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ANDI

T he silence in the loft was brutal. It wasn’t the comforting kind she associated with Mitch—the space he gave her when she needed to think, to breathe. This was different. This was razor-edged quiet. The kind that came after a storm, but before you could clean up the mess. She stood just inside the door, her purse still clutched in her hand, her heels scraping against the hardwood as she walked in without waiting for him.

He didn’t follow immediately. He stayed downstairs, checking the perimeter, probably already looping Cerberus in, already making plans she wasn’t invited to.

By the time he finally stepped inside and closed the door behind him, her nerves were strung so tight she could barely breathe.

“I don’t need a lecture,” she said without turning around.

“You’re getting one, anyway.”

She turned slowly, tossed her keys on the entry table, and crossed her arms. “You don’t get to do this right now.”

Mitch shut the door with a quiet click and leaned back against it, crossing his arms like he was bracing himself for a detonation. “I get to do it because you nearly walked into an ambush without backup. Because you ignored every protocol. Because you put your life—and mine—on the line for a conversation you didn’t vet.”

“I was trying to help.”

“No,” he said, voice low and firm. “You were trying to prove you didn’t need help.”

Andi looked away. “That’s not true.”

“Bullshit.”

She clenched her fists at her sides. “You think you know me so well? You’ve been in my life for what—five minutes?”

“I know you well enough to see when you’re spiraling,” he said. “I know the difference between calculated risk and suicidal pride.”

The words hit harder than she wanted them to. She spun away, walking toward the kitchen just to have something to do. She grabbed a glass, filled it with water, took a sip she didn’t want.

Mitch followed but didn’t crowd her. That was his thing. Presence. Pressure. The kind of dominance that didn’t need volume to be felt.

“I didn’t plan to go alone,” she said finally, voice tight. “I was going to text you.”

“Was that before or after you slipped out on Coop, disabled your tracker, stepped into a surveillance dead zone and a myriad of other fuck ups?”

She slammed the glass down. “Jesus, would you stop…”

“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to play at power when your life is the prize.”

The silence that followed wasn’t angry. It was lethal. She turned slowly, her chest heaving, her pulse hammering through her ears.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to lose control?” she asked, every word sharp. “To know that someone else can rip away everything you’ve built and fought for because you’re inconvenient?””

“Yes.”

That answer startled her more than it should have. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I know what it’s like,” he continued, voice low, steady. “To wake up and realize your job, your mission, your survival all depends on keeping a lid on emotions that want to blow the whole operation sky-high. But I also know what happens when you stop trusting the people who are trying to protect you.”

“I do trust you.”

“No,” he said. “You trust me to stop bullets. You don’t trust me with the rest.”

She wanted to deny it. But she couldn’t. Because he wasn’t wrong.

She stared at him, throat tight. “You scare me.”

“I know.”

“Because you see too much.”

“I see what you try so hard not to show.”

“Because if I show it, I can’t take it back.”

“You don’t need to,” he said. “Not with me.”

She felt the burn at the back of her eyes. Not tears—she didn’t cry. Not even after the crash, or Rick’s arrest, or the moment she’d stood in front of her campaign staff and realized one of them might be trying to destroy her.

But this was different. This was intimate in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

Mitch stepped forward. Not to touch her. Not to cage her in. Just to be close enough that she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t affected.

“You have a choice, Andi,” he said quietly. “Keep pretending you’re bulletproof and get killed—or admit that you need backup and let me do what I’m here to do.”

She shook her head slowly. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No. I think it’s the hardest damn thing you’ve ever had to consider.”

Her voice cracked. “You don’t understand?—”

“I do. You think trusting someone again means giving up the power you fought to reclaim. But it doesn’t. Not with me. I don’t take. I hold.”

The word hit her so deep it made her knees feel unsteady.

Hold… Not control… Not dominate… Not use… Hold.

She looked up, really looked at him. The man who’d seen her at her worst. Who’d pulled her from a press ambush without flinching, made her tea when she was unraveling, and intercepted a tail like it was just another Tuesday. Who’d stood outside her bathroom door without knocking, without questions, just a presence.

“I don’t know how to let someone else take the lead,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “You just have to try.”

And that—that was the thing that finally cracked her. Not the threat. Not the surveillance. Not even the thought that someone she trusted was feeding intel to the enemy.

It was Mitch. Standing there. Unmoving. Unshaken. Unyielding… and offering her something no one ever had before.

