CH 1-10

Summary

🌶️🔥🌶️🔥🌶️🔥 I thought he was just my blind date. Then he became the best sex of my life. I didn’t know he was my childhood best friend’s father. Or that he’d end up as my boss. Now he’s everywhere—commanding, forbidden, impossible to ignore—and the heat between us refuses to die no matter how wrong it should be. Because once you fall under Elias Falkner’s command… there’s no walking away.

Chapter 1

POV: Nora

The moment I stop in front of the bar, I already regret every life choice that brought me here.

The cold night air bites the back of my neck. My heart won’t slow down, my hands won’t steady, and my reflection in the glass door looks like someone who absolutely should not be going on a blind date.

My hair looks too red under the streetlight, my eyes too green, too bright, too exposed.

Like they’re announcing to the world I don’t belong here.

My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat.

I open the group chat.

Elena:

You better be inside in the next 30 seconds.

Cole:

If you run, I swear I’ll file a missing person report just to embarrass you.

I type with my thumb shaking.

Me:

I don’t think I can do this.

Elena instantly replies.

Elena:

You CAN. This is not a marriage proposal. This is ONE DRINK and maybe a good night of sex.

NO names. NO details. NO strings. Exactly what you said you wanted.

Cole adds:

Cole:

And for the love of God, stop working and start living. Daniel wouldn’t want you frozen like this. Go inside.

My stomach twists at Daniel’s name.

Even after a year, it still feels like someone touched a bruise inside my chest.

I breathe in, breathe out.

I straighten my jacket.

My hands are cold.

Me:

Fine. But remember the rule: no names, no history. Just a night. Nothing else.

Cole:

And remember the code: black shirt. If he’s wearing black, he’s your guy. Now go.

Right.

Black shirt.

Easy enough.

Elena reacts with ten heart emojis and a fire.

Cole reacts with a thumbs-up and a peach because he’s an idiot.

I close the chat before I can vomit from nerves, pull open the door, and step inside.

Warm light. Soft jazz. Conversations blending together.

But all of this fades instantly.

Because I see him.

And absolutely nothing else exists.

A man sits alone at the back booth, one arm stretched over the seat like he owns the whole place.

He wears a black shirt — fitted, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fabric clinging to a chest that shouldn’t be legal.

His shoulders are broad and powerful, his posture straight, relaxed in a way only men with authority in their bones can pull off.

Light brown hair, short and neat, with streaks of silver at the temples that somehow make him even more unfairly handsome.

Eyes—God—blue and sharp even from across the room.

A face carved from something expensive and dangerous.

I stop breathing.

That cannot be my date.

That is not a “let’s-see-what-happens” guy.

That is a “this man could ruin my sanity in ten minutes” guy.

He lifts his gaze at the exact moment I take a step forward, like he felt me walking in.

Like he sensed me.

And when our eyes meet, something hits low in my stomach.

Hard.

His gaze lands on me like pressure — heavy, assessing, consuming.

And every nerve in my body lights up.

That has to be him.

Black shirt. Alone. Too beautiful, too magnetic, too… him.

Of course my friends would match me with someone built from temptation.

I force my legs to move.

As I cross the room, he watches me the way a predator watches movement — calm, confident, sure of his strength.

When I reach the table, he stands.

And up close…

He’s even taller. Broader.

His presence hits like a wall of heat and control.

“Hi,” I manage. Barely.

His voice is deep enough to vibrate through me. “Hi.”

Up close, his eyes are impossible.

Glacier blue.

Focused entirely on me, like he’s stripping me down without touching me.

I swallow. “You’re… definitely not what I expected to look like.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. The smallest suggestion of amusement.

And dominance.

“And what did you expect?”

“Someone less…”

I gesture helplessly at him.

“Attractive. Intense. Large.”

His brows lift slightly. “Large?”

Oh God.

My face heats. “I meant—height. Shoulders. Presence.”

He hums, low, like he already knows how flustered he’s making me.

I sit before my knees betray me.

He sits opposite — though it feels more like he chooses to sit instead of stand.

His gaze never leaves mine.

I need to stick to the rules. I force them out quickly:

“Okay, so. I should be honest. I’m here because my friends forced me. I’m not ready for anything serious. Or emotional. Or long-term. I’m not… available for that.”

His jaw flexes — just once — like he understands more than I said.

“What are you available for?” he asks.

His tone does something to my spine.

I swallow hard.

“Distraction. Just a night. No names. No past. No expectations.”

His eyes darken.

There’s a flicker in them — hunger, interest, something sharp.

“No names,” he echoes.

“No past.”

He leans in slightly — not enough to touch me, just enough for heat to radiate off him.

“And if the night is unforgettable… that’s enough for me.”

My breath catches.

He’s commanding without trying.

Magnetic without effort.

And somehow, I feel myself wanting to follow wherever he leads.

A waiter approaches, and the man looks at him with a single sharp glance that says “wait” without a word.

The waiter obeys instantly.

Jesus.

Who is this man?

“My car is outside,” he says softly.

“I want to take you to dinner. Somewhere better than this.”

I shouldn’t agree.

Not with how fast I’m falling under his orbit.

Not with how dangerous he feels.

But I nod anyway.

Because tonight is not about rules.

It’s about letting go.

And because his voice, his eyes, his presence…

They make obedience feel easy.

He guides me into the restaurant with a hand at the small of my back, and—God help me—it’s barely a touch, but my entire body reacts like I’ve been plugged into a socket. His palm is warm, firm, claiming, and I swear he knows exactly what he’s doing. I feel the pressure increase just a little, enough to make my breath catch.

The hostess leads us to a table in the corner, dim, private, too perfect. He pulls out my chair, and the movement is so effortless, so natural, I almost forget how to sit for a second.

I nod, even though the way he says it makes my skin tighten. Like he already knows I’m lying. Like he knows tonight won’t be enough.

The second I sit across from him, something inside me goes quiet. Not calm—alert. Focused. The way it happens when I’m profiling someone dangerous or powerful. Except tonight I’m not working. Tonight is supposed to be simple. A blind date my friends bullied me into.

And yet here he is.

And I can’t read him.

That alone unsettles me more than his impossible beauty.

He’s… blocked. That’s the only word I have. Like every attempt I make to pick up a thread about him—tone, posture, microexpression—hits a wall. A deliberate wall. He’s either exceptionally private or exceptionally trained. And I don’t know which one scares me more.

Or excites me more.

Cole said this guy was some friend of his cousin. That he was “solid,” “stable,” “normal.”

Nothing about the man sitting in front of me is normal. He radiates authority so naturally that even the waiter straightens when he walks by.

I take a sip of water to distract myself, but he notices everything.

“You don’t like the table?” he asks, voice low.

“It’s fine.”

It is. That isn’t the problem.

I can’t look away. The candlelight hits his jaw, the few gray streaks at his temples, the faint scars that cut across the hard lines of his knuckles. I’m staring. I know I am.

His eyes catch mine.

“Something on your mind?”

His voice is that kind of low that feels like it’s spoken directly against my neck.

I swallow. “I noticed your… scars.”

My gaze drops to his hand resting on the table.

His mouth lifts slightly. Not a smile—something darker.

“You want to know how I got them?”

Absolutely yes. Absolutely no. Both at once.

“I—” I shake my head quickly. “No. I didn’t mean… I don’t want to know anything. Not tonight.”

It spills out in a rush, embarrassing and honest.

He leans back in the chair, studying me in a way that makes heat coil in my stomach.

“Just tonight, then?”

He studies me, and for a second I almost feel profiled myself. My pulse trips.

“What do you like to eat?” he asks as the waiter approaches.

“I—um—Italian? Mediterranean? I’m not picky.”

He hums once. A sound that vibrates right under my skin.

He orders for both of us, mediterranean, pasta with tomatoes, basil, and the olive oil, confidently explaining what pairs with what wine, his tone relaxed but in control. The waiter nods like he’s been commanded by a general.

When he turns back to me, his eyes lock on mine, and I swear the air gets heavier.

“You look like someone who enjoys good wine,” he says.

“I enjoy pretending I know what I’m doing.”

He leans back, lips curving slightly. “Honesty. I like that.”

My cheeks warm. I’m irritated at myself for reacting so easily. I’m good at reading people, at staying detached. But with him? My instincts feel scrambled.

“Tell me,” he says, “what were you expecting tonight?”

“A date.”

It comes out soft, more breath than voice.

“And now you have one.”

God help me, I feel that sentence everywhere.

The food comes. I try focusing on the meal, the wine, anything normal. But I’m too aware of him. The way he eats slowly, measured. The way his fingers rest on the stem of his glass. The way he always seems a second away from reaching out and touching me.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs at one point.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

You.

But I can’t say that.

“About how you… don’t fit the profile I expected.”

“Profile,” he repeats, amused. “You’re profiling me?”

I swallow. “I profile everyone.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

“That I can’t figure you out.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it.

His gaze drops to my mouth. When he looks back up, something darker flickers in his eyes.

“You don’t need to.”

The words hit me low, hard, hot.

Dinner wraps up almost too quickly. I don’t want it to end, but I also can’t keep sitting this close to him without doing something reckless.

He stands first, offering his hand lightly on my back as I rise. The warmth shoots straight through me, unexpected and overwhelming. His touch is soft, guiding, confident. Testing.

Outside, the night air cools my skin but not nearly enough.

He faces me, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“I’m staying nearby,” he says quietly. “A hotel. If you’d like to continue the night.”

My breath snags.

This is the moment.

The line.

The choice.

“I—” My voice wavers. I clear it. “I usually don’t do things like this.”

His hand reaches out, brushing my fingers, slow and deliberate.

“Just one night?”

A question, a promise, a challenge.

My pulse trips. “Just tonight.”

His eyes darken like he just claimed the words.

“Come with me.”

And I do.

Not because I’m reckless.

Not because I don’t know better.

But because everything in me is drawn to him like gravity, and resisting feels impossible.

He leads me toward his hotel, his shoulder brushing mine with every step, and the heat between us feels like it could ignite the air.

Tonight is just tonight.

And that’s the only reason I let myself follow him inside.

Chapter 2

POV: Nora

The hotel is quiet when we walk in, the kind of quiet that makes every sound sharper, every breath deeper. He walks ahead slightly, not enough to leave me behind, but enough to set the pace—confident, certain, devastatingly in control.

The front desk clerk barely glances at us. Of course he doesn’t. God, I don’t even know his name yet—is the kind of man who moves like he owns every room he enters. People just… react.

The hallway is dim and polished, soft carpet muffling our steps. I’m hyperaware of everything: the heat coming off his body, the way his back muscles shift beneath his shirt, the memory of his hand on my spine outside the restaurant.

My pulse beats like a drum.

