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ANDI

S he’d never seen Mitch rattled. Not when someone shoved a camera in her face. Not when he took down a stalker like he was swatting a fly. Not even when she’d pushed back against him hard enough to make lesser men walk.

But now, something was off.

He stood at the far end of the loft, the letter in its sealed evidence sleeve propped against the counter, his arms folded, jaw tight. And he hadn’t said a word in almost five minutes.

Andi watched him from the couch, the silence stretching long and sharp between them. She’d pulled on a sweater, grabbed a throw blanket, and even tried to distract herself by skimming through staff messages on her iPad. Nothing stuck. Her focus stayed locked on Mitch and whatever the hell had been in that letter.

She pushed the blanket off her legs and stood. Walked to the kitchen. Stopped just short of touching the envelope.

“Mitch.”

His eyes flicked to hers. Still calm. Still focused. But underneath it—beneath the control she was learning to read like a second language—was something else.

Something cold.

“Whoever sent this knows things they shouldn’t,” he said quietly. “They’re not bluffing.”

“Then let me read it.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched her.

Andi stepped closer and reached for the envelope. When he didn’t stop her, she peeled back the evidence seal and slipped out the paper. It was heavier than it looked. Expensive stock. Minimalistic handwriting. Just like the others. But this one wasn’t vague. It wasn’t about pressure or warnings or subtle intimidation.

It was personal.

You’re protecting the wrong woman.

Cerberus can’t stop what’s coming.

If you stay, you’ll burn with her.

You think this is about her career.

It isn’t.

We’ll take her when we’re ready.

And when we do, you won’t even see it coming.

She scanned the letter once. Then again. Her eyes snagged on the single line:

Cerberus can’t stop what’s coming.

And below that, barely legible, printed at the very bottom:

Southside knows.

Her stomach dropped.

She looked up slowly. “Southside?”

Mitch met her gaze, something flickering behind his eyes before he shut it down.

“You know it,” she said, voice low.

“It’s a private club.”

“You mean the club.”

His expression didn’t change. But that silence? It wasn’t denial.

“You were there the other day,” she said. “When Coop covered for you.”

“I had a meeting.”

She folded the letter in half, slowly, deliberately. “They know. About me. About you. About your connection to that place.”

His eyes didn’t move from hers. “Yes.”

“Then this isn’t just about politics anymore.”

“No,” Mitch said. “It hasn’t been for a while.”

She stepped back and braced both hands on the edge of the counter. Her heart kicked into a higher gear, but not from fear.

From realization.

Mitch wasn’t just her bodyguard. Wasn’t just some retired military contractor turned private security. He was tied to this deeper. And whoever was behind the threats—whoever was trying to unravel her life—wasn’t just watching. They were digging. Hunting.

“I’m not the only one with enemies,” she said. “You’ve got ones of your own.”

Mitch’s mouth flattened. Not an expression. Just containment.

Andi gripped the counter harder. “Did something happen at that club?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not just a member, are you?” she asked.

Still nothing.

That alone told her everything she needed to know.

“You think this has something to do with what happened to you before,” she said softly.

His jaw shifted. She watched it. Watched him breathe like he was preparing to walk into a war zone.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Don’t just protect me. Let me in.”

Mitch took a breath. Then another. Finally, he walked toward her—not slow, not hesitant. He moved like a man used to controlling his pace because control was the only thing keeping everything else in check.

“I made a mistake,” he said. “A year ago. I let someone into my life who used the language of submission as a weapon. She knew who I was, who I worked for, and she thought she could own me the way people try to own stories. Secrets.”

Andi felt a cold flash through her chest.

“She was working with a foreign delegation. Attached to a South African diplomat. The job was supposed to be clean. Escort. Secure location. Move on.”

“It wasn’t.”

“She used me to get access. To learn habits. Track patterns. She used the club in London, Baker Street, the lifestyle, as a cover. Played the role of the devoted submissive while feeding intel to someone trying to compromise Cerberus.”

Andi stared at him. “Jesus, Mitch…”

“She thought I’d protect her. That I’d hide what she’d done. That if she said the right words, wore the right collar, I’d look the other way.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” Mitch said. “I turned her in. Myself.”

She swallowed hard. “And that cost you.”

“Cost the company a half-million in cleanup, three months of surveillance reroutes, and almost buried the ambassador’s protection detail in a political clusterfuck. I got benched for six months and spent every one of them learning how to spot the next version of her.”

Andi nodded slowly, her pulse thrumming hard in her ears. “And now you think I’m the next version?”

“No.” He stepped in close. “I think someone else does. And they want to make sure I don’t see it until it’s too late.”

“Do you think it’s a reference to the Wexler case?” she asked. “Or the car crash?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mitch said. “But it’s time we find out.”

She raised her eyes. “You mean we?”

Mitch nodded once. “No more secrets. No more moves you don’t know about. If someone’s using your past, we trace it. If they’re targeting mine, we hit first.”

Andi breathed slowly through her nose. Her fear hadn’t vanished. But something sharper had taken its place.

