kyle garrick i am in your fucking walls

Of course he’d checked her out, which was why he knew she was using a fake name. ‘Jane’ was both too on the nose for her purposes and ill fitting for a girl as pretty as she was. In the weeks she’d existed silent as a church mouse in the flat below his, he’d watched her through his security cameras (most but not all predating her arrival) that were installed in various places in the halls, out on the street, even a couple looking in through her windows. 

She was a good girl, a careful girl. She kept most of her windows shaded, especially the one that faced out to the public street, a crucial but often overlooked security and privacy measure. The only one she didn’t keep the curtains drawn over was the one that faced the garden at the back of the building that no one ever used. 

Unfortunately for her, it was also her bedroom, and she spent most of her time in it. And Simon had put a camera at the perfect spot to see inside. 

Simon, with nothing else to do while on leave, spent most of his time watching her. It made his teeth grind, thinking of their moronic landlord putting something as fragile and precious as her in a ground floor fucking flat, right near the main entrance of the fucking building. 

But he’d been keeping an eye on her, watching the comings and goings, doing basic surveillance to make sure nothing was out of order. 

At first, he’d just been doing his due diligence. But that lie didn’t work anymore after the first time he watched her stand in the mirror, nightgown pulled up to expose her belly, her hands framing it with a look of awe visible on her face even through the grainy image. 

He wanted a better look. Wanted to know the exact shade of her hazel eyes, how the colors swirled in real life when they looked at him. Wanted to know how her dark blonde hair felt threaded in his fist as he sunk his cock deep. 

Wanted more dangerous things too, things not tied to sex and sticky sweet lust. Wanted her to sleep tucked in his clothes like the scent of his skin would ward off predators. Wanted her child to look up at him and call him- 

But she was scared shitless, and for once he wasn’t the root cause of fear (although he harbored no illusions about how she’d feel coming face to face with him in his mask in a dark alley or even outside their building on the sunniest of London afternoons). She was just plain fucking scared. Of everything. 

So if he was going to do this, if he was going to get her (he was), he had to do it right and on the first fucking try. No room for mistakes. 

That meant research, careful study and surveillance as he formulated a plan, waiting for the perfect opportunity whether it came naturally or if he had to manufacture it. He’d do whatever it took, and count himself lucky to. 

Actually it wasn’t half bad to be ‘home’ for once. For once, he wasn’t bored out of his skull and nearly going fucking mad waiting for Price to ring his phone about a job. 

With all of his careful planning in progress, he was simply too busy to think about much else. 

The good part of her being on the run, if he could call it ‘good’, was that she wasn’t on the run from a mob boss or mixed up with international espionage or lying low after a heist or any of the possible scenarios he’d initially thought probable. No, just a run of the mill abusive fuck who’d treated her like a punching bag. 

He’d put a bug in the rec room of a local church that held the survivor’s support group she attended, and though she was careful to give everyone a fake name for herself and for the dead man walking (good girl, careful girl), the details she’d given him, however unintentionally, had been more than enough for what he needed to find the guy, and to find her real name. 

And with her real name he got the full picture of her life before he’d entered it. Which had been…bleak. 

Nothing interesting from her childhood save a large number of art show awards she’d collectsd from primary through uni, but she’d wound up with no family, no friends, and overall very little in the way of an online footprint, which was likely the reason she’d been targeted by her ex. They had a way of sniffing out vulnerability. 

Admittedly it was convenient for his own purposes too, to not have to worry about faking niceties with her family who would expect him to cede the lion’s share of her time and attention once she felt safe enough to reach back out to them. 

Because he wouldn’t. He wanted every ounce of her time and attention spent just on him when he was home, to make up for all the time he wasn’t. It should have been strange, to find himself playing out a fantasy of a future with a woman he’d never spoken to, but somehow it wasn’t. 

At his core, Simon was a selfish man. And after everything, after all of what he’d lived through, if he was going to let someone in, he’d be sure that this time nothing would take them from him. 

So when his gut pulled him to her, he hadn’t even fought off the first time an image flashed in his head of himself holding the child that grew in her belly, standing beside her bed in the hospital. 

