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MITCH

H e had her down, and behind cover before the echo of the shot finished ringing through the garden.

Mitch didn’t think. He reacted. One arm locked around Andi’s waist, the other pulling his weapon as he pivoted hard, using his body to shield hers. He drove her behind the stone balustrade at the garden’s edge, keeping her head down and pressed close to his chest as his eyes swept the perimeter.

The terrace lights flared harsh and bright against the night, but he didn’t blink. Didn’t give the shooter any movement to track. Whoever fired had done it from elevation—distance, too. The sound had cracked wide, not close. A high-angle shot, likely from across the street, maybe higher. They’d aimed high on purpose.

A message.

“Stay still,” he said against her temple.

She didn’t argue.

Cerberus protocols snapped into place within seconds. Coop, posted near the front, confirmed the action through his earpiece. “Shot came from east elevation. No confirmed visual. Crowd is secured. Is Andi safe?”

“Affirmative,” Mitch replied, still scanning. “Initiate hard lockdown. No one in or out.”

Andi’s breathing was shallow against his chest. Not panicked. Controlled. She was shaking, but not from fear—he knew her well enough now to recognize adrenaline when it burned through her system like that.

“Talk to me,” he murmured.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Is anyone else…”

“No injuries. They didn’t intend for it to hit.”

He felt her stiffen. “A warning.”

“Yes.”

Which meant the bastard had planned it, scoped it, timed the shot, and chosen a location with just enough cover to make it count and vanish before anyone could spot them.

Mitch angled his head over the stone lip and scanned the upper floors of the building across the street. No glint of metal. No silhouette. Whoever they were, they were a professional or someone with just enough training to fake it.

He gave the all-clear hand signal to Coop’s shadow team, then stood, pulling Andi up with him. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to protest. He liked that about her—when it mattered, she listened.

They got her inside through a service door in the east wing. Cerberus agents were already sweeping the perimeter. The museum was sealed, and the gala was officially over by the time they reached the secure staging area inside.

Andi paced the small back room like a caged animal while Mitch reviewed the feed from the rooftop camera. He’d hoped for a glimpse of the shooter, even just a silhouette. Nothing.

The shot had been surgical. Clean. But deliberately off-target. They didn’t want blood. Not yet. What they wanted was fear.

“They did it during the event,” she said, her arms crossed tight. “In front of media. Donors. Half the city’s elite. Jesus, Mitch.”

“That was the point,” he said. “This wasn’t about killing you. It was about showing us they could.”

She turned to him slowly. “What now?”

“Now we get out of here.”

They exited under tight escort into a nondescript SUV that hadn’t been parked in the lineup earlier. They took side streets and alternate routes back to the loft. Mitch sat beside her in the back, eyes scanning every alley, every rooftop.

Andi didn’t say a word the whole ride. Not until they reached the loft, and the security system confirmed full lockdown.

Only then did she snap. “You think I should quit, don’t you?”

Mitch didn’t answer immediately. He locked the door, then peeled off his jacket and unholstered his sidearm, setting it on the table with practiced ease.

“Say it,” she said. “You’ve been circling it for as long as I’ve known you. Go ahead and say it.”

“I think it’s time to consider your safety over your bid to be mayor,” Mitch said, voice calm. Controlled. “You’re not just a public figure anymore, Andi. You’re a target.”

She crossed the loft in two strides. “I’ve always been a target. I didn’t get into politics thinking it was a warm bath and a lifetime pension. You think zoning reform doesn’t piss people off?”

“Not like this.”

“You think if I step down, they’ll stop?” Her voice was rising now. “You think the threats magically disappear if I back out? Mitch, this isn’t just about the race. This is about who I am.”

He stepped toward her slowly, arms still loose at his sides. “And who you are is going to get you killed if you aren’t careful.”

“That’s not your call.”

“The hell it isn’t,” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m the one who’ll be dragging your bleeding body to cover if another bullet comes through a window.”

“And you think I don’t know that?” she shouted. “You think I haven’t thought about what this means for you? That I don’t see what it’s costing you just to keep me breathing? That I don’t think about what will happen if you take a bullet for me?”

His jaw worked once. She didn’t back down.

“I know I’m not the easiest protectee,” she continued, quieter now. “I know I don’t follow every rule and that I make it damn hard to do your job. But you don’t get to stand there and act like this is all on me.”

Mitch didn’t speak for a beat. Just watched her. Then, “You’re right.”

That stopped her.

“I don’t like politics. I don’t like crowds. And I sure as hell don’t enjoy knowing the woman I’m protecting and have feelings for will sacrifice herself on a platform she won’t even be alive to stand on.” Her shoulders dropped slightly. “But I’m not your strategist,” he said. “I’m your shield. And shields don’t compromise.”

The silence between them stretched long.

Andi looked away first. Her hands were clenched tight at her sides. “If I quit now, I lose everything I’ve built.”

“If you die, you’ll lose it anyway and you won’t have time to rebuild.”

She turned, walked to the window, and stared out at the street below.

“I can’t make this decision tonight,” she said.

“You’ll have to make it soon.”

She nodded once but didn’t turn back around. Mitch didn’t push. He grabbed his gear bag, stepped into the powder room, and splashed cold water on his face.