Safety without strings. Control without cruelty. Dominance without destruction.

She stepped toward him. Just one step. Enough to close the space. Enough to feel the heat of him, to breathe in the scent of spice and command.

“If I give you that trust,” she said, barely above a whisper, “what do you do with it?”

“Everything you need and want,” he said, “and nothing you don’t.”

Andi’s breath caught. Her body wanted to fold into him. Her pride wanted to bolt. But her heart—her gut—told her that this was the line she couldn’t keep dancing around.

“I hate this,” she said. “Feeling like I’m giving something up.”

“You’re not giving it up,” Mitch said. “You’re giving it to me.”

She closed her eyes.

“Say it,” he whispered.

Her throat worked, her voice breaking just a little. “I trust you.”

When she opened her eyes, he was still watching her. But something in his expression had shifted—softened. Just slightly. And then he reached out. One hand. Flat against her cheek. Not forceful. Just firm.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

And for the first time… she believed it.

She didn’t know how long they stood like that.

His hand came up to cup her cheek with a possessive tenderness, a grip that spoke of unwavering determination, anchoring her so completely that shivers, like whispers of icy fire, raced down her spine—a sensation too intricate to fully articulate. Andi had never been one to surrender, neither with her heart nor her body. Yet, with Mitch, her flesh had betrayed her long before her mind could muster resistance.

Her chest heaved in rapid, almost desperate breaths, each rise and fall echoing the urgency of the moment. Every nerve in her body seemed to burst with vibrancy—not from terror, but from an electrifying, heightened awareness. It wasn’t fear of him that seized her; it was the deep, unrelenting hunger within and the chilling realization that he could claim every part of her with a single command.

His voice emerged low and deliberate, resonating with quiet power. “Go to the bedroom.”

Her breathing faltered, not because the words startled her, but because of the disarmingly calm authority they carried. She opened her mouth to question what was unfolding—a mix of wonder and trepidation—but before a syllable could escape, his gentle yet uncompromising tone silenced her.

“Don’t speak, Andi. Just go.”

Reluctantly, she turned, her steps heavy, as if dragging her forward through a haze of lingering doubt. She navigated the open loft with measured care, moving around the central island, her footsteps softly echoing off the polished hardwood as she approached the expansive entrance of her bedroom. For a heartbeat, she paused, caught in the suspension of uncertainty.

Behind her, Mitch followed—a constant, omnipresent force, never too close nor overtly imposing. “Inside,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress laid over cool, unyielding steel.

She stepped into the room where shadows danced across the bed, the woven rug, and the textured walls, while the city's light streamed in through tall, arched windows. Standing timidly at the edge of the mattress, indecision tugged at her: Should she turn to meet him, or face the distant, enigmatic wall?

“Face me,” Mitch commanded, taking the decision away from her.

She obeyed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she turned, her eyes meeting his. An invisible impulse forced her to wrap her arms around herself, her fingers curling in a self-protective gesture. Though his voice had not raised, and he had not laid a hand upon her in anger, her skin thrummed with a trembling, anticipatory energy.

“Take off your clothes,” he said softly, yet with unwavering resolve.

Her eyes widened in startled surprise. “What…”

“That wasn’t a request Andi, it was an order,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

Her heart pounded violently, each convulsive beat shaking her core as her knees threatened to give way under the intensity of the moment.

“This isn’t about sex,” he continued, his words measured and deliberate. “It’s about trust. You told me you trusted me. Now, show me that trust.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she swallowed hard, caught between fear and desire. With a hesitant urgency, she let her jacket slip over her shoulders, the fabric falling gracefully onto the foot of the bed in a carefully folded heap. Next, she shed the delicate silk top, its gossamer thinness falling like moonlight down her arms, leaving her in nothing but the black lace of her undergarments. Her hands lingered uncertainly at her waistband, suspended in a moment of vulnerability.

Mitch remained motionless, a silent guardian in the charged space.

“Keep going,” he urged, his tone both gentle and firm.

Her fingers trembled as they fumbled with the subtle fastener of her jeans. With one fluid, determined motion, she liberated them from her body, folding them with a mechanical precision borne of necessity. When her hand reached for the clasp of her bra, a surge of hesitation gripped her.

“Slow,” Mitch whispered, his voice a tender command. “Don’t rush this. It isn’t a performance. It’s your choice.”