What did it matter if another man was the biological father? In his experience biological fathers weren’t worth shit. He’d be different, because he knew how to be, knew from personal experience every wrong thing to do, and now that he was older, knew how easy it was to simply not do them. 

Some men balked at the thought of caring for or loving another man’s child, but Simon didn’t give a fuck about that. The baby was half of the mother too. And because they came from her, he’d love them like his own. Protect them like his own. Provide for them like his own. 

He was adamant about that last part. Which was the only part of the whole thing that felt strange to start taking into consideration as he began to look around himself with fresh eyes at the way he lived while not working. 

Once the balaclava had started going on more often than it didn’t, even in his civilian life, he’d stopped caring about how he lived when he wasn’t on the job. 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford a house like Price or Gaz, as Lieutenant only the Captain was paid more than him, and all of them were paid almost absurdly high salaries due to the sort of work they did, when compared to regular soldiers. 

But it just hadn’t been a priority, since he spent so much of his leave working out, training, picking up the odd bodyguard contract here or there, doing freelance glorified cyberstalking and/or assassinations for Laswell’s connections when she asked if he was free to, essentially just wasting time however he could before Price called again and they were gone once more. 

With a wife (because she would be his wife) and a baby, however, a place like the run down, threadbare and stained ramshackle building they lived in now wouldn’t do at all. 

So in between his surveillance and his planning he was watching the neighborhoods the others in his squad lived in for any houses on the market. It would make him feel better to know that she was near friends and familiar faces when he was away. 

He’d toyed around very briefly with the thought of Scotland, but dismissed it just as quick. Soap wasn’t exactly settled, and it’d be annoying to have to move if he did. Gaz and his wife had some neighbors who were apparently thinking about downsizing now that their children were grown, and Price had moved his bird in within three months but she still owned her old place though it sat completely empty. 

It gave him options, but he wasn’t going to pull a trigger without her input, even though that was unfortunately a ways off before he could broach it with her. He would eventually, when the time was right. 

Because he wanted to give her everything. A good house, pretty clothes that suited her, a shiny ring on her finger, everything. Because it was clear from her background that she hadn’t ever had much. 

Looking into her life had been normal, routine, but what he found could only be described as dismal. All she’d had before she’d run was a crap job at a bar and half of an art degree gathering dust. 

And now a report from her ex to Scotland Yard that she was missing, though he got into their system and deprioritized it, adding himself (or the cover he used when working within their system for Laswell or her contacts) as a watcher to be notified if anything changed. 

Her ex had put in the missing person report not twenty minutes after she’d boarded the bus in their shitty little town and left. 

Going back to review the street footage from the day she’d ran, Simon found the man had been drinking in a pub just down the road. Waiting for her, a spider denied its dinner. 

When the time came, he was going to thoroughly enjoy watching all life drain out of that man. 

Of course he didn’t know how many times she’d been hurt, but even once was still too fucking many times. Ghost’d take care of it, though. He had eyes and trackers on the arsehole at all times, at his leisure to deliver him his well deserved fate. 

Of course he could do it at any point, and had serious difficulty restraining himself whenever he thought about why a smart girl like her would have had to run so fast and not try to even gather together a bit of money to set herself up in safety, but Price had a standing order for no killing unless he gave them the verbal authorization. Simon didn’t have a single doubt that he’d get it, but he was waiting to have at least kissed her before he killed her abuser. 

Seemed bad form otherwise. 

Plus, Price was on holiday with his pregnant fiancée, and if Simon interrupted their bliss to ask for approval on a ‘non emergency’ execution he’d be running drills until he dropped dead. 

So. He was in a holding pattern as he watched over her, gathering information, ensuring she was safe on the dark walks back to their building after a late shift, letting her get used to his presence from a distance, letting her see him keeping watch, letting her slowly come to terms with his shadow and size and turn it over in her head to associate it with safety. 

From what he’d gathered, she’d made a run for it the second she’d found out she was pregnant. The last thing he could find her doing in her hometown on the other side of England under her real name was a doctor’s appointment. After that she’d gotten onto a bus and just left. No bag, no money, no plan, nothing. 

Luckily for her, she’d landed with him. 

