, he pulls me to the very edge of the counter.

My breath shatters.

A knock hits the door.

The delivery.

We freeze—

Breathing hard, bodies pressed together, trembling in the same place.

Elias’ forehead drops to mine.

He exhales a curse.

“Dinner,” he says, voice roughened to velvet.

“We’re eating. Because I want you fed before I ruin you again.”

My pulse lashes.

“And Nora?” he adds, stepping back only enough for me to breathe.

“Yeah?” I whisper.

His eyes rake over me—hungry, claiming.

“The desert,” he murmurs, “is in my bed.”

My knees almost give out.

Chapter 19

POV: Nora

Dinner should not feel like foreplay.

But with Elias, it does.

The moment he opens the door for the delivery, I slide off the counter, my legs almost giving out. I smooth my clothes, wipe my mouth, try to look like a woman who wasn’t about to let a general fuck her senseless on a kitchen counter.

He takes the bags of food, thanks the delivery guy with his usual calm authority—like he wasn’t kissing me like a starving animal thirty seconds ago—and closes the door.

Then he turns around.

And looks at me.

Not politely.

Not casually.

No.

He looks at me like he’s memorizing every place he’s going to touch later.

“Sit,” he orders.

My stomach flips.

I sit at the dining table, heart pounding in my throat.

He serves the food.

He pours the wine again.

He sets everything in front of me with quiet precision—like he’s performing a ritual.

Like he’s preparing me.

I try to eat.

But it feels ridiculous.

My hands shake every time his knee brushes mine under the table.

He doesn’t talk for the first minutes.

He just eats, slow and controlled, watching me from under heavy lashes.

“You’re quiet,” I manage.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“You.”

His voice is too calm.

Too deliberate.

“And about how,” he adds, “I’m going to try very, very hard to let you finish dinner before I take you apart.”

Heat floods me so fast I grip the fork.

“General…” I whisper.

He leans back in his chair, eyes dropping to my mouth.

“If you call me that again,” he says softly, “I’ll bend you over this table.”

I drop the fork.

He smirks—slow and lethal. “Eat, sweetheart.”

I do.

Small bites.

Barely tasting anything.

Because every second stretches, pulls, tightens the thread between us until it’s about to snap.

When I take the last bite, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes.

“Done?” he asks.

I nod.

He stands.

I don’t.

Not because I’m being disobedient.

But because my knees won’t move.

He reaches my chair, slides one large hand around the back of my neck, tilts my face up to his.

“Say it.”

My voice barely leaves my throat. “Done.”

The sound that leaves him is half growl, half breath—like he finally has permission to stop pretending.

“Good girl.”

My thighs press together instantly, a helpless reaction.

He sees it.

Of course he sees it.

His hand moves to my waist.

“Stand.”

I stand.

“Come here.”

I walk with him down the hall, every step filled with anticipation so sharp it feels like static buzzing across my skin.

He pushes open a door.

His bedroom.

Large. Dark. Controlled.

Like everything about him.

He doesn’t turn on the main lights—only the warm lamp by the bed.

It casts shadows on him, making every line of his body sharper, harder.

“Nora.”

His voice pulls me.

I face him.

He steps closer, crowding me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed.

“Take off your clothes.”

My breath stops. “Elias—”

He shakes his head once.

“You want this.”

Not a question.

A fact.

“And I’m done pretending I’m not losing my mind over you.”

He steps between my knees, his fingers brushing the hem of my shirt.

“But I want to see you undress for me.”

Heat consumes me from the inside out.

Not embarrassment.

Need.

I pull the shirt over my head.

His eyes follow every inch of exposed skin.

“Good,” he murmurs.

My jeans come off next, slow, deliberate. He watches like it’s the most important thing in the world.

When I’m down to my bra and panties, he exhales harshly.

“Lie back.”

I do.

He drags his fingertips up my ankle, my calf, the inside of my thigh—slow, teasing, claiming.

I gasp, my back arching.

He smirks like he knew I would.