Drawing a deep, resolute breath, Andi unhooked the clasp as if severing an invisible chain. The straps slid gracefully off her shoulders, releasing their hold as the bra fell away, leaving her exposed to the cool reality of the floor.

The final barrier lay in the form of her panties, the most intimate garment of all. Not removed out of shame—far from it—but because with every piece undone, she felt her personal defenses dissolve, layer by painstaking layer, until she was not merely exposed but utterly, fiercely bare in every sense.

“Stand still,” Mitch commanded, his words slicing through the quiet with a penetrating authority.

Andi halted instantly, her body momentarily suspended in time. Her arms convulsed in a startled spasm, yet she did not try to shield herself, leaving every vulnerable inch exposed. As Mitch advanced, he began a slow, deliberate circle around her—each step resonating with a controlled, methodical intensity that mirrored the stealth of a predator. She felt the blistering heat of his gaze, not fueled by mere desire or casual appraisal, but bearing the weight of a fierce and possessive claiming.

Stopping directly before her, he leaned in, his soft murmur barely audible as he said, “You're shaking.”

“I know,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with the raw sincerity of her inner storm.

He refrained from offering comfort with a tender touch, instead standing resolute—a living monument of strength that anchored her in the present.

“Breathe,” he instructed, his tone imbued with a quiet command.

At first, her inhales were tentative and uneven, each breath a shuddering echo of uncertainty. When he urged, “Again,” she drew a deeper, more determined breath, as if coaxing herself into unwavering resolve.

“You’re not in danger,” he declared, his voice a beacon of calm authority. “You’re in command—because you chose this.”

Another measured breath replaced the silence.

“You chose me.”

That declaration struck her with the force of an unseen blow; its truth stung her eyes, and they shimmered with tears born of its profound weight.

Stepping closer by half a step, he maintained just enough distance to assert his control, his presence an undeniable statement of power. “I want you to experience the exquisite surrender of control without fear. Not because you are weak, but because you’re strong enough to allow someone else to bear the weight—even if only for a moment.”

Her knees trembled, threatening to buckle as she struggled against the instinct to hold on to her protective armor, yet his steadfast presence kept her rooted.

“I see you,” he murmured, his low voice saturated with fervor. “I see every part of you—the tenacious fight, the blazing fire, the hidden fear. And through it all, I remain here.” At his command, she squeezed her eyes shut until he softly yet insistently said, “Look at me.”

When she opened her eyes, his unwavering gaze met hers—a look that declared, without a hint of intrusion, that she was exactly as she should be: cherished and protected.

“Good,” he murmured with a note of satisfaction. “Now come to me.”

Compelled by an inner surrender that pulsed like a newly kindled flame, she advanced until the gentle pressure of her chest met the firmness of his. He did not seize her with brash urgency; instead, his hand found its place at the back of her neck—a grasp both solid and reassuring, a silent promise of steadfast care.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, each syllable sinking deeply into her, reverberating with the secure cadence of a promise.

In that suspended moment, she released not herself, but the perpetual struggle—the relentless need to maintain control, the compulsive burden of performing on strength alone. Leaning into him, as her bare skin brushed against the barrier of his clothed armor, she allowed herself the liberty of trust. His other arm slid around her, enveloping her with a fierce protectiveness. For a timeless, suspended instant, they remained intertwined, their breaths converging into a shared, steady rhythm. Her forehead rested against his chest, aligning itself to the consistent, comforting thump of his heart.

He was unyielding—a steadfast pillar amidst a relentless storm—and in his embrace, she found that for once, she could let go of the fight to lead.

Eventually, he guided her toward the bed, yet he did not merely lay her down. Carefully, he draped a soft throw over her shoulders, resembling a delicate shield, before leading her back through the loft to her plush couch.

Seating himself with deliberate grace, he then eased her between his legs, cradling her as if she were a precious treasure—not fragile, but resilient in its worth—as he helped her sink down and encouraged her to lay her head against his thigh.

Andi could feel his hard length pulsing, but he made no move to have her service him in any way. At first she was stiff and nervous, but then, gradually, her breath found a steady cadence as the intensity of his hold anchored within her a sublime, newfound surrender.

She didn’t speak for a long time. And then, finally, she asked the only question that mattered. “What happens now?”

Mitch didn’t hesitate. “Now I keep you alive,” he said. “And if you let me… I teach you what it means to feel safe.”

Andi closed her eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, she believed he could… and that was even more frightening than anything else.