We reach the elevator. He presses the button, and the soft chiming sound feels unbearably loud in the quiet space.

The doors slide open.

We step inside.

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft metallic sigh, and the world narrows to the two of us and the rising hum of the cables.

He doesn’t move at first.

He just stands there, watching me.

Like he’s deciding what to do with me.

My heartbeat stumbles, then kicks, then forgets how to behave entirely.

And then—slow, deliberate—he steps into my space.

My back brushes the cold steel wall. His hand comes to my waist, fingers spreading with a control that makes my breath hitch. He waits, giving me a chance to back away, to say no, to run.

I don’t.

God, I don’t.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and it’s the way he looks at it—like it’s a promise he’s about to claim—that undoes me.

I’m the one who reaches first.

My fingers curl into the sides of his jaw, and I pull him down because I can’t not kiss him. And the second our mouths meet, it’s wildfire. Fierce, hungry, like he knew exactly how I’d taste and has been starving for it.

His hand slides down my hip, anchoring me. The other fists in the back of my dress, dragging me closer, until I’m pressed fully against him, and everything in my body lights up.

The kiss breaks on a gasp—mine—and he lowers his mouth to my ear.

His voice is a low, molten whisper.

“Let me feel you.”

Before I can process the words, his hand is beneath the hem of my dress, slow but unyielding, brushing the inside of my thigh. Higher. Higher. My knees threaten to give out.

His thumb grazes over the thin lace of my panties, a single stroke that detonates every nerve ending in me.

He breathes in, sharp, controlled.

Then his voice drops, darker:

“Look at you.”

My head falls back against the elevator wall, eyes fluttering shut. I’m shaking, embarrassingly responsive, and he hasn’t even—

His thumb presses lightly, testing.

Heat surges through me. My breath stutters.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet, devastating sound.

“You’re wet… and I’ve barely touched you.”

My whole body clenches at the certainty in his tone—factual, unhurried, like he’s reading symptoms only he can diagnose.

His thumb drags again, slower.

“There it is.”

My eyes snap open, meeting his. His pupils are blown wide, but the control—God, the control—never leaves his face.

He leans close enough that his lips ghost over the corner of my mouth.

“I touch you once and you’re already soaked.”

A shiver rakes down my spine so hard I nearly groan.

The elevator dings.

The doors open.

His hand slips away instantly, leaving my skin throbbing in every place he touched. He steps back like nothing happened, like he’s still the man who could walk through fire without blinking.

But his eyes sweep over me once, dark and claiming.

Then he reaches for my hand.

And without a word, he leads me out of the elevator toward his room.

The door shuts behind us with a soft, final click.

I stand there for a second, breathing hard, trying to gather the pieces of myself that he scattered in the elevator. My pulse won’t settle. My legs still feel like he melted them from the inside out.

I’m about to say something—anything—to steady myself when his hand slides across my lower back.

I inhale sharply.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

His touch is a command.

I turn to face him, and the second our eyes meet, my breath catches. His expression is lethal calm—controlled hunger, the kind that promises he’s going to take me apart slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring every second of restraint.

My purse slips from my shoulder and lands somewhere near the counter with a soft thud. I don’t even look back.

His fingers trace the line of my jaw, tilting my face up. He studies me for a heartbeat, like he’s memorizing something he shouldn’t.

Then he kisses me.

Not gentle.

Not careful.

A consuming, claiming kiss that steals whatever breath I thought I had left. His mouth moves over mine like he’s been waiting to do this for years—not minutes. His hands anchor my waist, pulling me flush against his body, and I melt into him like he owns every molecule in me.

I gasp when his thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my dress, and he takes that sound straight from my mouth with another kiss—deeper, harder.

He kisses me, slow at first, a dark contrast to the wildness in the elevator. His mouth claims mine with this devastating control, like he wants to teach my lips how to kiss him specifically.

I melt. I fight it. I fail.

My back meets the wall before I realize he’s moved me. His thigh wedges between mine, forcing them open, and the pressure sends a shock of heat straight through me.

I’m already panting.

He drags his mouth from my lips to my jaw, then lower, tasting the frantic pulse in my throat. His breath is hot when he speaks against my skin.

“Still trembling.”

I don’t know if it’s a reproach or approval.

I don’t know if he expects an answer.

I can’t give one anyway.

His hands slide down, gripping the sides of my thighs, and with one decisive motion he lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist without thought, without permission, without anything except need.

My dress rides up, his shirt brushes my inner thighs, and the friction makes me whimper into his mouth.

His voice drops, low and quiet.

“Take it off.”

At first I think he means the dress.

Then I realize he means more.

He sets me on my feet but doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give me space. Just watches, waiting to see what I’ll do with the order he hasn’t repeated.

My hands shake as I reach behind me, sliding the zipper down. The fabric loosens. His eyes track the movement like he’s following prey.

The dress hits the floor.

His breath leaves him, controlled but sharper than before.

He steps forward, fingers grazing my hip—a feather-light touch that still feels like possession—as he lowers his head to my ear.

“Turn.”

I do.

The sound he makes when he sees me from behind is almost silent, but I feel it everywhere.

His palms skim my waist, then slide up—slow, reverent, cruelly controlled—until he’s cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples through the thin lace. My back arches involuntarily into his hands.

He bends to kiss the side of my neck, the edge of my shoulder, biting just enough to make my breath stutter.

His fingers trail down again, to the waistband of my panties, hooking there.

“These…”

His voice is a low rasp.

“…aren’t staying on.”

I feel them slide down my legs, his knuckles dragging oh-so-slowly against my thighs as he removes them. I step out, dizzy, unsteady.

Before I can turn to face him, his hand circles my wrist.

He pulls me back to him—hard—my spine against his chest, my body locked in his arms.

He drags one hand down my stomach…

Lower…

Lower…

And when his fingers part me, testing, feeling—

A broken sound escapes me.

His breath hits my ear.

“Soaked.”

A pause, a promise.

“I told you.”

I clutch his forearm, shaking, the room blurring around the edges.

He turns me finally, guiding me backward toward the bed with slow, devastating steps until it touches the back of my knees.

He doesn’t push.

He just looks at me—deep, consuming, like he’s making a decision that goes far beyond tonight.

Then:

“Lie down.”

And I do.

Without hesitation.

Without breath.

Without thought.

Just heat.

Just him.

Just this.

Then—he steps back.

Just far enough to undo his shirt.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like a man who knows the effect he has and intends to use every second of it.

He takes his time with the buttons, eyes locked on me the entire damn time. I can feel my heart pounding everywhere—throat, ribs, fingertips.

His shirt opens.

Scars.

Across his ribs. His abdomen. One brushing high on his shoulder.

I want to ask.

I almost do.

But he watches me watching him, and I know the answer to every question I could ask tonight:

Not tonight.

So I swallow it, letting my eyes trace the lines instead of my words.

He shrugs the shirt off, muscles flexing, skin warm and golden under the soft hotel light. And then he reaches for his belt.

My breath stutters.

He unhooks it with one slow pull, the sound of leather sliding through the buckle sending a shiver down my spine. His pants fall low on his hips before he pushes them down completely—and Jesus—

He’s…

Large isn’t the word.

Devastating is.

For a second I forget to breathe. My mouth parts. His eyes darken, catching the reaction, owning it entirely.

The mattress dips under his weight, and then he’s over me—hands braced on either side of my head, body caging mine without touching.

“Lie back,” he murmurs, and I do, heat rushing between my legs at the sound of it.

His mouth descends to my collarbone first, then lower. Slow. Worshipful. His tongue traces a path over my skin that shouldn’t feel tender coming from a man who kissed like a storm in the elevator.

But it does.

God, it does.

He sucks softly beneath my breast—a deliberate contrast to the hard line of his body—and my hips arch before I can stop them. He follows the movement like it’s permission.

My bra comes off without ceremony, and then his hands… his mouth… he takes his time tasting me, kissing each curve, each shiver, mapping the places that make me gasp.

Every touch is controlled.

Every breath, measured.

But the way he drags his nose along the inside of my thigh—slow inhale, like he’s breathing me in?

That’s obsession.

He looks up at me from between my legs, eyes half-lidded, mouth swollen from my skin.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says quietly.

I do.

I can’t look anywhere else.

His hands slide up the backs of my thighs, lifting me slightly toward him—

And I feel the heat of his breath where I want him most.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Tender.

Dark.

Completely in control.

And he hasn’t even touched me with his mouth yet.

Chapter 3

POV: Nora

His breath ghosts over me first—just enough to make my hips lift off the bed like my body is begging on its own. I try to stay quiet, but a sound slips out anyway, embarrassingly soft.

His fingers tighten around my thighs.

“Hold still,” he says.

I don’t.

I can’t.

He watches me with this unblinking concentration, like he’s studying every twitch of my muscles, every tremor of my breath. Like he’s memorizing the way I lose control.

Then—finally—

finally—

his mouth touches me.

Not a kiss.

Not a tease.

A slow, deliberate drag of his tongue from bottom to top that snaps every thought in my head clean in half.

My hands fly to the sheets. My back arches. My lungs forget how to work.

“God—” I choke out, and his grip on my thighs tightens in warning.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs against me.

I look.

I shouldn’t.

Because his eyes—dark, locked, focused entirely on my pleasure—undo me faster than his mouth.

He licks deeper this time, slower, as if he wants to savor the exact moment I break. And then he does it again. And again. Each stroke calculated. Controlled. Devastating.

My breaths turn frantic, sharp, and he shifts—one hand sliding up, pushing gently on my lower stomach to hold me down.

“Stay right there.”

The command hits straight through me.

I grip the sheets harder when he seals his mouth fully around me, sucking deep enough that my vision whites out. My legs try to close, but he pulls them wider, holding me exactly where he wants me.

“Please—” I gasp, not even sure what I’m asking for.

He lifts his eyes to mine again, the sight of his mouth between my legs almost enough to ruin me.

“You beg pretty,” he says softly.

“And you taste better.”

My entire body shivers.

He goes back to me with more pressure, more purpose, and then—oh God—he adds a single finger, sliding it inside me slowly, like he wants to feel me stretch around him.

I cry out. Loud.

He hums against me, pleased.

I’m shaking. My thighs trembling. My breath broken into pieces.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“Let go,” he whispers.

I fall apart the second the words hit me.

My climax crashes hard, sharp, unstoppable, ripping through me with a force I’ve never felt. I try to move, to pull away, but his arm locks around my thigh, keeping me exactly where he wants me while he keeps licking me through the entire thing—slow, relentless, coaxing more.

My vision blurs.

My body collapses.

I can barely hear myself breathe.

He only lets me go when I’m shaking too hard to lift my hips again.

I think I whisper his name—

except I don’t know his name.