Then he kneels between my legs.

Kneels.

A general on his knees.

For me.

My breath breaks.

“Nora,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate through my bones, “I’m going to make you come on my mouth first.”

My vision blurs.

“And then,” he continues, dragging his thumbs along my hips, “I’m going to fuck you in my bed.”

My legs tremble.

He kisses the inside of my knee.

Then higher.

Then higher—

The moment his mouth reaches me, I moan—loud, helpless, desperate.

He groans against me.

“God, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He holds my thighs open, devouring me slowly at first, learning me, savoring me.

Then deeper.

Hungrier.

Focused like he’s determined to memorize every sound I make.

I grab his hair, shaking, falling apart.

When the orgasm hits, it tears through me—violent, overwhelming.

I cry out his name, body trembling, breath shattered.

He doesn’t stop until I push at him, too sensitive to even breathe.

He rises, kisses me—deep and claiming, tasting like me.

“Round two,” he murmurs against my mouth, “right now.”

He pushes me back, climbs over me, and enters me in one slow, devastating stretch.

I gasp—almost sob.

“Elias—”

He groans, forehead dropping to mine.

“Nora… I can’t— I’m not stopping.”

“Don’t,” I breathe. “Please don’t.”

And he doesn’t.

He moves inside me like he’s been starving.

Like he’s worshipping.

Like he’s finally allowed to feel everything he never said.

He takes me apart again.

And again.

Until all I know is him.

His breath.

His weight.

His voice breaking on my name.

When it’s over, he stays on top of me, still inside me, chest pressed to mine, breath warm against my cheek.

He doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t distance himself.

His hand cups my jaw with a tenderness that feels… dangerous.

Because nothing about this is simple.

Or casual.

This is a man falling.

And a woman finally admitting she already fell.

He finally rolls off me—only far enough to breathe—but his hand stays on my waist, thumb stroking lazy circles like he’s trying to soothe a fire he started.

It doesn’t work.

I’m still buzzing.

Throbbing.

Wide awake in a way I’ve never been after sex.

He’s on his back, chest rising and falling hard, the muscles in his stomach still tight from the way he unraveled inside me. I watch a bead of sweat slide down his throat.

God.

I want him again.

He drags his fingers up my spine—slow, tracing every vertebra—until he’s cupping the back of my neck.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

I move on instinct, swinging a leg over him, straddling his hips. His hands settle on my thighs, warm and claiming.

“You’re unbelievable,” I whisper.

He laughs once—quiet, breathless, a sound I feel in my chest.

“You think I’m done with you?”

Heat floods me.

His eyes darken as I lower myself, letting my body press along his. His cock is already hardening again between us, faster than I was prepared for. My breath catches.

“Nora…”

His voice is rough.

Hungry.

Ruined.

“I need you back inside me,” I confess, forehead touching his.

His breath shudders.

“Sweetheart…” His hands slide up my hips, gripping firmly. “You’re going to ruin me.”

I rock my hips once, slow and teasing.

He curses—low and filthy—and sits up, one arm wrapping around my waist as the other fists in my hair to pull my mouth to his. The kiss is hot, messy, desperate.

He guides me down onto him, inch by inch, and we both moan—mine sharp and breathless, his deep and guttural.

I sink onto him fully, my head falling back.

“Fuck,” he groans, hand gripping my hip like he’s holding on for dear life. “You feel… god, Nora.”

I start moving.

Slow at first.

Long, rolling movements that make my thighs shake.

His lips find my throat, sucking hard enough to bruise.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I do.

And the look on his face—pure awe mixed with hunger—makes my entire body clench around him.

“Faster,” he whispers. “I need you.”

I obey.

I grind down on him, taking him deeper, harder. He groans, head falling back for a second before he grabs my waist with both hands, guiding my pace.

“You’re going to make me lose my fucking mind.”

“Good,” I breathe.

His hands slide up my back, pulling me flush against him as he thrusts up into me, meeting every movement, making it harder, deeper, devastating.

