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18

ANDI

T he official statement went out at 6:42 a.m. sharp. Councilwoman Andrea Donato would be stepping away from the campaign trail temporarily. Stress-related fatigue, the release said. A precautionary measure. She was fine. Just resting. She appreciated everyone’s support.

The message was perfectly crafted—bland, clinical, safe. It didn’t mention black SUVs or secure elevators. Didn’t hint at the Cerberus encryption protocols now running on every one of her devices. And it certainly didn’t say that someone woke the woman in question before dawn, rushed her from the loft with two duffels and a go-bag, and drove her across the city in a rerouted motorcade that ignored traffic lights.

Andi stood at the center of the suite now—Club Southside’s so-called ‘residence level’—still wrapped in the dull haze of adrenaline withdrawal. The room was bigger than her entire first apartment: exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows fitted with ballistic glass, and a security terminal tucked discreetly behind a wall panel. Not a single piece of furniture looked out of place. Not a single thing felt like hers.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

Across the room, Mitch was calm, precise, methodical. He moved like the space already belonged to him—checking angles, clearing the corners, running a fingertip across the edge of the blackout curtain to check for breaks in the lining.

He didn’t look at her when he answered. “I know.”

Andi exhaled, slow and tight. “They’re going to spin this. Wexler will say I cracked under pressure. That I’m hiding.”

“He’s not wrong.” Mitch turned then. “You are hiding. And that’s exactly why it’ll work. Let him run his mouth. He’ll get comfortable. That’s when he’ll slip.”

She dropped her jacket onto the nearest armchair. “And what am I supposed to do while we wait for that? Catch up on rest? Do a face mask? Practice gratitude journaling?”

His mouth twitched, the closest thing he ever got to smiling when she was like this.

“You’re supposed to stay alive.”

Andi bit back the retort. He wasn’t wrong. But being sidelined still left a foul taste in her mouth.

The silence stretched. Tense. Heavy. Mitch crossed the room with that same quiet intensity he always carried. He stopped directly in front of her. Not touching. Just there.

“You’re not on pause,” he said, his voice low. “You’re repositioning for tactical advantage.”

She arched a brow. “Tactical advantage? You make it sound like I’m a sniper.”

“You are,” he replied. “Just a political one. Which means I need you clearheaded. Not playing target practice for assholes with campaign funding and kill lists.”

That stopped her. Just for a second.

She looked up at him, studying the unshakable calm in his posture, the way his jaw was set—not with frustration, but with focus. He wasn’t rattled. Not even close. He’d slept less than two hours, had barely eaten, and yet here he was—unflinching, fully operational, running point like a man wired straight into the threat itself.

“You’ve thought all of this through,” she said.

“Every move.”

“So what is this?” she asked. “A bunker?”

He stepped closer. “Bunkers are buried in the ground. This is the top floor of Club Southside/Cerberus in Chicago. Think of it as a kind of safe-penthouse with a side of kink.”

It took everything in her to suppress the smile that was threatening to derail her anger. “And what’s my role in it? Political hostage? Damsel in distress?”

His eyes darkened slightly. “Neither.”

Andi folded her arms. “Then what?”

Mitch’s voice dropped, intimate and absolute. “Here, I can keep you safe—and remind you who you belong to.”

The words settled over her like smoke—slow, creeping, hot.

Her chest tightened. Not with fear. With want and need.

Because the way he said it didn’t leave room for misinterpretation. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a promise. One she felt down to her bones.

She swallowed. “And if I don’t need reminding?”

“You do,” he said simply. “You’re not bulletproof, Andi. You fight like you are. But right now? You’re mine to protect. Mine to hold. Mine to keep breathing. Here I can focus on giving you what you need without worrying about someone getting to us.”

Her breath hitched. Not visibly, but she felt it. That shift inside her chest—the surrender that didn’t feel like giving up, but giving over.

He moved even closer, brushing the back of his hand down her bare arm. “Do you trust me?”

Andi nodded once.

“Say it.”

“I trust you.”

His fingers curled briefly around her wrist—tight, then gone. “Good. Because this place is more than bricks and locks. It’s the line I draw around you. And I’m not letting anyone cross it.”

Andi didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really. Her throat felt too tight, her pulse too loud. Because this wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about politics. It wasn’t even about fear.

This was about her. Mitch. The line between them—obliterated now. What lived in its place wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy. But it was real.

He turned back toward the security terminal. “Get some rest. I’ll be watching the feed.”

She stared after him. She didn’t feel completely safe. Not really. Not yet, but she knew one thing for sure. She belonged to someone now—and that someone would burn the city down before he let anyone harm her again.