He kisses the inside of my thigh as he rises, slow and devastating, as if he’s claiming ground.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against my skin.

I swear those two words nearly destroy me more than the orgasm.

My pulse is still high and uneven when he crawls up my body, bracing his weight on his forearms. His mouth hovers over mine, his breath warm, his lips swollen.

He kisses me slow—so slow it aches—letting me taste myself on his tongue.

I whimper into the kiss, and he smiles against my mouth.

“You’re still shaking,” he says, voice low, controlled, impossibly steady.

“Good.”

He shifts, and I feel him—the heavy, impossible hardness of him—resting against my thigh. My eyes fly open, and he watches the moment realization hits.

Too big.

He’s too big.

He won’t fit.

He reads all of that on my face instantly.

His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my head gently toward him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says.

A promise.

A warning.

Both.

My breath catches.

He lines himself against me, dragging slowly through my wetness, just once, just enough to make me moan into his neck.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I do—because I can’t not.

His eyes never leave mine as he pushes in.

The stretch is intense—sharp at first, then consuming. My mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, fingers digging into his back.

He stops halfway, chest rising against mine, letting me breathe through it.

“Too much?” he asks.

I shake my head instantly—too desperate, too far gone.

“No,” I breathe.

“More. Please.”

His groan is low, deep, dangerous.

He cups the back of my head, his forehead pressing to mine as he pushes the rest of the way in—slow, controlled, devastating—until he’s fully seated inside me.

We both gasp.

His hand tightens in my hair.

“Fuck…” he whispers, almost reverent. “You feel—”

The sentence breaks off in a hiss.

He thrusts once, shallow and careful, and my entire body clenches around him.

His control fractures for a second. Just one.

His mouth drops to my neck, teeth grazing skin.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against my throat.

“Perfect for me.”

He pulls back, thrusting deeper this time—slow, powerful, guided by his hand gripping my hip.

Pleasure shoots up my spine, hot and blinding.

My nails drag down his back. He growls—a dark, low sound that vibrates through my chest—and thrusts again, harder.

His pace builds slowly, deliberately, each movement claiming more space inside me. His lips brush mine, his breath sharp, his voice rough:

“Hold on to me.”

I do.

Because he leaves me no other choice.

Every thrust is deeper, every breath shorter, every sound louder. My body winds tight again, impossibly fast, like he’s pulling another orgasm out of me with nothing but precision.

“I can’t—” I gasp.

“Yes you can,” he says.

“Right here.”

His thumb finds my clit.

“Let go for me.”

I break.

Harder than before.

My cry gets swallowed by his kiss, and he follows—his thrusts losing rhythm, his breath going ragged, his hands gripping me like he’s afraid I might disappear.

He buries himself inside me one last time, his groan dark and low against my mouth as he falls apart.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

The room is silent except for breathing—mine uneven, his controlled but shaking at the edges.

He finally lifts his head, brushing his thumb over my cheek.

“Don’t close your eyes yet,” he murmurs.

I don’t.

I stay exactly where he wants me.

Right under him.

For a long moment, I just lie there, my chest rising too fast, my legs still trembling. I’m not sure I could stand even if I wanted to.

He rolls onto his back beside me, one arm bent behind his head. Still catching his breath, but nothing like me—his breathing is controlled, measured, like he’s already regained every ounce of composure he lost.

Of course he has.

I pull the sheet up over my chest, trying to gather myself. Trying to think. Trying to pretend that I am not seconds away from melting again just from looking at him.

“I should go,” I whisper, because it’s the only sentence my brain manages to form.

His head turns immediately.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Those blue eyes pin me in place.

Before I can react, his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to leave absolutely no room for negotiation.

“No,” he says.

Just that.

One word.

A quiet command that sinks straight through my skin.

I swallow. “I—”

He sits up, still holding my wrist, and pulls me toward him so sharply I gasp. The sheet falls away from me, pooling at my waist.

“I’m not done with you.”

My entire body tightens.

The air between us changes—charged, electric, hungry.

He studies me like he’s deciding what part of me he wants next.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he adds, voice low and final.

Like a verdict.

I exhale a shaky breath. “I usually don’t—”

He cuts me off with a slow drag of his thumb over the inside of my wrist, the gesture deceptively gentle.

“Tonight isn’t about usually.”

Heat spreads through me so fast it makes me dizzy.

He pulls me fully into his lap, straddling him before I even realize what’s happening. His hands slide up my bare thighs, gripping my hips with a possession that steals the breath from my lungs.

He’s already hard again.

Already ready.

My pulse stutters.

“That first time,” he murmurs, looking up at me like he’s choosing to memorize my face in this exact moment, “was me taking my time with you.”

His hands tighten.

“This time, I’m taking you.”

My breath catches—

because he means it.

Every word.

Every inch of that promise.

He drags his hands up my back, guiding me down until our foreheads touch and his mouth is barely brushing mine.

“Tell me no,” he whispers.

A challenge.

A dare.

A lifeline I know damn well I won’t take.

I don’t answer.

My silence is its own confession.

His mouth curves in a dark, satisfied smile.

“Good.”

Chapter 4

POV: Nora

He grips my hips, lifts me effortlessly, and drags me down onto him in one slow, devastating glide that rips a cry from my chest.

I clutch his shoulders, shaking, and his groan is deep and rough against my throat.

“That’s it,” he says, voice breaking for the first time tonight.

“Take all of me.”

He holds me there for a heartbeat—full, overwhelmed, stretched to the edge of breaking—before he pulls my hips, guiding me into the first slow grind.

Pleasure spikes so hard I gasp.

He doesn’t say my name—he doesn’t know it—

but God, it sounds like he does.

Like he’s speaking to something only he can reach.

His hands bruise into my hips.

“Ride me.”

There’s no hesitation.

No thought.

Just movement—heat—want—

the sharp rise of something that feels more like surrender than sex.

I start to move, slow at first, then harder as the pleasure coils again, too fast, too intense, too much.

He meets every roll of my hips with a thrust that steals my breath.

His mouth finds my throat.

His hands control every angle.

His voice turns into a low growl against my skin:

“That’s it. Give it to me.”

I break again—loud, shaking, clinging to him while the orgasm crashes through me like a storm.

He follows a moment later, pulling me tight against him, holding me through the shudder of his release, breathing hard into my neck like he can’t let me go.

He doesn’t.

Not even when the tremors fade.

His arms stay locked around me.

Not possessive.

Not tender.

Something in between.

Something dangerous.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t want to move.

His lips brush my jaw, just once.

I collapse over him, shaking, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, breath broken into pieces.

I lost count of how many times we had sex—how many times he made me come—until my body simply couldn’t take any more. I collapse over him, shaking, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, breath broken into pieces.

His hand slides up my spine—not soft, not rough, something perfectly in between.

Possession disguised as comfort.

He pulls me closer, his voice a low command against my temple:

“Now you can sleep.”

My eyes flutter, heavy, seduced by exhaustion and heat, but I swallow hard.

“I should go,” I whisper. “This was just one night. No sleeping, no breakfast. Just—”

His hand closes around my hip, firm enough to silence me.

“The night,” he says quietly, “includes sleep.”

I shiver.

His tone isn’t harsh. It isn’t angry.

It’s simply decided.

“And you can leave in the morning.”

I try to protest—I really do—but my body sinks into him instead.

He pulls the sheet over us, tucks me beneath his arm like the curve of my body was made to fit there.

I should resist.

I should get up.

I should run.

Instead, I fall asleep faster than I have in a year.

I wake up to warmth.

Real warmth.

A chest beneath my cheek.

An arm heavy over my waist.

A hand spread low on my stomach, possessive even in sleep.

For a second, I forget where I am.

Why the room smells like sex and hotel soap.

Why my body aches in the best way possible.

I haven’t slept like this in… God. I don’t even remember.

A whole damn year without sex—and not just sex like last night, because nothing I’ve ever done compares to this.

His body wrapped around mine makes me feel untouchable. Safe.

Protected in a way I didn’t know existed.

I don’t even know his name.

But his sex is carved into my soul.

His breathing changes. Deepens. Wakes.

I feel him stir behind me before his lips brush the back of my shoulder.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

My whole body lights up in a way it shouldn’t.

I swallow and try to sit up. “I should go.”

His hand snaps around my hip—not gentle.

His other hand slides between my thighs, and the second he feels how wet I already am, a low sound rumbles from his chest, dark and satisfied.

God—my breath catches.

“You will,” he says. “After I’m finished with you.”

I barely open my mouth before he drags me under him again, pinning me to the bed with effortless strength.

“Wait—” I start.

But he’s already kissing down my stomach.

Slow.

Methodical.

Focused—like he’s studying something only he understands.

My legs fall open without my permission.

My body reacts before my mind can catch up.

He settles between them, looks up at me once—a warning, or a promise—then his mouth is on me.

The pleasure is sharp and fast.

He eats me like he’s claiming territory—slow circles, deep strokes of his tongue, his hands pinning my thighs wide. My body tries to move toward him, searching for more, but he holds me exactly where he wants me.

I come hard—fireworks behind my eyelids.

But he doesn’t stop.

He slides two fingers inside me, curling just right, and the pleasure is unbearable.

I come again.

Harder.

Louder.

I’m shaking when he climbs up my body, grabs my face in one hand.

His blue eyes lock into mine as the thick, heavy length of him brushes my entrance.

“You know what you need,” he says.

I nod, breathless, hips reaching for him without shame.

“Say it.”

Every part of me that hates being told what to do dissolves.

I’m not Nora anymore.

I’m whatever he makes me.

“You. I need you inside me.”

He smirks—and sinks into me with one long, brutal thrust.

I scream into his kiss.

He thrusts with precision, hitting every place inside me I didn’t know existed.

This man is hungry.

Bare.

Desperate in ways he tries to hide but can’t.

He takes everything, gives everything back.

He grabs my wrists, pins them above my head, keeping every inch of control. He lets go with one hand just long enough to brush my clit—and that’s it. I break.

My orgasm hits hard, my body clenching around him, and he groans against my neck—deep, low—before he comes, his hand locking at the base of my spine like he never intends to let me leave this bed.

My legs barely work when he stands.

He lifts me effortlessly.

“What—”

He doesn’t let me finish.

He carries me to the shower like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The hot water hits my back as he presses me to the tile.

But he doesn’t fuck me again.

Not yet.

“I said I’d take care of you.”

Then he does the last thing I expect.

He reaches for the hotel sponge, squeezes soap onto it, and begins to wash me.

Slow.

Thorough.

Reverent.

Every drag of the sponge feels like he’s memorizing me.

Every place he lingers feels intentional.

Calm.

Dangerous.

I take the sponge from him and wash him too—his shoulders, his abs—watching the way he watches me, fighting his own restraint.