Conviction. She looked at Mitch and saw it there too—just beneath the surface. This wasn’t about protection anymore. It was about alliance.

It was war.

The letter sat on the counter like it was breathing.

Andi had walked away from it. Twice. Tried to forget the way the words had curled around her ribs and settled deep. Tried to believe that they were bluffing. That whoever this was—whatever they wanted—was posturing, not planning.

But the way Mitch moved now said differently.

He was in full Cerberus mode. Quiet. Strategic. Watching every corner of the loft like it might bite back. He’d swept the perimeter twice. Checked her tracker. Tightened every security setting on her phone. Even so, something lingered in his eyes.

Something unsettled. He wasn’t afraid. Mitch didn’t do scared. But he was preparing for war. And she wasn’t used to being the one left on the sidelines.

Andi stood by the window, watching the street five floors down, her arms folded tight, body wrapped in an oversized hoodie she hadn’t worn in months. She didn’t like the way it felt, like armor she didn’t remember putting on.

Behind her, Mitch was silent, seated at the end of the couch, phone in hand, head bowed slightly as he reviewed footage from the street cams. The glow of the screen lit his features, sharp and still. He hadn’t looked at her since she walked out of the kitchen, and that silence was louder than any argument they’d had.

She turned from the window and walked toward him slowly. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood, but when she got close enough, he still looked up—always aware, always ready.

She stopped a few feet away. “Mitch.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She hesitated. Then crossed the space between them and dropped to her knees in front of where he sat. His posture shifted immediately. Not outwardly, but she felt it. The shift in presence. The way his eyes sharpened as he took her in, measured her. Not just her body, but her intent.

Andi placed her palms flat on his thighs.

“What do you need from me tonight?” she asked quietly.

Mitch didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You said I trust you,” she added. “Let me show you what that means.”

He exhaled once—slow and deep—and set the phone down on the end table without looking away from her.

“Stand up,” he said.

She obeyed instantly, pushing up to her feet and letting her arms drop to her sides.

His voice dropped lower. “Take off the hoodie.”

Andi reached for the hem and pulled it up over her head, revealing the soft black camisole underneath. No bra. No pretense. Just skin and breath and the steady, rising thrum of something that felt bigger than want.

“Shorts too.”

She slipped them down her hips and stepped out of them. She was barefoot, bare-legged, standing in front of him in nothing but the thin cami and a pair of black lace panties she’d grabbed without thinking.

Mitch sat forward, elbows resting on his thighs, gaze steady and slow as it moved over her.

“Come closer.”

She took one step, then another, until she was between his knees. He didn’t reach for her. Just looked.

“Place your hands behind your back,” he commanded in a husky whisper.

Andi complied immediately; her body felt electrified, as if every nerve were strung tight like a live wire. The simple directive sent a shudder of anticipation rippling through her, her chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling gasps that betrayed her inner longing. She stood there, a portrait of delicate tension, suspended between wavering uncertainty and an inescapable desire, each moment steeped in the charged silence of the room.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice dripping with low, velvety assurance that seemed to caress her very soul.

With deliberate grace, his hand moved slowly, skimming the delicate curve of her hip while his thumb traced the intricate lace at her waistband. As if committing to memory every secret contour and hidden valley, he savored each minuscule detail with a reverent touch.

“I’m going to touch you now. Just here. Just to remind you who you belong to,” he declared softly, his tone imbued with authority and intimacy. “Both Cerberus and the club have strict rules for members. I had a complete physical and have a clean bill of health.”

She grinned. “Same, and I’m on birth control, so no condoms needed.”

He smiled and the simple nod she offered was all the affirmation he needed; her throat constricted as words failed her, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. With measured precision, his fingers slipped seductively under the lace, exploring the velvety softness of her lower belly before gliding towards the vulnerable apex of her thighs. Every touch he bestowed was slow, deliberate, and filled with a tender command—a caress that sent tremors surging through her body, nearly overwhelming her with the weight of exquisite sensation.

“Breathe,” he ordered, his voice a gentle command woven with intimacy and desire.

Surrendering wholly, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, as if each inhalation pulled her closer into the realm of their shared passion.

“You’re doing well,” he said, his words a mix of praise and gentle command that ignited a warming flush within her. Overwhelmed by his compliment, her eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat, letting the tender heat of his words envelop her spirit.

“I want you on the bed,” Mitch commanded with careful insistence. “On your back. Arms at your sides. You don’t move unless I tell you to.”

In a trance-like state, Andi rose, each step toward the bed imbued with a heartbeat of fierce anticipation and burning desire. With measured, deliberate care, she lowered herself onto the soft expanse, every muscle taut with expectancy as she lay with her eyes fixed on the ceiling until he entered her view.

He knelt beside her, his touch tender yet assertive as his hand cradled her jaw, gently lifting her face toward his own. “You chose this,” he asserted, his eyes conveying depths of intensity and assurance.

A silent nod from her spoke volumes, a wordless confirmation heavy with shared meaning.

“Say it,” he urged softly.