Our bodies slap together, the headboard knocking the wall, breath mixing, sweat building.

I’m shaking.

Clinging.

Falling apart all over again.

“Elias— I—”

“I know,” he murmurs against my ear, voice breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

I ride him harder, chasing the edge, chasing the heat building low and relentless.

When it hits, I shatter—crying out his name, nails digging into his shoulders as I collapse against him.

He follows seconds later, gripping my hips, thrusting deep, burying himself inside me with a broken groan that sounds like a man unraveling for the first time in his life.

We fall back onto the pillows together, breaths tangled, bodies still connected, sweat cooling between us.

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

Not awkward.

Not fragile.

Full.

Heavy.

Alive.

He shifts slightly, still catching his breath, and slides one hand along my spine until his fingers tangle in my hair.

His voice comes soft—so soft I almost think I imagined it.

“I never thought I could feel this good.”

My heart stutters.

He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

Like the words slipped out on their own.

Like they’re too honest to face.

I don’t speak.

I just rest my forehead against his until our breathing syncs again.

We fall asleep like that—tangled, warm, exhausted, but unable to let go of each other.

The first thing I feel is warmth.

Not the sheets.

Not the sunlight slipping through half-closed curtains.

Him.

Elias.

His body is wrapped around mine like he fell asleep guarding me. One arm around my waist, heavy and warm, his hand resting just under my ribs. His breath moves against the back of my neck—steady, slow, deep.

I blink my eyes open.

For a second, I don’t move.

Because I’ve never woken up like this.

Not pressed against someone who feels like a living wall of heat and muscle.

Not held so tightly I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins.

His thigh is between mine, his chest against my spine, his hand splayed over my stomach like he made sure I wouldn’t drift even an inch away.

“Morning,” comes a low murmur behind me.

God.

His morning voice.

Rough. Deep. Sleep-warm.

It rolls through me like heat.

I swallow. “Morning.”

His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, as if I might try to leave.

I’m not stupid enough to move.

He nuzzles the curve of my neck—slow, lazy, like he’s been wanting to do it for hours but waited until I woke.

“How do you feel?” he asks, voice brushing my skin.

“Sore,” I admit.

He hums. “Good.”

That one word sends a sharp throb between my legs.

I feel him smile against my neck.

And then—oh God—

I feel him harden against me.

Slowly. Gradually.

Like his body wakes up before his mind does.

“Elias…” I whisper, breath catching.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he warns softly. “Not unless you’re ready for what it does to me.”

He presses his hips forward, letting me feel just how ready he already is.

Heat flashes through me so fast I grip his forearm.

“You’re insatiable,” I breathe.

“One,” he murmurs, kissing just below my jaw, “you’re the one who kept me up half the night.”

“That’s not—”

“And two…” He drags his hand lower, fingers spreading over my hip. “You woke up grinding on me.”

“I— I did not—”

He laughs once against my skin. “Sweetheart. You absolutely did.”

My face burns.

My body betrays me—pressing back against him without my permission.

His breath hitches.

“Nora.”

One word.

One warning.

One surrender.

Then he rolls me onto my back, covers me with his body, and kisses me.

Not rushed.

Not hungry.

Worse.

Slow.

So slow I feel my chest ache.

His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone like he’s memorizing it.

“You’re trouble,” he whispers.

“So are you,” I breathe.

He groans softly, like he can’t help himself.

Then he slides inside me in one smooth, deep thrust.

I gasp—loud.

He shudders, forehead dropping to mine.

“God… you feel even better in the morning.”

Chapter 20

POV: Nora

He moves slowly, deliberately, his hips rocking into mine with a rhythm that feels like worship. His hand tangles in my hair, guiding my mouth to his, kissing me through every movement.

He keeps his eyes on mine the whole time.

Like he wants me to see everything he can’t say yet.

When the orgasm hits, it’s soft and warm and devastating, pulling a breathless cry from my lips.

He follows seconds later, calling my name in a hoarse whisper that sounds like a confession.