Simon would take care of everything, including her baby. 

Actually he was looking forward to it. 

Gaz and his wife had three kids, and were already thinking about a fourth. Price and his fiancée were six months along and were the guardians of her sister’s kid, so the whole team was familiar enough with the process. 

Nick and Wesley loved their ‘uncles’, their baby girl Tilly seemingly no different even at less than a year old, and Simon’s phone background (before he’d changed it to a picture of his future wife) had been of Nick dressed up in a skull mask and suit for Halloween last year, like what Simon had worn to Gaz and Molly’s vow renewal. 

Price was all business same as ever on the job, mostly. But now, he made sure to send emails and take secure calls wherever and whenever he could stuff them in during deployments. By now they’d all been in the same car or transport with him while he gave his love to his girls (and dutifully passed on love from Lydia and Chloe when it was extended by them), and they’d all caught him smiling down at his phone as he typed out messages, or watched him stare into the distance as he listened to a voicemail, not seeing anything but their faces in his head. 

And god knew Gaz never shut up about his family, too cocky that he’d locked his girl down before his first real deployment, his grade school sweetheart fairytale. They were all, even Ghost, content to let him ramble on about how wonderful it was, what a miracle, blah blah blah, because if Gaz was all starry-eyed over his wife and children then at least he and Johnny weren’t plotting on their downtime. 

Plotting always led to Price having to stop Ghost from killing the two of them when they pulled yet another childish prank. 

Really it was ridiculous. They rolled their eyes and groaned at his jokes and called him an old man but they got to act like ten year olds? 

One mission where the helicopter was already going down and somehow Simon got blamed as if he’d done it on purpose, meaning that every time he was supposed to fly them or drive them anywhere they whined about how he was going to kill them. And Price said he couldn’t strangle them with their safety tethers? 

Un-fucking-believable. 

Although. Well. Fine. In the end it was frustrating but ultimately good that he never did get to follow up on his promises of lethal vengeance, because even if he’d never say it out loud, he did love them. They were family. 

For the first time in a very long time, Ghost could think that sentence consciously, almost, almost free from pain. 

The sweet, pretty little doe downstairs had more to do with that than anything else. 

Yeah, it was lucky for her that she’d picked this building, picked the flat directly beneath his. 

The cheeky thing was even piggybacking off of his internet with an absurdly cheap mobile she’d gotten from a pawn shop, but he didn’t mind really. It just made it easier to keep an eye on her. 

Other than her extremely depressing ongoing job search, and the panicked checking on her ex’s social media account in incognito mode (fuck’s sake, she was so cute thinking that did absolutely anything at all), she watched a lot of videos about art and painting, and of course, she was constantly reading and watching videos about pregnancy and babies. 

Her search history alone was like a constant stream of thought, and reading it made him ache. His pretty little doe was lonely and scared, and existing off of irregular tips from the sleazy bar up the road she’d managed to get a few shifts from. 

Of course he spent each of her night shifts watching from the alley on the other side of the street, out of sight but within reach, and walking her back home with her none the wiser.

All part of the plan.  

The plan had officially started when he’d been kept up late one night with her frantically searching for tips on saving money as a new mother, watching her search up prices of everything baby related from diapers to strollers. 

It had been…frustrating wasn’t a strong enough word. He hated feeling caged, like he wasn’t able to do a thing. Wasn’t a stretch to imagine she felt similarly, cooped up in her ratty flat bare of almost any furniture but a mirror that had been left by the previous tenant and an air mattress she'd dragged home from a charity shop, a place she existed in silence and solitude just like Simon, cutting herself off from everyone and everything around her, with very little in the way of viable options to live, not just survive. 

For her protection, because she was a good and careful girl, but still. Lonely. Isolating. Vulnerable. 

And using a fake name, if anything were to go wrong it’d be hard to for her to get help and it restricted her to jobs that didn’t exactly ask for tax identifying information. He doubted she had much of a plan for that, but by that point she wouldn’t have to worry about it. He’d handle it for her. 

Truthfully, he would have made a more concrete first move, and much earlier, but the memory of those bruises on her face lingered, the flashes of her shying away from their landlord, one arm curled protectively around her middle. 