“I chose this,” she whispered, her confession delicate and laced with a defiant yet vulnerable sincerity that trembled in the space between them.

Then he kissed her—first a soft, exploratory meeting of lips without force, a gentle claiming that spoke of reverence. Their mouths conversed in a deliberate dialogue of heat and desire, breath mingling intimately before he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding insistently into her hair and tugging ever so slightly to send another jolt of exhilaration through her quivering form.

Each of his kisses carried a commanding assurance; every touch and press was a deliberate act of possession, a silent declaration etched into her skin. Andi melted beneath his fervent kiss, surrendering entirely, her body arching in silent invitation as every tender stroke and heated caress spoke louder than words ever could.

As his kisses trailed tenderly down her neck, his teeth teasingly grazing her sensitive skin, she tilted her head in a wordless offer of more. Though her hands remained fixed exactly as he had instructed, every fiber of her being cried out to defy the restraint and explore, yet in her controlled surrender, she revealed the fierce power of offering herself completely.

When he finally slid the camisole away, liberating her skin to his admiring gaze, she did not flinch. His hands then moved with reverence to caress her breasts, his thumbs pushing her nipples into hard, pleading peaks that spoke of desire and promise. She bit her lip, caught in the exquisite thrall of his caresses, her every sense under his spell.

“Still,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Let me enjoy you.”

Taking his time, he lavished each touch with an almost worshipful intensity, each caress and every heated kiss imprinting his claim upon her very essence. In his arms, she wasn’t merely seen or touched; she was desired completely, irrevocably his.

And when at last he shed his own clothes and positioned himself with deliberate grace between her thighs, she did more than merely acquiesce—she reached up, her hands fiercely cradling his face with a mix of bold determination and tender need.

His descent along her body was a deliberate voyage, his touch commanding yet gentle as he parted her legs with the languid ease of a man confident in his caress. As his lips met the petaled flesh of her labia, he delivered a lick to her clit, teasing and fleeting, drawing a sharp, electrified gasp from her lips. Her body hummed like a symphony of readiness, each note a testament to their shared desire. The scent of her arousal was an intoxicating perfume, heady and enveloping, threatening to drive him to the brink of madness.

He indulged without restraint, his tongue a passionate explorer, savoring the raw, intimate essence of her being. Her taste clung to him like a haunting melody, a sensory memory that echoed the ecstasy they created together. Her cries of pleasure were a symphony in their own right, each note a testament to the intensity of their connection. Her back arched, her body quaking and tensing as she reached her zenith, a deep, contented sigh escaping her lips before she melted into a pool of tranquility.

“I want this,” she declared with a resounding clarity that left no doubt of her intent.

A low, throaty groan escaped him as he pressed into her, each deliberate thrust measured as though crafting an intimacy that was both raw and inexorably profound. Their eyes locked in a shared communion of desire.

There was no haste, no rush, no brutish force—only the slow, blazing, deliberate claiming of a life together, an intimacy so raw and fervent that it left no space for pretense. Andi wrapped her legs passionately around his waist, her fingers gripping his shoulders in a fervent dance that mirrored the quiet, commanding power with which he moved within her. Their bodies intertwined in flawless rhythm, their breaths merging in a secret language too sacred for words, their connection a living, fiery entity forged from desire and trust.

He needed no further orders for her to come; her release was pure and natural—a shattering, silent explosion of passion, like relentless waves crashing mightily upon a storm-darkened shore. Moments later, Mitch followed suit, his whole being tensing as a guttural, rough groan resonated against her neck, his release a final, definitive exclamation that melded with her in a profound, undeniable union.

They stayed like that for a while. Tangled. Breathing. Silent.

Eventually, he rolled to his side and pulled her into his arms, her head tucked under his chin, his hand spread wide across her back.

Andi didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. For the first time, she felt it settle deep inside her—trust. Not the kind that came with obligations or expectations. The kind that came with choice.

She was his, and he was hers.

They drifted like that for a while. No words. Just the hum of the city beyond the glass, the rhythm of his breathing, the heat of his skin.

Then—gunfire shattered the silence, a jarring eruption that split the night like a thunderclap. A single, deafening crack pierced the stillness outside, reverberating through the air with an ominous echo. Andi froze, her breath caught in her throat, her body a statue of tension and fear. Mitch reacted in an instant, leaping off the bed with the grace and speed of a predator. His movements were swift and precise, crossing the floor with lethal accuracy, gun in hand, every muscle in his body coiled like a tightly wound spring ready to unleash its power.

He pressed a finger to his earpiece, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp blade. “Status?” he demanded, his tone clipped and commanding.

The response was immediate, laced with urgency and tension. “One round fired. Testing the perimeter. Shooter’s gone.”

Andi sat up, her heart pounding violently against her ribs, each beat resonating through her chest like a drum. Mitch turned to her, his eyes steely and focused, a storm of determination brewing within them. “It’s starting,” he declared, his voice low and intense.

She nodded, adrenaline surging through her veins, her hands trembling as she reached for her jacket, the fabric cool and reassuring against her skin.