The room wasn’t just secure; it was a fucking masterpiece of control and passion. It was the kind of space that whispered ‘kneel’ before anyone spoke a word. A padded bench, a St. Andrew’s cross, a high-backed leather throne, and anchors drilled into the walls and ceiling like promises of restraint. Rope, chains, leather—every piece meticulously arranged, waiting to be used.

Her pulse was steady, but only because she was holding her breath. Anticipation thrummed in her veins, a low, needy hum that made her skin prickle. She hadn’t been dragged here. No, she’d come willingly, drawn by the way Mitch had looked at her earlier—like he was already undressing her, already bending her to his will. She knew tonight wasn’t about gentle reassurances or tender caresses. This was about ownership.

* * *

Something or someone moved behind her. Her breath hitched. Mitch stepped out of the shadows, dressed in black that clung to his body like a second skin. His silk shirt, rolled to the elbows, revealed forearms corded with muscle. Leather trousers that hung low on his hips, teasing the outline of what she knew was waiting for her. Barefoot, silent, and utterly in control—he was a predator, and she was his prey.

“Sorry, Sir,” she murmured, dropping her gaze.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

She obeyed without hesitation, her fingers trembling as she slid the slouchy sweater over her shoulders—skimming it and her leggings from her figure. He pointed to the lace bra and panties, indicating they too needed to go. They slid from her body, pooling at her feet in a whisper of surrender. She stood there, naked but for the flush creeping up her skin, her nipples hard, her pussy already slick with need.

“Good girl,” Mitch purred, and her spine arched at the praise.

He circled her like a wolf sizing up its meal, his fingers brushing the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He took her wrists in his hands, guiding them together with a touch that was firm but never cruel.

“Color?” he asked, his voice low and dark.

“Green,” she whispered, her body vibrating with anticipation.

The rope was soft but unyielding, jute encased in velvet that coiled around her wrists with practiced precision. He moved with the grace of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, wrapping the rope around her forearms, crisscrossing up to her elbows. Each knot was deliberate, each tug grounding her in the moment. He brushed the back of his fingers against her skin as he worked, a constant reminder of his control, his presence. When he stepped back, she was bound from shoulders to fingertips, her arms held together like an offering.

Mitch leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Tonight, you belong to me. You don’t speak unless I say. You don’t come unless I allow it. You don’t think—only feel.”

She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sir,” she choked out, her voice trembling with need.

He took her chin in his hand, his grip firm but never painful, and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “You want this?”

Her answer came out ragged, raw with desperation. “Yes. More than anything.”

He turned her gently but decisively, pressing her forward until her knees hit the padded bench. When she hesitated, he issued a single sharp command, “Down.” She obeyed without hesitation, bending over with her ass high in the air, her bound arms resting against the padded leather.

His hand trailed down the curve of her spine, leaving fire in its wake. She shivered, her body already aching for more.

“I’m not going to cause you real pain,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Only enough to remind you who you are.”

She exhaled, her voice barely audible. “Yes, Sir.”

The first slap landed hard against her bare ass, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. Pain flared, sharp and bright, before melting into a deep, throbbing heat. He didn’t stop. Another slap followed, then another, rhythmic and unrelenting. By the fifth strike, her skin was on fire, her thighs trembling with the effort to stay upright. Her pussy pulsed with every blow, wet slick trickling down her inner thighs.

He didn’t stop at spanking. His fingers slid between her folds, dipping into the slickness there before retreating just as quickly, leaving her whining for more. His mouth followed, his tongue flicking against her clit with just enough pressure to make her moan, then pulling away before she could beg for release.

Her sounds filled the room—desperate, hungry, needy. She was shaking, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

Then she felt him behind her, his cock thick and hard, pulsing against her wetness. He rubbed the head along her slit, teasing her clit before sliding down to her entrance and back up in a torturous rhythm. She was soaked, trembling with need.

“Do you want it?” he growled, his voice strained with restraint.

“Yes,” she gasped, her hips bucking toward him.

“How bad?”

She whimpered, her voice breaking. “Please, Sir. Please fuck me.”

“Beg louder.”

Her head dropped, her body quaking with need. “Please, Master. I need it. I need you.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust, slamming into her so deep she screamed. It wasn’t pain—it was release, everything she’d been holding back, breaking free in a flood of ecstasy. Her walls clenched around him, her body arching into every thrust as he took her like he owned her—because he did.

His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her back so she arched deeper into him. “Say it,” he rasped, his voice rough with need.

She choked on the words, her orgasm building with every stroke. “I’m yours.”