No one has ever touched me like this.

No one has ever taken care of me like this.

I move to wash his cock—already hard again—and he steps closer, lifts my chin until our eyes lock.

Those impossible blue eyes ignite.

He kisses me, pulls me against him, lifts my leg onto his hip, and thrusts into me again.

Full.

Stretching.

Too much.

Not enough.

I move to meet his rhythm, helpless for him.

“You can’t wait, can you?”

He turns me.

Spreads my legs with his foot.

Bends me forward until my hands press flat to the steaming tiles.

And then—yes—he fucks me from behind.

The angle is devastating.

A moan tears from my throat.

He grabs my neck, pulls my body back against his chest, his other hand working my clit with ruthless precision.

“Come around me,” he orders.

A shiver rockets through me—I come hard, harder than ever, my cry echoing off the tile as his mouth finds my neck, his presence swallowing me whole.

I come against the shower wall, still not knowing his name, but knowing damn well I’ll never forget him.

He washes me again, gentle now.

Tender in a way I didn’t expect.

We leave the shower without a word.

After, he dries me with a towel—slow, deliberate.

Then he dries himself.

He dresses with that same devastating precision.

Button.

Button.

Button.

Watch strapped.

Shirt tucked.

Controlled.

Collected.

Untouchable again.

He looks at me once—one long, devastating stroke of blue eyes over my whole body.

“Thank you for the night.”

Then he leaves.

Gone.

The silence feels wrong without him.

I sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a towel, legs shaking, head spinning. I dress, finally ready to leave when—

My phone buzzes on the counter.

A message from Cole:

Cole:

Your date texted me.

Dude said he was pissed you left him sitting alone all night.

You could’ve at least told him you weren’t coming, Nora.

Elena:

You told us you were entering that bar.

My stomach drops.

Cold.

Sharp.

I stare at the screen.

My date.

The guy who was supposed to be wearing a black shirt.

The guy Cole said was harmless, sweet, excited.

“He said he was pissed you left him sitting alone all night.”

Which means—

I turn slowly toward the hotel door.

The man who fucked me senseless.

The man who washed me.

The man I slept beside.

Wasn’t my date.

My heartbeat stutters.

Who the hell did I sleep with?

Chapter 5

POV: Nora

Walking into the FBI building feels… wrong.

Not illegal-wrong.

Just morally compromised wrong.

My body is still sore.

My legs still tremble a little.

And every time I shift in my chair in the elevator, I remember his hands. His mouth. His voice telling me exactly what to do and my body obeying before my brain could catch up.

By the time I step into the Behavioral Analysis Unit, I’ve replayed last night forty times and somehow still blush like a teenager every single time.

Cole spots me first.

“Oh look,” he says, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. “The woman who stood her perfectly nice date up.”

Elena turns in her swivel chair, eyebrows raised, coffee in hand.

“Oh, we will be talking about that. He texted me too. He said you vanished.”

I freeze midway through taking off my coat.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Before you two start judging me, I have an explanation.”

Elena snorts. “This better be good.”

“It is,” I say, dropping into my chair. “I went to the table. Black shirt, sitting alone. Like you both told me.”

Cole frowns.

Pause.

Elena’s eyes widen. “Wait.

Wait.

No.

You didn’t.”

I bury my face in my hands. “I thought he was my date! He was sitting alone, he matched the general description, and—”

“And you slept with him,” Elena finishes, eyes sparkling with delight.

Cole is not helping. He looks like he’s about to choke laughing.

“Oh my God. She went home with a complete stranger.”

“He wasn’t home,” I mumble. “It was his hotel.”

Elena nearly claps. “Even better!”

“Oh my God, Nora,” Cole wheezes. “I set you up with a sweet, harmless accountant and you ended up with some random hotel dude who— Wait. Hold on.” He narrows his eyes. “Did you… actually…?”

I clear my throat and stare at my desk. “Yes.”

Elena leans forward. “Details. Right now.”

“No.”

“Come on!”

“No.”

Cole crosses his arms. “Was it at least good?”

A pause.

A long one.

Finally, I whisper, “It was the best sex of my entire life and I didn’t know it was possible to come that many times.”

Elena lets out a scream.

Cole throws his head back laughing.

Half the bullpen turns to look at us.

I wave them away. “Can we not broadcast that to the entire federal government?”

Elena’s chair rolls over until she hits my desk.

“Nora. Honey. Baby angel. The universe sent you a gift and you unwrapped the hell out of it.”

“It was a mistake,” I insist.

“Was it?” Cole asks.

“Yes,” I say too quickly. “It was just one night. No names. No numbers. No… anything.”

Elena softens at that.

Her voice drops.

“You deserve something good, Nor.”

Cole nods. “After the year you’ve had? Yeah.”

My throat tightens.

I look down at my hands.

At my badge.

At the papers on my desk.

At anything except their faces.

“I’m not doing relationships,” I say quietly. “Not anymore.”

Cole’s voice is gentle. “We know why.”

Elena puts her hand over mine. “And we’re not pushing you. But you’re allowed to feel something again. Even if it’s just sex with a very hot stranger who apparently ruined your pelvis.”

I choke on air.

“ELENA.”

“What?” she shrugs. “You said you couldn’t walk straight.”

“I did not say that!”

“You implied it.”

Cole grins. “So you’re not going to look for him?”

“No,” I lie.

“No names, remember?”

But a traitorous part of me remembers his eyes.

His voice.

The way he washed me.

The way he said goodnight like he meant something more.

I force myself to sit straighter.

“Now can we please work? We have a serial killer whose pattern isn’t going anywhere.”

Cole rolls back to his desk. “You’re the boss, profiler.”

Elena winks. “For now. Until your mystery sex god comes back for you.”

“He won’t,” I say firmly.

But the shiver that runs through me says something else.

I try to focus on the file in front of me—victimology, patterns, timelines, escalation… but my brain slides off the page.

The killer isn’t moving.

Not changing.

Not giving us an opening.

Not giving us anything.

It’s like hunting a ghost.

A ghost who leaves a pattern of notes on his victims.

And for the first time in months, I’m distracted.

Warm.

Alive.

Guilty, yes—because I promised myself I’d never allow anything after…

No.

I shut that door.

But the stranger?

The man I shouldn’t have touched?

He cracked something open.

And now I can’t stop wondering who the hell he really was.

It’s been a week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

Over ten thousand minutes.

And I still dream about him.

Not soft dreams.

Not romantic dreams.

Dirty ones.

Filthy ones.

The kind that make me wake up sweating, sheets twisted, thighs pressed together like I can shut down the memory of his hands between them.

I’ve never dreamed of a man this way.

Not even my ex.

Not even Daniel.

It’s infuriating.

And humiliating.

And addictive.

I’m halfway through my second attempt at coffee when Elena appears beside my desk, drops a fresh cup in front of me, and whispers, smug:

“You look well-fucked in your sleep again.”

I glare. “Please die.”

She grins. “Absolutely not. I live for this.”

Before I can throw something at her, the bullpen shifts.

Goes silent.

Two men in military uniforms walk in, straight-backed, stone-faced, scanning the room like they’re evaluating threats. And behind them—

Director Bernard.

My boss’s boss.

Great.

Everyone around me sits straighter.

I do too, cup halfway to my mouth, like the caffeine will shield me from responsibility.

“Dr. Castell,” Director Bernard says. “My office.”

Oh shit.

Elena mutters, “Don’t get recruited. I like you alive.”

I follow them, heart thudding. I’m not in trouble — I didn’t do anything — unless sleeping with a stranger is now an FBI offense, which… honestly, wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

Director Bernard closes the door behind me.

“The Special Operations Division has requested a behavioral profiler,” he begins, arms crossed. “And they asked for you.”

I blink. “For me? Why?”

“One of the officers has apparently worked with your profiles before.”

Impossible.

I haven’t worked with military teams.

“Sir, with respect, I’m in the middle of the serial killer case and—”

“And it’s not moving,” he cuts in. “Your team will cover it while you assist Special Operations.”

I open my mouth to argue again, but his expression ends it.

This isn’t a request.

It’s an order.

“Yes, sir,” I say tightly.

I walk out with the two corporals flanking me, like I’m being escorted to a crime scene or a battlefield. Maybe I am.

The air in their vehicle is thick with tension.

Military tension is different — no chatter, no curiosity, no sideways glances.

Just discipline and the sense that something big is happening.

We reach the Special Operations HQ.

Everything smells like steel, oil, and authority.

A woman in a uniform is waiting — sharp, confident, the kind of posture that comes from years of command.

“Dr. Castell?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m Major Campbell. You’ll be working with us on a corruption case. High level.” She nods for me to follow. “General wants to brief you personally.”

General.

Wonderful.

My stomach twists.

“Is this common protocol?” I ask as she leads me down a long corridor.

“No,” she says. “But the General made it clear he wanted you specifically.”

My pulse spikes.

That makes no sense.

No sense at all.

We enter a briefing room.

Full of military officers.

All in uniform.

A tight semicircle formed around a center seat.

They all look up when I step in.

The room shifts — subtly, but it shifts — bodies parting, space opening like a door being pulled wide.

And then I see him.

At the center.

Commanding the entire room without even trying.

Shoulders broad under the black tactical shirt.

Posture absolute.

Presence unmistakable.

Blue eyes lifting to mine.

Him.

The stranger.

The man whose mouth made me scream.

The man whose hands held me in the shower.

The man I slept on like he was a fortress.

My knees forget how to function.

My brain blanks.

My body remembers everything.

The room fades.

The voices fade.

The world narrows to him.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink.

But his jaw flexes — once — the only sign that he recognizes me.

Major Campbell is talking.

Introducing me to the room.

Explaining the case.

I hear none of it.

Because the General — the General — the man I thought was a one-night mistake, a fantasy I’d never see again — is standing right in front of me like he owns every molecule of oxygen here.

He steps forward.

Slow.

Controlled.

Predatory.

“Dr. Castell,” he says, voice deep, steady, authoritative.

Like a command he expects me to follow.

My pulse slams against my ribs.

He knows.

He knows.

And I know him.

Not his name.

Not his rank.

But his hands.

His mouth.

His body.

His voice whispering orders against my skin.

And now I have to work with him.

Professional.

Clinical.

Unshakable.

While every cell in my body remembers him naked.

He holds my gaze—and for a split second, I swear I see it:

Heat.

Recognition.

Possession.

Like he hasn’t forgotten a single second.

“Welcome to the team,” he says.

And I’m pretty sure my soul leaves my body.

Chapter 6

POV: Nora

“Dr.Castell this is General Elias Falkner,” Major Campbell said, and that’’ when the second boom hit me.

General Elias Falkner.