He collapses against me for a moment, catching his breath before rolling to the side—bringing me with him, keeping us tangled together.

Neither of us speaks.

We don’t need to.

The room is full of something thick and quiet and impossible to ignore.

After a few minutes, he brushes hair from my face.

“Shower?” he asks.

It sounds like a question.

It feels like an invitation.

I nod once.

His eyes darken.

“Good,” he murmurs, sitting up and pulling me with him. “Because we’re not done.”

The second we step into the bathroom, steam already lingering from his earlier shower, Elias reaches over me and turns the water on—hot, strong pressure, filling the glassed-in stall with rising heat.

I’m about to step inside when his hand curls around my hip.

“Slow.”

That one word freezes me.

No rush.

No scrambling.

He wants to take his time.

He turns me toward him, eyes sweeping over me with a slow hunger that makes my knees weaken.

“You look wrecked,” he says, voice low, thumb brushing a bruise he left on my collarbone.

I flush. “Your fault.”

His mouth curves—not a smile, something darker.

“Every mark on you is my fault,” he repeats softly, almost like it pleases him. “And I’m not done.”

My breath catches.

He urges me backward with gentle pressure, guiding me into the shower as the hot water begins to pour down.

The heat hits my skin.

Then he follows.

The glass door closes behind him with a quiet click that sounds too intimate.

Water streams over his chest, tracing down every ridge of muscle, making his skin gleam. He brushes wet hair back from his forehead and watches me like I’m something he’s starving for.

He steps closer.

I step back.

He keeps coming until my back touches the warm tile.

His hands settle on either side of my head, caging me in.

The water hisses around us.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

I do.

His eyes soften—just a fraction, just enough to undo me.

“You’re even prettier like this,” he says. “Flushed. Warm. Bare.”

I swallow hard. “You’re staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“About how you look like you belong in here with me every morning.”

Oh.

Oh God.

That line hits me low in my stomach.

He leans in, lips brushing my cheek. “Turn around.”

I do, breath shaky.

His hands slide through my wet hair, gathering it gently. He starts shampooing it—slow, careful, almost tender.

It’s ridiculous how good it feels.

His fingers massage my scalp, working through every strand with an attention that feels… personal. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex but still makes my legs wobble.

“You’re good at this,” I whisper.

“I take care of what’s mine.”

The words hit me like a slap and a kiss in one.

Mine.

He said it like a fact.

Before I can think, before I can react, he presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder—soft, lingering.

My eyes close.

He rinses my hair, hands steady on my skull, turning me gently back to face him.

And then—

Then his fingers trail down my spine.

Light. Slow. Intentional.

I shiver.

He grins—sharp, male, amused. “Cold?”

“Not even close.”

He rests one hand at my hip. The other slides up my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast.

My breath stutters.

He watches my reaction, eyes darkening, pupils dilating.

“Nora…” His voice goes deeper, rougher. “You’re shaking.”

“No, I—I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping closer until our chests touch, “you’re trembling like you want something.”

His hand lifts my jaw.

“Say it.”

God.

He knows exactly what it does to me when he gets like this—calm, in control, low-voiced and impossibly close.

“I want…” My words fail. Heat floods my cheeks. “Elias…”

He kisses me.

It’s not slow this time.

Not gentle.

It’s hot, demanding, consuming.

He presses me against the tile, mouth claiming mine, tongue sliding deep as the water pounds down our bodies.

My hands grip his shoulders. Hard.

He groans into my mouth like the sound is dragged from him.

Then his hand slides down—

Between my thighs—

His fingers find me already warm and swollen from earlier.

He curses under his breath. “You’re soaked.”

“It’s— the shower—”

“No,” he growls, stroking me slow and lazy. “This is for me.”

My head falls back, a whimper escaping.

He smiles against my neck. “There she is.”

His mouth traces a line down my throat, teeth grazing lightly. His fingers work me with slow, devastating precision.