No, he had to be gentle about it, or as gentle like as he could reasonably fake. He had to be careful, and not spook her. Had to lead her to him so she’d be comfortable. And once he had her, he’d keep her safe and warm and hip deep in canvases and paint and baby clothes in some little brick house near his team. 

Which led to the actionable part of the plan, that the first step of had admittedly more mixed results than he would have liked. 

So when he’d decided to make his first ‘move’, it was a cool and gray Wednesday. 

He’d made sure to take the stairs down from his floor to the ground floor, and of course very particularly the ones that let out in front of her flat. For once he made sure his movements were audible, for him possibly even exaggerated. 

Catching her attention. Drawing her in. Waiting just in front of the stairs, pretending to be texting on his phone until he heard her soft footsteps come to her door, saw the shadow of her body under the crack at the bottom as she looked at him through the peephole, and only then did he put his balaclava on and turn to leave the building itself. 

Watching his surveillance to see that she’d immediately started searching for ‘gang symbols near me’ and 'gangs that wear masks near me' was both funny, and also not. 

He didn’t want his sweet little dove to be scared of him, after all. 

So when he came back an hour later, he again waited to hear her move to the door to look through the peephole before he set down the box of diapers outside her door, and then went back to the stairwell and up to his flat. 

Which brought on a flurry of searches like ‘how loud is vomiting’ and ‘how to tell if your neighbors can hear you through the walls’. But pretty quickly after that, the tone of the google searches changed to ‘can I be arrested for accepting stolen diapers from a stranger’ and ‘what is the penalty for stealing diapers’. 

He wasn’t a common criminal, and of course he hadn’t stolen them, so a few days later when he repeated the process, he’d left the receipt crumpled beneath the box, like he’d forgotten it there totally by accident. 

She’d been quiet that afternoon, and when he followed her to her shift he’d noticed she seemed distracted, pensive. 

During her walk back home he ran off three would-be muggers, and she never knew the difference. He let her walk into their building first, let her get into her little flat before he followed silently. 

Not ten minutes after they were both in for the night, he heard her door open, and then shortly after it the door to the stairwell. Standing in his kitchen, bathed in the light of his open refrigerator, he watched the grainy footage on his phone from his camera in the hall as she hesitated outside his door, holding a flimsy takeaway container from the pub she worked at. 

He recognized the label on the bag. She brought something similar home every shift after she was done with work, and he was positive it was the only regular meal she had.

Which made it next up on his list of things to provide for her. 

But didn’t explain what she was doing outside his door holding food. He watched her on his phone through the cameras as she raised her fist and knocked three times, set the food down just at the crack of his front door and then scurried away as quickly as her sweet little feet could carry her. 

He went to his door on auto-pilot. Opened it, stared down at the bag tucked there for another long minute before taking it inside, unpacking it on his countertop. 

This was unexpected. 

Incredibly encouraging, but completely unexpected. 

Really he hadn’t expected her to be so…sweet. Not so soon. 

He stared at the food (steak and ale pie) for a long minute, trying to decide what to do next. Rearranging pieces of the plan. Returning the food was unthinkable, she’d think he was refusing her kindness. He’d hurt her feelings. 

But her not eating? 

Also unthinkable. 

Which left him with only one real viable option, although perhaps a bit more on the nose, not to mention a little riskier than he would’ve originally preferred. Then again, that could work in his favor. No one got shit done without risks, after all. 

He would have to cook for her. He wasn’t exactly a homemaker, but he did have a few things he could do. Had to, or he wouldn’t have lived this long. 

The weather outside was cold and rainy, had been for days, and he knew well that their building didn’t have shit for insulation, so he knew exactly what to make. 

Luckily he had everything he needed for it, even though he didn’t cook all that often. He went through the steps with calm, laser focus, shoving away the animal panting in his head that she was going to eat the food he provided for her. 

In an hour he was walking down the stairs, hot skillet in hand and the bottom padded by one of his shirts (he didn’t exactly have a plethora of pot holders…or at least that was the excuse he came up with), the fragrant scent of cottage pie heavy in the air as he set down the skillet on the rickety little table that held their mail parcels outside her door. 