I hear the name, but it doesn’t register at first. My brain glitches—actually glitches—because there’s no way that’s his name. Not the man from the bar. Not the man who ruined me for every other man. Not the man who pulled orgasm after orgasm from my body like he owned me and the universe owed him interest.

But Campbell is still talking. Someone else is talking. I can’t process anything except:

Falkner.

Falkner.

The syllables spin around me like the floor tilted.

My lungs stop cooperating. My spine turns electric. I grip the folder in my hands so hard it crackles. Because suddenly… suddenly the world snaps into focus and makes horrifying, perfect sense.

Those eyes.

Those impossible, piercing, blue-ice eyes.

I’ve only seen that color once in my life.

On Ava.

Ava Falkner—my childhood best friend.

And then I see it—his mouth, the line of his jaw, the shape of his brows. I didn’t recognize him at first because back then he was just Ava’s dad, the military officer who was never home, who existed on the periphery of our lives like a shadow in uniform.

I barely saw him.

But God help me, I remember those eyes.

And now they’re fixed on me.

Unblinking.

Sharp.

Knowing.

“Dr. Castell,” he says, stepping forward to greet me.

My name sounds too formal. Too intimate. Too dangerous coming out of his mouth.

I stand there, frozen, as he offers his hand. For one deranged second I think about the way those fingers looked wrapped around my wrists, pressed to my hips, buried in my hair.

My pulse kicks so hard I feel it in my knees.

I manage to lift my hand, but the second our palms touch, heat punches through me. He feels it too—his thumb stiffens just slightly against my skin. Or maybe that’s my imagination desperate to pretend last week was real.

He doesn’t show anything on his face. Not an ounce. He’s a master at this—control. Masks. Authority wrapped in perfect stillness.

But his eyes…

They flicker.

Just barely.

Like he recognizes the exact shape of my gasp in the dark.

“General…” I answer. My voice cracks on the title. “It’s an honor.”

His jaw tightens in a way that tells me it’s not the title that bothers him—it’s hearing it from me.

He doesn’t let go of my hand for half a second too long. Just enough for my brain to short-circuit. Just enough to remind me of the way he held me down and told me he wasn’t done with me.

I force my fingers to slip free.

The air instantly feels colder.

Someone clears their throat, breaking the moment. Major Campbell steps closer, launching into the case briefing, talking about corruption, internal leaks, a massive threat within military ranks.

I’m supposed to focus.

I’m the profiler. I’m the expert here. I’m the one who reads people for a living.

But every neuron in my skull is screaming wrong, wrong, WRONG, because:

I slept with a stranger.

Except he wasn’t a stranger.

He has a name.

He has a rank.

And he has a daughter I used to braid friendship bracelets with after school.

Ava.

Oh God.

I slept with Ava’s father.

While Campbell talks, while the general listens with that perfect command-presence, while the room stands at attention—I’m losing every fragment of professionalism I’ve ever had.

I try to listen to the case details, but the words slide off me.

Corruption.

Special operations.

Internal breach.

My brain doesn’t care.

All I can think is:

His last name is Falkner.

His eyes are Ava’s.

And I let him—

I let him—

I swallow hard, trying to reset myself.

The general turns to me, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.

“Dr. Castell,” he says, calm and direct. “I look forward to working with you.”

Working with him.

Dear God.

I nod because I can’t trust my voice not to crack open and spill everything I shouldn’t be feeling.

I am a federal agent.

He is a general.

He is my best friend’s father.

And last week…

Last week he had me pinned to a hotel bed, telling me he wasn’t done with me.

And the worst part?

My body still remembers every second.

Major Campbell walks me through two different hallways before stopping at a secure door with a keypad and a palm scanner. She moves like a knife — sharp, efficient, impossible to keep up with.

“This will be your office for the duration of the investigation,” she says, pushing the door open.

The room is surprisingly large — screens, a war-room table, evidence boards, maps with pins, digital files looping on monitors. It smells like sterilizer and gun oil. Two corporals carry boxes inside.

Campbell gives me an iPad with restricted access clearance.

“Dr. Castell, here’s what we know so far. Three months ago, two retired special-operations officers were found dead. Problem is—”

She taps to enlarge the screen.

“—they served together twenty years ago, in a classified unit. There are files missing. People not answering calls. Higher-ups getting nervous. So for now, we’re exploring two possibilities:

One, an internal corruption ring.

Two, someone eliminating old ghosts.”

My skin prickles.

“And you want a profile of the… whoever this is?” I ask.

“We want your profile,” she corrects. “We need someone who sees both psychological and institutional patterns. Someone who doesn’t buy bullshit. Someone who doesn’t scare easy.”

Campbell continued, “Your role is simple. Build us a profile of the killer. Work fast. We want to know who we’re dealing with before this escalates.”

“Do you think the deaths are connected to the corruption?” I asked carefully.

“That’s above your clearance level for now.”

Sharp. Controlled.

“Just focus on the profile.”

My pulse flips.

I’ve never heard anything like this before.

Not this level.

Not this scope.

Campbell turns toward the door.

“The General will brief you personally.”

She leaves, and the room clears — corporals gone, officers gone.

Until it’s just two people left.

Me.

And him.

Elias Falkner stands at the head of the table. Hands behind his back. Shoulders straight. His uniform immaculate. His presence swallowing every inch of air.

The door closes with a heavy click.

My heartbeat jumps into my throat.

He doesn’t say a word.

I do.

“What the fuck?”

His eyes lift to mine — sharp, quiet, lethal.

“Watch your tone, Dr. Castell.”

My jaw drops. “You— I— Are you kidding me right now?”

He doesn’t flinch. “No.”

“You chose me for this,” I say, stepping toward him. “You — you knew it was me. You brought me here because of this case. Because you used to know me. Because you—”

His stare pins me in place. “Yes.”

My breath stutters.

The word hits me like physical contact.

“And you recognized me?” I push, voice cracking. “You knew I was… I was Ava’s friend?”

“Yes,” he says again. Calm. Controlled. Unapologetic.

“How long?” My voice is barely sound.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“From the morning,”

The ground vanishes beneath me.

My lungs forget how to work.

“You— oh my god — and you kept going? You still—”

He moves one step closer. Not touching. Just enough for heat to skim between us.

“Nora,” he says, voice quiet, low, absolute. “I didn’t hear you complain when you came four times on my tongue.”

My knees almost give out.

Fire explodes under my skin.

“That was—” I shake my head, trying to breathe. “That was forbidden. You’re— you’re my best friend’s father.”

“Former best friend,” he corrects softly. “And you are not a child, Nora.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then tell me the point.”

“You have no morals,” I snap, because I need distance, any distance, even if it’s verbal.

A single muscle ticks in his jaw.

“I have very high morals.”

He steps closer.

My back hits the edge of the table.

His voice drops even lower, threading through me.

“You were my exception.”

The room tilts.

I can’t move.

I can’t think.

And the worst part?

I don’t want to.

Chapter 7

POV: Nora

The words “You were my exception” are still hanging in the air, wrapping around my ribs, pressing where they shouldn’t, when I finally force my mouth to function.

“I don’t care,” I say, even though I care too much and he can see it. “I don’t care what happened. I won’t let you touch me again.”

His eyes drag down my body.

Slow.

Knowing.

Devastating.

And my body—

my traitorous, humiliating, heat-flushed body—

takes one tiny step forward.

I freeze.

He doesn’t.

A corner of his mouth lifts — not a smile, something darker.

“It’s amusing,” he says softly, “hearing you say that while your body speaks an entirely different language.”

“My body isn’t—”

“Begging?” he interrupts. “Wanting? Moving toward me like I’m gravity itself?”

“I didn’t move,” I lie, horribly.

He tilts his head, gaze sinking into me. “You did.”

A violent shiver tears down my spine.

And he sees it.

Of course he sees it.

He steps closer, close enough that I feel his heat but not close enough to touch. “Relax, Dr. Castell.”

My knees bend for a second.

“I told you,” he murmurs, “I won’t touch you.”

Relief floods me—

Then he adds, voice like a blade dragged over silk:

“Unless you beg.”

I swear my pulse stops.

My lips part but nothing comes out.

Nothing.

I’m a breathing, throbbing silence.

He watches every second of my unraveling, and then—

“Just remember,” he adds, leaning in just enough for his breath to kiss my cheek, “you already begged once.”

My lungs burn.

My thoughts scatter.

My soul tries to climb out of my body.

I turn away before I do something humiliating.

Or dangerous.

Or both.

He lets me go.

“Dr. Castell,” he says, already shifting back into command, voice cold, professional, unshakable, “I want your preliminary profile on my desk as soon as possible.”

I nod because my vocal cords aren’t working anymore, then force myself out of the room before the floor decides to swallow me.

I don’t even make it to my office before I yank my phone out and call the one person who won’t let me die of mortification.

Elena picks up on the first ring.

“Did you finish hyperventilating?” she asks.

“No,” I choke. “Because the man from the hotel— the one who— the one—”

“Oh god, she’s stuttering,” Elena yells away from the phone. “Cole! Get over here! Nora’s dying!”

Cole’s voice appears instantly. “Did the serial killer find you?”

“No!” I snap. “Worse.”

“Worse than a serial killer?” Elena asks. “The only thing worse than that is—”

“He’s the General,” I blurt.

Dead silence.

Then:

“NO.

FUCKING.

WAY.”

“Elena,” I whisper, “he’s the General in charge of the special operations division.”

Cole starts laughing like an insane person. “So the ‘best sex of your life’ guy—”

“Cole—”

“—the one who ruined you—”

“Cole, stop—”

“—the one you’ve been DREAMING ABOUT for a week—”

Elena cuts in: “HE’S YOUR BOSS NOW?!”

I groan into my hands. “It was supposed to be one night. No names. No future. Just—”

“A huge mistake?” Cole asks.

“A huge orgasm,” Elena corrects.

I want to disappear. Forever. Into the earth.

“I’m hanging up,” I mutter.

“No,” Elena says. “Wait—are you going to hook up with him again?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Cole hums. “Uh-huh.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.”

“I WON’T.”

“Okay.”

I hang up on them because I can’t deal with their faces through a screen.

The first delivery came thirty minutes after I sat down.

A knock.

Then a corporal enters, holding a cup.

“From General Falkner,” he says, sets it on my desk, and leaves.

A latte—my favorite. Perfect temperature, foam drawn in a swirl.

No note.

Just the drink.

I stared at it for a full minute, telling myself not to touch it.

I drank it in two gulps like a lunatic.

The second delivery came ten minutes later.

A chocolate pastry—still warm, the kind that melts on your fingers.

This one came with a sticky note on the box.

Eat.

I almost threw it away out of sheer indignation.