“Elias—”

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you fall apart again.”

My whole body tightens.

His fingers go deeper.

His thumb circles.

My knees buckle.

He catches me with his free arm as if he expected it—lifting me slightly, holding me steady, keeping the pressure just right.

The orgasm hits like a wave breaking—hot, sudden, uncontrollable.

I cry out, fingers digging into his back, the tile, anything.

“Nora…” he groans against my skin, voice thick with desire. “God, that’s it. Let me hear you.”

The moment it fades, my legs still unsteady, he presses a kiss to my collarbone.

Then—

He grabs my thighs.

Lifts me.

Pins me to the wall.

My breath punches out of my chest.

“Elias—”

“Wrap your legs around me.”

I do.

He positions himself, eyes never leaving mine.

And when he thrusts into me—deep, hot, overwhelming—

The breath leaves my body in a broken gasp.

He buries his face in my neck, groaning, hips rolling into mine with slow, powerful strokes that make the world around me dissolve into steam and heat and him.

“God,” he grits out, thrusting harder, “I could stay inside you all fucking day.”

My fingers slide into his wet hair, pulling him closer.

He fucks me against the tile like he can’t get close enough, deep enough, like every thrust is claiming something he never thought he could have.

Water runs over us, steam rising around our bodies.

And when we come—

We break together.

He holds me through it, arms locked around me, breath shaking, body pressed tight against mine like he’s afraid to let go.

When he finally lowers me back to the floor, he rests his forehead against mine, both of us gasping.

“Shit…” he whispers. “You’re going to kill me.”

Steam still clung to my skin when Elias turned off the water, and for a moment the only sound was our breathing—uneven, heavy, the kind that made my legs feel unsteady all over again.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped out first, grabbed a towel, and held it out in that commanding, no-argument way of his. I took a step toward him, but he shook his head once.

“Come here.”

My pulse tripped. His voice was low again—stern, steady, wickedly composed despite everything we’d just done.

I moved toward him and he wrapped the towel around my shoulders, dragging the fabric slowly down my arms, drying every inch of me with deliberate, maddening care. No rush. No hesitation. Just the controlled, methodical way a man handles something he refuses to give up.

And then I remembered.

“You’ve done this before…” I murmured, breath catching.

His hands paused only for a fraction of a second, then continued down my thigh. “When you thought I was your blind date.” He lifted his eyes to mine—dark, unwavering. “And when you made it very clear you’d never see me again.”

The reminder hit me like a jolt—because I had. I’d left him in that hotel room convinced he’d fade into a good memory. A perfect mistake.

“I’m so glad I was wrong,” I whispered.

Something flickered in his gaze—brief, sharp, gone in the next heartbeat. He didn’t comment. He didn’t soften. He just reached for another towel and wrapped it around my hair like it was the most practical thing in the world, even though it stole the air right out of my lungs.

“Hold still,” he said, fingertips brushing my cheek as he adjusted the towel. “You’ll get cold.”

Which was Elias-speak for I remember too.

And then he stepped back and picked up his clothes, not giving me room to get sentimental with it.

“Get dressed. We’re already late.”

I bit down on a smile. “You’re the one who kept me in the shower.”

His brow arched—slow, dangerous. “If I kept you, you wouldn’t be standing right now.”

Heat shot straight through me.

“Then why didn’t you?” I taunted.

He gave me that look—the one that tightened every muscle in my stomach.

“Because I need to get you to headquarters at least once today,” he said. “After that, I’ll consider ruining your ability to walk.”

No hesitation. No shame. Just pure, lethal honesty.

I dressed fast, mostly because watching him dress was its own form of torture. Broad shoulders sliding into a black T-shirt. Strong hands pulling his belt tight. Dog tags glinting against his chest. And the entire time, he kept glancing at me like he was calculating the exact number of seconds it would take to undo everything I’d just put on.

Once I was ready, he brushed past me—with intent—his palm dragging across my hip like it was an accident.

“Move,” he murmured at my ear.

God.