For now, it was empty, and moreover a convenient place for him to put the food while he knocked on her door, trying to walk the line between loud enough for her to hear and not too loud to scare her. 

But as he looked down, he smirked faintly. No need to worry about it, because his sweet girl was waiting just on the other side of the door. 

Like she had, he turned away after knocking, but his return to his own flat was leisurely, not rushed. 

He’d been half hoping she’d open the door, let him see her up close and in person. He was disappointed but not surprised when she didn’t. 

On his phone, he watched her crack the door open, sticking her pretty head out. He cursed that it didn’t have audio when he saw her mouth open slightly in a gasp when she saw the cottage pie. 

He paused just inside his door, not even hearing it close behind him as he watched her press her hands to her face, clearly fighting back tears on the grainy image. He’d gone for speed of installation and stealth over clarity of picture and he was kicking himself for it. 

She quickly got herself under control, slender hand picking up the skillet (and the shirt) carefully and bringing it inside. 

If he hadn’t stopped smiling for hours that night, then no one had to know. 

And if he fisted his cock in the shower thinking about her eating what he gave her, her hands over his shirt, the implausible but farfetched possibility of her even wearing it, fuck- 

Then that was his fucking business. 

An admittedly comfortable routine developed. He’d come down the stairs, wait for her to rush to the door to see him before he pulled on his balaclava or a black medical mask, he’d go out and have a pint or grocery shop or even go see Gaz and Molly and their growing brood and help out around the house, before he’d come back bringing her something small for the baby like a blanket or a bottle warmer, and always, always food. Sometimes it would be from his favorite pub or takeaway, sometimes he’d come back home and cook her something. 

Whenever he cooked for her he’d watch her eat it in her bed, phone propped up against one of the boxes of diapers he’d left, playing a Bob Ross video. 

And every time he checked, she was wearing his shirt. 

It wasn’t just then that she wore it, either. Every time she got in bed she was wearing it, the long sleeves having to be shoved up to her forearms so they didn’t cover her hands, the hem hanging down long enough on her legs that she didn’t need to wear anything else, at least when she was alone in the privacy of her own space - so she didn’t. 

Seeing her in it that first time, the night after he’d given her the cottage pie and only a few hours after she’d dropped off the clean skillet in front of his door with a little card in the bottom that just had a red heart on it, he’d nearly done something fucking stupid like break down her door and lick her pussy til she cried and forgot about everything but him. 

He settled for beating off while he watched her cuddle with her pillow, sleeping soundly. 

She wore his shirt every night, and every day he lingered a little longer outside her door, or when he walked her home, watching her back, he let himself drift a little closer. 

He knew she knew he was there, had spotted the first moment she’d noticed him watching the pub from across the street, leaning against the corner of the alley, smoking. 

Those eyes had gone wide at first, and she’d frozen from where she was wiping down the window booth. But then, the fear just evaporated, just melted right off and she’d ducked her head, a beat too slow to hide her smile. 

She’d recognized him, though of course the skull mask was fairly recognizable. 

It was exactly the kind of reaction he’d been hoping for. 

As much as he wanted to press, wanted to take the next step and knock on her door and actually wait for her to answer, he wouldn’t yet. She’d have to take that next step when she was ready for it. 

Rushing her wasn’t something he could afford, and he’d be dead in the water if he pushed her too fast or too hard. So he’d be patient and keep drawing her in closer. 

Which was of course when Laswell called and said she needed him for an emergency job. One, two days tops. A routine infiltration assassination that needed outside help for a deep cover team already in place so they all had visible alibis. 

The kind of thing he never would have thought twice about before. 

But now, even though he said yes (what else could he say, that he needed to stay in England in case his future wife asked him his name?), his thoughts were on his neighbor, watching another Bob Ross video with the volume up. 

That meant she was doing laundry. 

He looked at his go bag in hand, and made a decision. Time for another risk. 

Fuck it. 

Like usual, he kept his steps loud on the stairs, fighting back a grin as he heard her rushing about in her flat to shut the video off and come up to her door. 

But this time he didn’t pull the balaclava on, and didn’t turn to leave. He went right to her door, and knocked. 