Instead, I devoured it like I hadn’t eaten in days.

The third delivery came twenty minutes after that.

A protein bar. My brand. My flavor. The exact one I buy every week.

Another sticky note.

Keep your energy up.

I wanted to scream.

Because—God help me—I felt good.

Good that someone sent me things.

Good that he did.

Good in that warm, stupid, vulnerable way that made me furious at myself.

I ripped the wrapper open and ate the entire damn bar.

When I put the empty wrapper on the table, I stared at it, heat crawling up my neck.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I muttered.

The walls were closing in. My pulse was everywhere—ears, throat, wrists.

I shoved back from my desk so hard the chair hit the cabinet behind me.

I needed answers. Now.

I marched through the hallway, eating up the distance with too-fast steps. People moved out of my path. Or maybe I just didn’t see them. My bloodstream was ninety percent caffeine, sugar, and irritation.

When I reached his office, his door was half open.

Elias Falkner stood at the center of the room, speaking quietly to Major Campbell.

And God…

He looked like a man built to ruin the self control of saints.

Tall, broad, shoulders cut with military lines.

Dark hair combed back.

Uniform fitting him like it respected him more than any human alive.

That stillness in his body—the lethal, command-the-air kind.

Eyes that could stop a heart without lifting a finger.

And with just a subtle shift of those eyes, he commanded an entire room.

One look. One flicker of attention.

People straightened. People obeyed.

My stomach flipped traitorously.

“Stop it,” I snapped, before I could think.

Both heads turned toward me.

Major Campbell tried—failed—not to smile. She was already backing away.

“Sir.”

A nod.

A grin she couldn’t hold.

She slipped past me like she was fleeing a live grenade.

Elias lifted one eyebrow, slow and infuriating.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched me with that unreadable, authoritative calm that set every nerve in my body on fire.

I stepped inside. Closed the door harder than necessary.

His office smelled like cedar, something clean and sharp, and him.

That scent hit me like memory. Like the hotel. Like my own breathless moans against his throat.

His eyes dragged over me—slow, assessing, patient—like he had already predicted every word I was about to say.

“You need to stop,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He folded his arms across his chest. The motion stretched his uniform, making my brain forget how language worked.

“Stop… what exactly?”

His voice was low. Velvet or smoke. Or both.

“All of it,” I snapped. “The coffee, the pastry, the protein bar—whatever the hell this is. I don’t like it.”

A pause.

His mouth curved, barely—danger disguised as amusement.

“You didn’t like it,” he repeated softly. “Interesting.”

“Yes,” I lied.

His gaze drifted—slowly, intentionally—to the faint smear of chocolate still on my wrist.

I froze.

“Dr. Castell…”

He took one step closer.

Not touching. Just close enough that the air between us crackled.

“If you didn’t like it…” Another step.

“…you shouldn’t have eaten every bite.”

My breath caught.

I swallowed.

Hard.

“You were spying on me.”

“No.” He didn’t even pretend to think about it.

Then: “This is my building. My command. You should read the plaque at the entrance.”

His eyes locked on mine, darkening.

“I have eyes everywhere.”

A shiver shot through me so violently my fingers curled.

“I don’t want you sending me anything else,” I said, sounding like someone trying to convince herself, not him.

He stepped back—not away, not retreating. Just reclaiming that space like he owned it.

“As you wish,” he said. “Dr. Castell.”

I turned to leave, desperate to breathe air that didn’t smell like him, didn’t make my knees feel like water.

My hand touched the doorknob.

“Nora.”

I froze.

His voice lowered—thicker.

A deliberate weapon.

“It was good to know,” he murmured, “that I was the best sex of your life.”

Heat detonated under my skin. My knees almost buckled.

I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t.

I escaped before he could see the full betrayal of my entire traitorous body.

Chapter 8

POV: Nora

The moment I escaped his office—with all my dignity wrapped in duct tape—I stormed back to my temporary workroom and slammed my phone on the table.

I needed to vent.

Or scream.

Or cry.

Or all three.

Instead, I opened our group chat: Chaos Unit.

NORA:

Elena. Cole. I need emotional support immediately.

Three dots appeared before I even blinked.

ELENA:

Are you dying? If yes, rate the emergency from “paper cut” to “gushing artery.”

COLE:

If this is about your mysterious sex-god-date again, I swear—

I groaned.

NORA:

WORST: he’s sending me pastries.

A scream emoji from Elena.

A coffin from Cole.

ELENA:

WAIT. HE’S ALREADY PAMPERING YOU??? HOW??? WHY??? SEND PICTURE NOW.

COLE:

Hold on—General Sexy Strangers sends you pastries?? What am I doing wrong in life?

I sank into my chair, covering my eyes with my hand.

NORA:

I don’t like it.

Three seconds.

Then:

ELENA:

Liar.

COLE:

Biggest lie I’ve seen since you said you didn’t moan during a massage once.

ELENA:

Girl, you’re being pampered by a military general who rearranged a whole operation to have YOU here.

Accept your fate.

I wanted to throw the phone against the wall.

NORA:

NO. I’m working. I’m profiling. I’m VERY BUSY.

COLE:

Oh? How’s the profile going?

I stared at the blank page of my report and felt my soul detach from my body.

I spread the photos and autopsy notes across the desk, tapping my pen against my teeth.

Patterns.

I needed patterns.

But every time I tried to focus—every time—I flashed back to his mouth on me, his weight, his control, the way his voice had wrapped around my spine like a fist.

It was infuriating.

I dragged a hand through my hair.

“Focus, Nora. Profile. Now.”

I read the files again.

I could trace a few behavioral cracks—stress fractures, fatigue patterns, overcommitment angles—but nothing cohesive. Nothing story-shaped.

NORA:

…Shut up.

ELENA:

lmaooooooo

COLE:

Brilliant Dr. Castell, defeated by her own sexual frustration. I, for one, am delighted.

I muttered curse words under my breath and shoved the phone aside.

Focus.

I needed to focus.

I stared at the psychological patterning data. Shallow. Incomplete. The military guys had been questioned by someone who clearly didn’t care about the soft spots—no emotional probing, no environmental stress testing, nothing human.

It was like trying to build a puzzle from uniform-colored pieces.

I had maybe five percent of a profile.

Elias wanted it fast.

And of course, because the universe hates me, lunchtime arrived.

The hallway filled with movement—boots, chatter, trays.

Solders peeling off toward the cafeteria.

I considered staying here, hiding in my little analysis cave.

A corporal knocked lightly on the open door.

“Dr. Castell? The men are eating in the main cafeteria today. The general says you can grab whatever you want and work from here.”

I blinked.

“He said that?”

“Yes, ma’am.” A small, knowing smile. “He said to ‘make sure she eats.’ His words.”

I wanted to combust.

“I already had enough food,” I muttered.

The corporal looked directly at the empty wrappers on my desk.

“I can see that.”

I grabbed my badge and headed out, cheeks burning.

The cafeteria was a metal-and-movement symphony—voices echoing, boots stomping, trays clattering. I grabbed a sandwich, a juice, and retreated toward my workroom like a fugitive.

The corporal from before—a young guy, buzz cut, bright eyes—followed me with his tray and leaned against my door.

He nodded toward my sandwich.

“Looks like the Monster’s determined to keep you fed.”

I paused mid-bite.

“The… Monster?”

“Oh. You don’t know?”

I raised an eyebrow.

He looked around, lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“That’s what everyone calls him. General Falkner.”

A shrug. “He’s… intense. Ruthless. Scary as hell. Cold. People say he doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t blink. Can kill you with a look. That kind of vibe.”

My heart thudded unpleasantly.

Another corporal walking by overheard and chimed in:

“But don’t get me wrong—he’s brilliant. Too brilliant. Obsessed with getting this case right.”

A flicker of respect, but also fear.

“He practically bit someone’s head off when they suggested bringing in someone other than you.”

My breath stopped.

“He asked for me specifically?” I asked quietly.

Two corporals exchanged glances.

“He didn’t just ask,” the first one said.

“He ordered. Said he wanted Dr. Castell and no one else.”

Heat rushed down my spine.

Not embarrassment—something far more dangerous.

The second corporal nodded.

“He’s been… on edge since this corruption case blew open. This profile means everything to him.”

“And he’s the kind of man,” the first corporal added, picking up his tray, “who will move heaven, earth, and the Pentagon when something matters.”

They left me alone with my sandwich, my profile notes, and the echo of my traitorous heartbeat.

The Monster.

Ruthless.

Obsessed.

Commanding.

And sending me pastries like it was nothing.

I pressed my fingers into my eyes.

“Great,” I whispered.

“My boss is the Monster. The Monster is the best sex of my life. And I can’t profile anyone because he ruined my brain.”

I took a bite of the sandwich like it was personally responsible for my misery.

I read the files again.

Two victims. Both physically strong. Both killed in ways that suggested knowledge of anatomy and pressure points. Not rage-kills. Not impulsive.

Clean. Efficient.

Someone trained.

I wrote it down:

Killer demonstrates tactical efficiency — knowledge of restraints, hand-to-hand combat, lethal precision.

But the deeper I dove, the more something gnawed at my stomach.

There was no psychological chaos.

No pattern of escalation.

No emotional signature.

This wasn’t the work of a serial killer.

This was the work of someone who’d done this before.

Someone conditioned.

Professionally trained.

I blinked.

No.

Not possible—

Wait.

I combed the photos again.

The ligature marks.

The bruising patterns.

The decisive control over the scene.

A slow, icy realization crept up the back of my neck.

This wasn’t civilian.

This was military-level execution.

My heartbeat tripped over itself.

The killer wasn’t mimicking tactical training.

The killer had tactical training.

I don’t even notice the hours slipping by.

My second latte of the day — the one I swore I wouldn’t get — sits half-cold beside my keyboard. I don’t want to admit it helped, but it did. The lingering scent is warm and sweet and a little burnt, and it keeps me awake in a strange, comforting way.

Piece by piece, I build the profile.

Breathing slowly.

Comparing patterns.

Trying to see what isn’t written, what hides in the spaces between facts.

It feels like assembling a skeleton from shadows, and I’m so deep in it that the world narrows down to clues, instincts… and him.

Because yes, I want to solve this. I want to be good at this.

But I also want to show Elias that I can do it.

That I’m capable.

That he was right to trust me.

It’s ridiculous, but it’s the truth — a second pull inside me, constant and dangerous.

Headquarters slowly empties out. The voices disappear. The footsteps vanish. Lights dim one by one.

By the time my eyes finally burn and the words blur, the headquarters is almost completely silent. Most lights are off. Boots and voices are long gone. I stand, stretch, and finally force myself to pack up.

But as I walk down the hall toward the exit, I notice a light still on.

His.