His thrusts slowed, each one deeper than the last. “Say it right.”

Bound and trembling, Andi opened her eyes and surrendered completely to him. When the words came, they weren’t just spoken—they were offered like a prayer.

“I’m yours, Master. Please…”

Mitch groaned like the words shattered something inside him. He pulled her tight against him, his hand flat against her belly as he slammed into her again and again, fucking her with a ferocity that left no doubt who she belonged to.

“Now,” he growled.

She came with a sob that shook her to the core, her body convulsing around him as he followed with a growl, spilling himself deep inside her.

Afterward, he was gentle—kinder than anyone might have expected from a man who’d just fucked her into oblivion. He untied her carefully, massaging the circulation back into her arms and laying kisses on every mark the rope had left behind. He carried her to the bed in the room's corner, wrapping her in a thick blanket and curling her into his chest.

His fingers moved through her hair, soothing and steady as she drifted in the aftermath of their shared pleasure. Her exhaustion prevented her from speaking, and she was too overwhelmed by him to think clearly. But she knew one thing for certain: she had never belonged to anyone the way she belonged to him.

Andi lay draped across Mitch’s chest, one leg hooked over his hips, her cheek pressed against his skin as it rose and fell beneath her. The air was still warm with the scent of sex and rope and something deeper—something quiet and heavy that neither of them had spoken aloud. Not yet.

Mitch had moved little since he’d carried her to the bed and wrapped her in a blanket. He hadn’t spoken, either. His fingers trailed slow patterns along the length of her spine. Not to arouse, not to command. Just to stay connected.

She could still feel the press of the ropes in her skin. The ache between her legs. The fire he’d set inside her, and the way he’d held it until it burned them both down to the bone.

But now, the quiet stretched longer. Not awkward. Just full. Andi tilted her head to look up at him, chin resting on his chest. His eyes were open, fixed somewhere above them, but his thoughts were miles away.

“Mitch?”

His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its motion.

“You ever wonder how it would’ve turned out if you’d done one thing differently?” His voice was low. Raw. “One second, one breath, one step?”

Andi shifted slightly, propping herself on one elbow. “What happened?”

He didn’t look at her. Not yet. “Afghanistan. Seven years ago. We were clearing a compound. Nothing unusual. Intelligence said the place was mostly abandoned, but we swept anyway. I was lead on the breach. Had a guy behind me—rookie, smart, a little green but solid. Name was Sal.”

The way he said the name… Andi felt her chest tighten.

“He didn’t step where I told him to.” Mitch’s voice was a slow grind now. “Half a foot off the path. That’s all. Just one misstep. Mine, really. I should’ve double-checked the clearance. But I didn’t. And he…”

He stopped. Swallowed. Andi waited. She didn’t rush him.

“When the dirt and debris settled, there was nothing left of him—nothing that could be distinguished from the rubble.”

Silence. Thick and endless.

“I wrote the report. Sat with his mother. Told her we did everything we could. That he didn’t suffer.” He finally looked at her then, eyes dark and hollow. “I tell myself he never even knew what was going to happen, but I swore I’d never let someone in my charge fall again.”

The words settled like stones between them. Heavy. Absolute.

Andi reached for his face, her palm against the rough line of his jaw. “You didn’t let him fall.”

“I did.”

“No.” She leaned closer. “You were in a war zone. Someone in your command makes a split second off-course. That doesn’t make it your fault. It makes it combat.”

His eyes searched hers. Like he wanted to believe her, but was afraid to do so.

“I can’t lose you, Andi.”

“You won’t.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t look away. “You won’t, because I’m not walking into this blind. I know the risks. I know the cost. And I will step exactly where you tell me to. I’m still here… with you.”

He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. Right over the scar she hadn’t noticed until now—small, pale, just beneath his collarbone.

“This was mine to carry,” he said. “But now? It’s more than that. You’re more than that.”

She curled into him then, resting her head over that heartbeat. Steady. Fierce. Real.

He wasn’t a ghost of what he’d lost. He was the man standing guard over what he refused to lose again.

“You scare me,” she whispered, echoing what she’d said not long ago. “But not for the reasons you think.”

He brushed her hair back. Waited.

“You scare me,” she said, “because you see all of me. Even the parts I try to hide. And you don’t flinch.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Andi.”

She closed her eyes. “Then neither am I.”

The air in the room shifted. Not the temperature—just the feeling.

It was the safest she’d ever felt. Not because the walls were thick or the locks were secure. But because Mitch Langdon had chosen her. And she’d chosen him.

And tonight, for one fragile moment, that was enough. Whatever was coming would have to wait at least one more night.