Her shadow stayed put under the door, and the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. 

Again, he knocked. Softly, he said, “Come on, love. Need to talk to you.” 

Through the door he heard her breathy gasp. He kept his eyes on the door handle, frowning at it. He honestly wasn’t sure if she’d open the door at all, if she’d just stay where she was and force him to tell her through the hollow core veneer.

But then, the handle turned, and the door cracked. 

He stepped back, giving her a little space as her face (pretty, so fucking pretty, fuck those hazel eyes were so much brighter in person than in pictures) appeared in the crack, surprised and a little wary. 

“…yes?” She said finally. 

Her hand was curled around the edge of the door, and he recognized the fabric. Recognized the bleach stain on the cuff stretched out over her knuckles. 

All the blood in his body turned and went south as he realized she was wearing his shirt. And only his shirt. That was why she’d hesitated. She wasn’t wearing any fucking pants. 

And she’d still opened the door. 

For him. 

God fucking damn everything to hell, Laswell included. 

He cleared his throat, realizing he’d just been stood there staring for far too long. “I’m leaving town for a day, maybe two.” 

To her credit, she didn’t try to even pretend to not know why he was telling her. But the pinch in her brow and the fear bleeding into her eyes made his stomach turn sour. 

“Really?” Her voice was quiet. 

He watched her closely, reading the question she wanted to ask in the tense purse of her pretty lips. 

Ask it. Ask it, pretty doe, ask for it and I’ll give you anything you fucking want, swear I will. Tell me to stay. 

But she didn’t, to his great disappointment. 

“O-okay,” she said quietly. 

He stepped forward, drawing her gaze, greedily drinking in her faint, sudden inhalation of air, the dilation of her pupils as he towered over her. “Be safe,” he told her, voice firm but hopefully not cruel. “If you need me, call.” 

Lifting a hand into the space between them he offered her a card, blank of everything but his number. “I’ll answer. No matter what.” 

Barely a second passed before she moved her hand on the door, carefully taking the card. She stretched her fingers out just a hair more than necessary, causing their fingers to brush, and he watched her shiver ever so slightly, barely enough to even be noticed. 

“Good girl,” he said quietly, a thread of sound. 

She still heard, hazel eyes snapping up to him, plump mouth parted. 

He smirked. Reaching for his balaclava he stepped back and pulled it on. “Remember. Stay safe.” 

Wide-eyed and blushing, she nodded mutely. 

Much as he hated to, he turned to leave. 

“Wait!” 

He glanced back, heart pounding in his dick when he saw she’d opened the door wider, showing him a flash of her bare legs, the fabric of his shirt hanging loose around her body. She’d probably be able to wear it even at nine months, and the mental image of that possibility made him so fucking horny. 

“Wha's tha', love?” 

She shivered again, a little stronger this time. He watched her hesitate, a flicker of caution crossing her face. 

Good girl, careful, clever little doe. But you don’t ever need to hesitate like that with me. 

Slowly, he stepped forward again, crowding up against the crack in the door, looking down at her while his blood pooled low in his hips. “Tell me, doe.” 

Another shiver, that blush deepening even as the hesitation vanished and any tension along with it. “What’s your name?” 

“Simon. Lieutenant Simon Riley.” 

He watched her mouth his name, a hot pulse of arousal jolting through him. He wondered if she’d be honest when he asked, low and rough, “What’s yours, pretty doe?” 

“I-” she paused, tugging her lower lip between her teeth. And then, she straightened, chin lifting slightly. “Olivia.” 

Honesty it was for her, then. 

The smile on his face under the balaclava was huge, victorious, vicious. “Olivia.” 

Through the wider opening in the door he watched her legs press together, the heat in her cheeks flaring brighter. 

Fuck it. 

What was one more risk when she’d responded so beautifully to all the ones before? 

Reaching out, he brushed the backs of his fingers over the smooth skin of her cheek. Just like he thought she would she gasped, and hung for a second in a tense, awkward posture like she couldn’t decide if she should move away. 

Simon stayed rooted, staring at her. 

And after a moment that tension went right out of her and she sighed, body going lax as she leaned into his touch. 