Elias’s office door is half-closed, a thin line of warm light bleeding through the crack. He’s still here.

Of course he is.

Because Elias Ward apparently doesn’t go home. He just… waits. Hunts. Exists like a storm that never disperses.

Before I can stop myself, I knock and step inside.

He looks up immediately — sharp, alert, effortlessly authoritative. His sleeves are still rolled, forearms tense, jaw shadowed with the start of a beard, every inch of him precise and intimidating and stupidly beautiful. He looks like he belongs to the night. Like he commands it too.

“Working late?” he asks.

I lift my chin. “Once a case gets in my head, I don’t just switch off.”

One of his brows lifts. Not amused. Not annoyed either.

Just… aware.

“Determination,” he says slowly. “Good.”

God, I hate how that word warms something inside me.

I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the file. “I found something.”

Now he watches me fully, giving me that full-wall attention that feels like being pinned without being touched.

“The profile converges,” I say, keeping my voice steady and clipped. “The killer has military training. Discipline. Precise body control. Structured aggression patterns. It’s not random.”

Nothing moves on his face.

Not surprise.

Not reaction.

Nothing.

And that tells me everything.

“You already knew,” I say — sharper than I intended.

He folds his arms, and somehow that makes him even bigger, even more unreadable. His presence fills the room like pressure before thunder.

“I wanted to see if you’d get there,” he says. No softness. No apology.

My stomach twists hard. “So it was a test.”

He shakes his head — once, slow. “No.”

His eyes catch mine, hold them like a command.

“I needed you to get there on your own. That’s different.”

I bristle — because he’s right, and because I hate that he’s right.

The silence between us tightens, turning heavy and hot.

“Good work, Dr. Castell,” he says.

Formal. Controlled. But his voice dips lower, and that tone…

God.

My pulse stutters.

It hits somewhere I don’t want to acknowledge.

Somewhere I still feel from that night.

And for one reckless, humiliating second, I almost expect him to say—

Good girl.

My entire body clenches at the thought.

Thank God he doesn’t.

I would die. Actually die.

My breath stutters, and I hate that he hears it.

I turn away, grabbing my bag. “Whatever. I’m going home.”

“Get some rest,” he says. “You’ll work better tomorrow.”

I roll my eyes as aggressively as possible. “Thanks, General Advice.”

I turn to leave before I combust, but—

“Dr. Castell.”

I stop.

Of course.

He nods at the side table. Only then do I see the small brown paper bag with my name written on it. His handwriting. Neat. Firm.

My heart does something traitorous.

“What is that?”

“Dinner,” he says simply. “Take it.”

I blink. “Why?”

“You need to eat. Preferably more than caffeine and anger.”

A beat.

“A fed brain performs better.”

My jaw clenches. “You don’t have to—”

“It wasn’t a request.”

Heat shoots straight through me.

I grab the bag despite myself, and the smell hits me instantly. Warm. Familiar. A punch to the ribs.

Mediterranean.

The exact dish he ordered for me that night.

My throat tightens. “You remembered that?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t forget relevant details.”

Relevant.

God help me.

I hold the bag to my chest, trying to pretend it doesn’t feel like he placed a hand there instead.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly.

He gives a small nod, but his eyes never stop tracking me — slow, deliberate, knowing.

I turn away before I betray everything.

I’m almost at the door when he says, quiet but unavoidably intimate:

“Good night, Nora.”

A shiver shoots straight down my spine.

I don’t look back.

If I do, I’m not walking out of that office.

Chapter 9

POV: Nora

I didn’t breathe the entire way home.

Not really.

I kept replaying everything in my head — the way he looked at me across the table… like he already knew what I was going to say before I said it. The way his voice dropped when he told me to go home and eat.

I should’ve hated him for that tone.

Instead, it followed me the whole walk back.

My apartment feels too small when I open the door. Too bright. Too silent. I drop my keys on the counter, place the food on the table, and just stare at it for a moment, trying to decide which version of myself should be allowed to eat it — the woman who wants him or the woman who should run.

Both are exhausted.

I pull the container open, and the smell hits me. Warm, comforting, completely at war with the chaos inside my chest. I sit, take a bite, and immediately regret it. Because suddenly I’m back there — sitting across from him, watching the corner of his mouth pull up when I told him he didn’t intimidate me.

A lie.

A lie so big I should arrest myself.

I eat anyway. Bite after bite, my hands trembling more with each flash of memory. His gaze sliding down my throat. The way he leaned forward. The way he said my name.

God.

I wipe my mouth and push the food away, because the guilt is already rising, thick and sour.

I grab a glass. Pour wine. A full one.

When I lift the glass, my eyes land on something folded near my bed.

Daniel’s shirt.

I don’t even remember leaving it there.

Maybe I never put it away on purpose.

I walk to it slowly, like approaching something fragile. Or sacred. Or both. I pick it up, press it against my chest for a second, inhaling the detergent I haven’t changed in years because it reminds me of him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one.

I slip the shirt on. It hangs loose on me, soft, faded, familiar.

It should comfort me.

Instead, it makes me feel like a fraud.

Because a week ago, another man’s voice was in my ear.

Another man’s eyes were on my mouth.

Another man made my whole body react in ways that Daniel never—

I shut the thought down so fast it hurts.

I sit at my desk, open the drawer, and take out the folder I shouldn’t have. The one I kept pretending I wouldn’t look at again. I place it in front of me and breathe through the sting behind my eyes.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Just… look. Just to stop thinking.”

Another lie.

I flip the first page. Daniel’s handwriting stares back at me — the notes he scribbled the week before he died.

I trace the pen marks with my thumb.

Old men murdered.

No pattern except age and living alone.

Victims dismissed as random violence.

But Daniel saw something. Something no one else did. Something he asked me to profile.

Something I gave him theories for.

My stomach twists.

I take a sip of wine, then flip another page.

There’s the old blogger.

The one the local police laughed at — said he was “just another conspiracy old-timer.”

“Except he wasn’t,” I murmur, scanning the printouts.

He was right about half the things he wrote.

Maybe more.

I pull my legs up onto the chair, tuck my knees against my chest, and keep reading. Hours pass like minutes. The wine warms me, loosens the edges of my guilt but not enough.

And every few minutes, Elias’s face slips between lines of text.

The way he said eat.

The way he touched the small of my back.

The way I wanted him even when I shouldn’t.

I rub my forehead, frustrated with myself.

“You’re spiraling,” I whisper.

But I keep reading anyway.

Because I need to understand why Daniel died.

And why a part of me feels like I’m betraying him even now.

I close the file slowly, letting my palm rest on the cover as if I can absorb answers through touch alone.

Tomorrow, I’ll dig deeper.

Tomorrow, I’ll find what he missed.

For now…

I let my head fall back against the chair and close my eyes.

But even with Daniel’s shirt on my skin and his case file open in front of me…

It’s Elias’s voice I hear when I finally drift.

I barely sleep.

When I finally open my eyes, the sun is too bright, my head is heavy from the wine, and Daniel’s shirt is twisted around my waist like it tried to hold me together through the night.

It didn’t work.

I shower quickly, get dressed, tie my hair up in a messy knot that still looks like “I’ve been thinking too much,” and head to the base. Every step feels heavier than the last.

As soon as I walk into the building, the air shifts. It’s always colder here — temperature and energy both.

I tap my badge, enter the data room, and settle in front of one of the secured terminals. This one isn’t blocked like my personal laptop. Cole can’t touch it. The military firewall is a beast, but I know how to at least search without setting half of Washington on fire.

I log in.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

“Just Daniel,” I murmur. “We stick to Daniel.”

Another lie I tell myself as easily as breathing.

I start with the old man’s file — the blogger. The more I scroll, the more the unease in my stomach sharpens. The police files don’t match the evidence. The reports omit things that should be impossible to miss. Someone cleared details. Scrubbed connections. Rewrote patterns.

Someone dangerous.

I lean back, heart pounding.

Daniel was chasing something real.

And he died for it.

My fingers move before I can stop myself.

Search: Military operations + civilian casualties + classified deaths.

Enter.

Denied.

I try again. Different combination.

Denied.

I bite the inside of my cheek, frustrated.

And then I do the stupidest thing.

I search my name.

Just to confirm Elias didn’t—

The results load.

And my entire body goes cold.

My file isn’t just marked.

It’s flagged.

Restricted. Locked. Tagged under a clearance level I should never be able to see.

A bright red alert flashes at the top of the screen:

NOTIFICATION ALERT

My breath stops.

“What the hell…” I whisper, leaning closer, like distance might change the meaning.

I scroll.

A second notification line appears:

Potential external interest detected. Unknown source.

External interest.

Someone looking for me.

My pulse slams so hard against my ribs I feel it in my throat.

I stand so fast the chair screeches — loud, sharp, like metal cutting the air.

Who searched for me?

And who put a red flag on my name?

I already know the answer.

Of course I do.

Elias.

He knew.

He knew someone was watching me.

Knew I was exposed.

And instead of telling me, he just—

What?

Handled it?

Decided for me?

Put me under some sort of military surveillance like I’m a classified asset he owns?

I see red.

Adrenaline floods my veins, hot and dizzying, and I don’t even remember walking until I’m already storming down his hallway.

Heat climbs up my throat.

My hands shake.

My heartbeat hammers behind my ears.

I shove the terminal shut and march straight into the east wing, fury snapping under my skin like live wires. I don’t care who sees. I don’t care if I look unhinged.

I throw open the door to the conference room—

And walk straight into a crowd.

Of course he’s in a meeting.

A full room — officers, analysts, maps on the walls. And Elias at the head of the table, perfect in that uniform that makes breathing an inconvenience, standing like he personally invented posture and authority.

Why the hell does he need to be in a meeting now?

His blue eyes lift the second I enter.

His brows twitch. Not surprise.

Not annoyance.

More like: Here we go.

“Someone needs to teach you some respect, Dr. Castell,” he says, voice controlled, slow. “We’re in the middle of a briefing.”

“I don’t care,” I snap, louder than I intend.

A ripple moves through the room — confusion, discomfort, alarm.

Good. They should be alarmed.

His jaw ticks once.

He inhales, deep and steady, like he’s choosing which version of himself to unleash.

“I saw the red flag,” I say, my voice firm.

Inside, I’m splintering.

Elias turns his head.

“Everyone out.”

Just that.

Two words.

No explanation, no tone raised, nothing dramatic.

And the room clears in seconds. People practically trip over each other to obey.

Not one person dares look back.

The last officer shuts the door behind them.

Silence.

He faces me fully now.

I don’t let him speak first.

“What the hell did you do to my file?”

His silence hits like a physical force — heavy, suffocating, like a hand closing around my throat.

I take a step toward him, refusing to be the one who folds.