Cerberus would finish the forensic sweep of the museum overnight. The report would confirm what he already knew—the shot had been a controlled scare tactic. Not a kill.

But they were running out of warning shots, and the next one might not miss.

He dried his face and looked in the mirror. Her reflection wasn’t there. But she was everywhere else. In his lungs. In his bloodstream. In every damn move he made, and that was the problem.

When he returned to the main room, it was obvious Andi had retreated to her bedroom. She now paced the polished hardwood floors of the living room like a fuse already lit.

Barefoot. Tank top. Leggings slung low on her hips. She pulled her hair back into a messy bun, the kind she only wore when she was too wired to sleep and too angry to sit still. The gown from the gala was gone. The lipstick scrubbed clean. This was Andi stripped to her core—unpolished, untamed, unrelenting.

And Mitch had never wanted her more.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. He watched her like she was a building set to implode. No countdown. No sirens. Just pressure building minute by minute.

She turned toward him, arms crossed. Her voice was low but clear. “I won’t hide, Mitch. I won’t live like I’m already dead.”

He didn’t answer with words. He stepped in, crossing the space between them in three sharp strides. His hand curled around her jaw, tilting her face up to his.

“I’d rather chain you to that bed than bury you.”

She didn’t flinch, but he saw the corners of her mouth lift. “I’ll bet you would, but seriously, I’d rather die fighting,” she said, “than live running scared.”

His grip tightened. Not to hurt—but to hold. To keep her steady as his voice dropped to something lethal.

“You say that again, and I swear I’ll make you regret giving me the visual.”

Her lips parted. Her breath hitched. But her eyes never left his. “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he said. “And you will not move unless I tell you to.”

She nodded once, jaw tight. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He walked her backward until her shoulders hit the wall. Then he pressed her body between the plaster and the hard lines of his own, one hand braced beside her head, the other settling low on her hip.

“You want to fight?” he murmured. “Then fight me. But if you give in… if you choose this... there’s no halfway.”

Andi stared up at him. And then, slowly, she let her arms fall to her sides.

“I want this. I want you.”

“Say it right.”

Her voice cracked. “Yes, Sir.”

His restraint snapped like thread. His mouth descended on hers, capturing it with a kiss that spoke of both punishment and promise. He grabbed her thighs, lifted her off the floor, and she wrapped around him instinctively, gasping into his mouth.

He slid his hand under her tank, dragging it up over her ribs, baring skin inch by inch until he peeled it off and tossed it over his shoulder. She wore nothing underneath. Her nipples were already hard. Her body trembling.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. She’d already said it.

“Yes, Sir.”

He dropped his head, took one nipple between his teeth, and bit down, drawing a primal moan from deep within her. Mitch stepped back, letting her feet hit the floor as his other hand gripped the waistband of her leggings, yanking them down along with her panties in a brutal tug.

“Turn around.” His voice was a low, commanding growl.

Andi hesitated for a moment and then obeyed.

He grasped her hips, stepped close, and ground her ass against his cock, still confined behind his zipper, letting her feel every throbbing inch of his arousal. He pressed a firm hand to her spine, bending her forward until her palms were flat against the wall.

Dropping to one knee behind her, he dragged his mouth along the inside of her thigh, his breath hot on her skin.

“You’re soaked,” he growled.

“I need you,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

“I own you,” he declared, his voice a dark promise.

She cried out when he licked her—one long, relentless stroke from her entrance to her clit—and then did it again, her fingers clawing at the wall, her knees trembling.

When he stood, he didn’t bother with undressing. He unzipped, freed himself, and rubbed the head of his cock through her slick folds until she was shaking with need. Then he drove into her with a single, savage thrust. Andi gasped, her head dropping forward.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice a guttural snarl.

She turned, her eyes wide and wild, meeting his gaze over her shoulder.

“I want you to remember,” Mitch growled, his fingers digging into her hips as he pounded into her. “Every time you think about stepping into danger without me, I want you to remember this. How it feels to be mine.”

“Yes, Sir,” she panted.

He thrust harder. Deeper. One hand snaked around her throat from behind, controlling her, possessing her.

Her legs gave out, but he caught her around the waist, his other hand supporting her as he relentlessly drove into her. She came with a shattered cry, her body convulsing. But he didn’t stop. Not until he pushed her over the edge a second time, then followed with a groan, coming deep inside her with a final, punishing thrust.

When he pulled out, she sagged against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He caught her before she could collapse, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the couch, sitting down and settling her in his lap, her face against his neck, her body curled into his. Neither of them spoke for a long minute.

Finally, he tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “You belong to me,” he said, his voice rough with something deeper than command.

Andi stared at him, and then she nodded. Not a word. Not an argument. Just a quiet, certain yes.

For one fleeting moment, the world outside the loft didn’t exist. Not the cameras, not the campaign, not the bullet that had shattered the night hours ago. Just her, curled naked in his lap. Just him, wrapped around her like he could hold the danger at bay.

But he couldn’t.

Mitch knew it even as he pressed his lips to her damp temple. Whoever had pulled that trigger hadn’t missed by accident. They’d sent a message.

Andi was safe—for now. But he couldn’t keep her in his arms forever. And when the next shot came, he knew… they’d aim to kill.