Just like he thought. Still skittish, but she trusted him, enough to seek the heat of his fingers to try and alleviate the touch-starved loneliness she must be enduring. 

He would know. 

If it weren’t for Soap having zero concept of personal space he might never have been able to fix the itch beneath his own skin while they were deployed. 

Just something else for me to take care of for you, pretty doe. 

“You - you said two days?” She opened her eyes slowly, head still tilted into his palm as his thumb brushed over her cheekbone. Her pupils nearly swallowed stormy hazel whole. 

He grunted. “Hopefully just one. If you need me sooner, call.” 

Nodding, she lifted her own hand, curling cool fingers around his wrist, holding his hand there for a moment. “Okay.” 

Moving his fingers from her cheekbone to her chin, he lifted her face up slightly. There was so much he wanted to say to her. He brushed his thumb over her parted lips. 

“See you soon, love.” 

Reluctantly he let his hand drop, though his touch lingered as long as it could. So did her fingers around his wrist. 

Olivia blessed him with a short, shy smile. “See you soon.” 

- 

If Laswell noticed that he attacked the mission like a demon determined to make a point, she didn’t say other than a hedged non-question about how his leave was going. 

Fucking CIA. 

Just because Simon understood the typical spy-talk bullshit didn’t mean he liked doing it all the time. 

He showed up, got the intel, got in, stuck a knife in the guy’s lung and then severed his spinal cord to be safe, and then he got out clean. 

The longer he was away from London the worse the itch under his skin got. His phone hadn’t rung, but that was very little consolation. 

He wanted eyes on Olivia at all times. He cursed that he’d neglected to get Soap or someone to watch her, but he was self-aware enough to know he would’ve hated that too, hated that it wasn’t him. Knew it might’ve scared her to have someone else watching over her. 

Very quickly he resolved to get her a dog. A Doberman or a Shepherd was the safer bet. Something to hound her steps and keep predators away when he wasn’t there. 

Killing her ex would help too, he was sure of it. 

The whole time he was there he was snappish and brutal like a coiled snake, extreme even for him, but there wasn’t a thing he could’ve done about it even if he’d wanted to. The whole time he’d had an itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t shake. Something like a warning. 

When Laswell finally gave him the go to leave, he’d been practically halfway to the tarmac. He hadn’t even strapped in on the COD before he had his phone in hand, pulling up the surveillance cameras. 

A deep, angry knot of tension in his chest eased when it’d loaded to show Olivia in her bedroom making the bed. 

She’d been wearing his shirt. Her dark blonde hair was up, baring her pretty neck. He would leave marks there, soon as he convinced her to let him. Suck bruises onto her skin, leave imprints of his teeth marking that she belonged to someone. 

Belonged to him. 

I could text her. 

The realization had come without prompting as he watched her, traced the lines of her limbs with his gaze the way he ached to with his hands. 

I could just open up a new message and send it. 

For a moment when he’d sat there as the plane hummed to life, he’d been drunk on that realization. The possibility. Fuck, he could’ve just called her, heard her voice straight from the source.  

But then she would’ve asked how he knew her number when he had only given her his. 

Fuck. 

With great restraint, he managed to keep himself in check. But the whole plane ride back was the worst kind of waiting. 

Ghost didn't share the sniper mentality like Gaz or Price. Patience didn’t always come easily and naturally to him. Especially when he’d been waiting so long already. 

After the COD landed in their facility in the south of England, he felt a little bit better. It was good to be on the same soil as her. 

Sixteen hours on the job, ten more until in flight time to and from Morocco. Only less than an hour to go before he’d be walking in through the entrance of their building. He was going to beat that two day estimate. 

He wondered if she’d give him another smile when she saw him. 

But he’d barely gotten into his car when his stomach, unprompted by anything he could see or hear, suddenly flipped, that sour feeling going up by a million. 

He pulled out his phone just before it beeped. A notification from the bloke he’d had watching Olivia’s ex’s house. The man hadn’t come home from work at the usual time. 

Before he even pulled up the log he was tapped into to watch the man’s credit card purchases, he knew what he’d see. A bus ticket. 

He even knew where he was headed. Somehow, someway, he’d found Olivia. 