“You tagged me,” I spit out, voice shaking with rage I can’t control. “You put some military-level restriction on my name like I’m a national security threat. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t warn me. You just decided to— monitor me?”

“Protect you,” he corrects, calm as a frozen lake.

“Don’t.” The word cuts out of me like a blade. “Don’t call it that. That’s not protection — that’s surveillance.”

His eyes narrow, the blue sharpening.

“You think I would ever surveil you?”

“I think you would do whatever you want without asking,” I snap, “because you think you know better.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Of course he doesn’t.

He takes one slow step toward me.

My stomach flips.

Anger.

Fear.

Something worse.

“That flag exists,” he says, voice low enough to scrape against my nerves, “because someone else searched your name. Repeatedly. From a location tied to an active investigation.”

My chest tightens so hard it hurts.

Someone searched for me.

More than once.

“So you put a leash on me,” I whisper.

“A shield,” he corrects, taking another step.

Closer.

Bigger.

Impossible to ignore.

“And yes — I restricted access. Because the moment your name appears in a system, I want to know. Immediately.”

My breath stutters.

My hands curl into fists.

“You had no right.”

“I had every right,” he says softly. “The second your name showed up linked to a threat… you became my responsibility.”

“I’m not yours,” I hiss.

His eyes darken — not with anger.

With possession.

Danger.

Intensity that wraps around my spine and squeezes.

“That,” he murmurs, “is not what this conversation is about.”

The air between us snaps tight.

Electric.

Charged.

So thick I swear I can feel it against my skin.

“That’s why you wanted me here,” I breathe, realization hitting me like impact. “You just wanted me where you could keep an eye on me.”

His jaw flexes.

Then:

“I needed a profiler,” he says calmly. “And you’re the best. Your last case helped the FBI crack a ten-year investigation.”

A short pause. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second.

“But yes. Someone searched your name. I didn’t like it. So I brought you here. Because it’s easier to protect you if you’re close.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

Elias stands — slow, deliberate — and walks toward me.

“My file says otherwise.”

The words land deep.

Low.

Too close to something I shouldn’t feel good about.

My body betrays me — heat curling low, breath catching in ways anger can’t explain.

I swallow hard, desperate to hold onto something sharp, something steady.

“Next time,” I force out through clenched teeth, “you tell me. I decide what happens to me. Not you.”

He studies me.

Long.

Unblinking.

Like he’s reading every crack I don’t want him to see.

Then:

“Noted.”

A lie.

Clear as glass.

And what terrifies me most is the way some part of me doesn’t mind.

Not even a little.

Chapter 10

POV: Nora

My mouth tastes like metal.

Not because of the military headquarters — though the corridors do smell like steel, polish, and men who live on discipline —

but because I haven’t eaten.

Again.

I told myself I’d grab breakfast after checking a couple of files.

That was three hours ago.

The screen glows harsh blue against my eyes as I scroll through the second military homicide. Photographs. Reports. Autopsies. Timelines. Patterns that shouldn’t exist but do, if you know what to look for.

And I do.

I pull the legal pad closer, flipping through pages and pages of half-thoughts, scribbles, and attempts to carve this killer open from the inside out.

Structured thinking.

Predictable escalation.

Precision.

Control.

A soldier, yes.

But not a rookie.

Not a hot-headed brute.

Someone taught to think before pulling a trigger.

I rub my fingers against the ache in my temple. “Come on,” I whisper to myself. “Give me something. Anything.”

Another window is open behind all the homicide files:

Daniel’s case.

I looked for every line he made, every clue, every note.

My chest tightens, but I don’t close it.

Not today.

My FBI access is blocked — Cole made sure of that after I became addicted to find the truth— but the military database…

They don’t treat me like I’m fragile porcelain here.

They treat me like a tool.

It’s insulting.

And liberating.

I search the old clues again.

And this time, an address pops up.

One I haven’t seen before.

My heartbeat stutters.

Reopened six months after his death.

Quietly.

No signatures from chain of command.

No clear reason.

Daniel was onto something.

And someone scrubbed it until only ghosts remain.

I lean closer, lips parted, scanning every line, every timestamp, every maintenance order and coded internal memo.

My stomach growls angrily.

“Not now,” I mutter.

A knock on the doorframe makes me jump.

A corporal stands there holding a latte and a sandwich, stiff like he’s afraid to breathe wrong.

“General ordered these delivered, ma’am.”

Of course he did.

Heat prickles across my cheeks — irritation mixed with something I refuse to name.

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Yes, ma’am. The general said you wouldn’t.”

I purse my lips, snatch the latte like it personally offended me, and wave him away.

The worst part?

It’s exactly the order I like.

Exact temperature.

Exact sweetness.

I take a long sip, glare at the cup, and go back to the files. I eat sandwich like my favorite meal, I was starving.

Minutes turn into hours.

Another knock.

Another latte.

Now a granola bar.

“I swear to God,” I mutter to myself, “if he sends one more cappuccino courier—”

But I drink it.

And I eat it.

Of course I do.

And I keep digging, deeper and deeper, switching between the murders and Daniel’s timeline, until the profiles blur and sharpen and merge into something that feels too big to breathe around.

I’m halfway through cross-referencing movement logs when the world tilts under me and I realize:

I haven’t eaten a real meal in…

I don’t even know.

And I don’t care.

I’m close.

I can feel it —

the killer, the pattern, the military angle, Daniel’s ghost tugging at the threads —

I’m close.

A shadow spills across my desk from the open doorway.

“Christ,” I whisper under my breath, snapping my head up.

It isn’t a corporal.

It’s him.

Elias.

Watching me.

Silently.

Like he expected exactly this.

His uniform jacket is off, sleeves rolled, dark hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

His eyes sweep over my desk — the files, the scribbles, the empty cups —

and something tightens in his jaw.

I sit straighter, gripping my pen.

He says nothing.

I blink up at him… and only then notice the window behind him.

Dark.

Not just late afternoon —

night.

My stomach drops.

How long have I been here?

Elias leans one shoulder against my doorframe, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been watching me long enough to count every breath I took. The overhead light in my office hits the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint shadow along his jaw, the rolled sleeves stretching over forearms that look like they could break the desk in half.

He glances deliberately at the pile of empty latte cups.

“I see my corporal army succeeded,” he murmurs.

Heat crawls up my neck.

I straighten in my chair, pretending I don’t feel called out.

“I was working,” I say.

“You were forgetting to eat,” he corrects, voice low, calm, maddening. “Again.”

I open my mouth to argue — but nothing comes out.

Because he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. That alone annoys me enough that my pulse kicks up again.

“You’re still here,” I say, more defensive than I intend.

His brows lift a fraction. “So are you.”

“I didn’t realize the time.”

“I did.”

Of course he did.

He circles my desk, stopping beside me, close enough that I feel heat radiating from him. My breath stutters — barely — but I feel it.

He notices.

I know he does.

“What do you need?” I ask, forcing my voice steady.

“Your report,” he says. “Even if it’s incomplete.”

I hesitate.

Because it is incomplete — but also because giving him parts of the profile feels… intimate.

Like letting him read my mind.

Still, I turn the pad toward him.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the desk beside me as his eyes skim my notes. His scent brushes my skin — cold air, cedar, uniform starch — and I have to lock my jaw so I don’t react.

He reads in silence.

Then:

“Structured pattern… controlled escalation… precision…” he repeats quietly, more to himself than to me. “You’re certain about military training.”

“It’s not a hunch,” I say. “It’s too clean. Too disciplined. Too— controlled. This isn’t someone low-ranking. And it isn’t someone sloppy or impulsive.”

His eyes flick to mine.

“And you’re sure it’s someone high-level.”

“I’m sure,” I whisper. “Higher rank. Someone used to giving orders, not taking them. Someone who holds their environment by the throat.”

His jaw ticks — just once.

“Good work,” he says, voice stripped to something low and sincere. “Very good work, Nora.”

My stomach flips.

God, I hate that that does something to me.

He straightens, closing the distance between us by one subtle step.

“You haven’t left this office all day,” he says. “You should go home.”

“Are you?”

It slips out before I can stop it.

His eyebrows rise. Slowly. Like he heard every layer hidden beneath the question.

I clear my throat too fast. “I just meant— I saw you working late yesterday. You don’t have to stay until midnight again.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

He watches me in a way that makes the room feel warmer.

“I usually work late,” he says. “But tonight…”

A faint, almost human curve touches his mouth.

“I’m going to get a whiskey and read something that had nothing to do with the Army.”

A small, reluctant smile pulls at my lips.

“I get that. Just… wine for me.”

“I know.”

His voice is soft.

Too soft.

I look away, because something in my chest pulls tight.

He takes a step back toward the door.

“I’ll send someone to shut down this wing in twenty minutes,” he says. “Don’t stay longer than that.”

“I wasn’t planning to stay longer.”

He gives me that look — that sure you weren’t look — and turns to leave.

My throat moves before my brain does.

“Elias?”

He stops.

Turns his head slightly.

Waits.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “For… the food. And the coffee. And… not saying I look like hell.”

His eyes soften — barely, but enough that it feels like a hand against my sternum.

“You don’t look like hell,” he says.

“You look focused.”

He leaves before I can respond.

But the echo of his words stays in the room long after he’s gone.

I stare at the address in my hand for a long moment.

A warehouse district.

The same area Daniel was last seen alive.

A place that should’ve been closed — but it reopened six months after his death.

My pulse hums with the kind of focus that makes my fingers itch.

I just went home to change and was heading to this place, I need to understand this, why Daniel got killed.

I fold the paper and tuck it into my pocket.

That’s exactly when my phone starts buzzing.

Elena.

Followed immediately by Cole.

I groan.

The dual attack.

I ignore the first call.

Then the second.

Then the group chat lights up with:

ELENA: Don’t even think about ghosting us.

COLE: We know you’re alive, Nora. Don’t make us come drag you.

ELENA: We WILL drag you.

COLE: And I’ll enjoy it.

I sigh so hard my soul escapes a little.

I type back:

NORA: I’m busy.

ELENA: Doing what? Being depressed and brilliant?

COLE: Put on real clothes. We’re outside.

I blink.

Outside…?

A knock hits my door.

I swear under my breath.

Elena bursts in with a grin. Cole behind her with a bag of snacks like he’s preparing for war.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“I have work.”

“You have eyebags,” Elena counters. “And trauma. And possibly a crush.”

My stomach flips so violently I choke on my own inhale. “What?!”

Cole smirks. “We’re not blind, babe. You’ve been glowing with rage and sexual confusion for days.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Get up,” Elena sings.

I let myself be bullied.

Fine. It’s one drink.

One.

And tomorrow I go to the warehouse.

I’ll go tomorrow.

Alone.