A cold sensation bloomed in his stomach, like it was encasing his body in ice. His hands went rock steady, that sour feeling sharpening into a blade to cut with. 

Putting the car into drive, he started moving, barking out an order to his phone to call Price even as he pulled up the footage of his cameras, seeing Olivia sound asleep on her little air mattress taking a nap before her shift. 

The phone rang once, twice, then- 

“Someone had bloody better be dead.” 

In the background, a sharp gasp and then a soft smack. 

“Oi, woman!” 

“Don’t say that! How many times have I told you not to jinx yourself?” 

Cute as Price and Lydia were, really adorable, whatever he did not have time. “Price, I need a kill auth.” 

A pause. 

Then, soft rustling as Price moved away from his bird. 

His voice was somber. “Details?” 

“Abusive prick who’s hunting my neighbor. She’s on the run and he’s sniffed her out.” 

Price didn’t hesitate. “Done. Keep it clean.” 

Ghost just hung up, not dignifying that with a response. He weaved through traffic, ignoring the blare of horns and shouting drivers. They could all piss off. He had to be there, had to put a bullet in this man’s head before he so much as looked at Olivia again. 

With one hand he reached over and pulled a silencer out of his glove box. He had everything else he’d need for clean up in his car, and a place to take the body after. 

In their building, even if someone heard, fuck even if they saw the shot, no one would say shit. 

Luckily that wouldn’t be a problem in their area this time of day on a Thursday. The building was practically empty, would be for the next four hours before Steinman in 2B brought home a six pack and four cartons of the vilest cigarettes Simon’d ever had the misfortune of being on the same floor as. 

Simon was ready, he was more than ready to do this. He eyed his phone, open to the live feed from their building’s thankfully still empty hallway. 

He just had to get there first. He pressed harder on the gas. 

Nothing had happened by the time he sped into the building’s tiny car park, and he couldn’t see anything when he did a quick scan of the area. 

So he wasn’t here yet. Good. 

He put the silencer on the gun and tucked it into his waistband as he walked inside, most of his gear still on, the hard face mask still in place.  

The soft rush of steps muffled behind walls and a door had his breath catching in his throat. 

And then, even better, a soft gasp. Her door opened wide, and she was beaming, dark blonde hair still wet from the shower, wearing his shirt- 

“You’re back!” she chirped, stepping out and flinging herself into his arms like he didn’t look like death come to collect. 

Her arms hooked around his shoulders and he was helpless against the urge to drop his face into her neck, groaning faintly as his arms corded against her back to lift her completely off her feet, walking her back into her flat. 

She didn’t seem the least bit concerned, her face tucked likewise into the collar of his quarter zip, her soft mouth against the fabric of the balaclava as she spoke. “It’s barely been a day.” Her arms tightened as he knocked the door shut behind them with his heel. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re back-” 

He should put her down and tell her that her ex was on his way. He should send her up to his flat and tell her to barricade herself in his bathroom until he came to get her. He should let her put on some fucking pants. 

He didn’t fucking want to. 

The skin of his palms felt like they were sizzling, so tantalizingly close to her bare skin. The scent of her, her fruity soap and shampoo mixed with the barest lingering trace of his own skin hung heady and drugging in his nose. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, squeezing her waist, probably too tight. 

She stopped talking, turning her head, leaning back. And now those hazel eyes were wide and worried. “Are you hurt? Is everything alright? What’s wrong?” 

Fuck him for putting worry on that face. “Not hurt,” he said, as reassuringly as he could while adrenaline kept pouring through his body. “Not hurt.” 

Goddammit how was he going to tell her this. “I-”

A few steps behind them, her door rattled in it’s frame as someone pounded on it. 

“Ollie!” A man’s voice called, higher pitched than Simon had expected, nasal and sharp. “Bitch I know you’re in there! Get the fuck out before I come in there and drag you out.” 

Olivia had gone a dead weight in his arms. Her hands were white-knuckled on his sleeves, hazel eyes horrified as any last remnant of her joy at seeing Simon evaporated. 

“Shh,” he said softly, moving quickly. Her bathroom was in the same place his was, and he set her down carefully on the counter. When she tried to speak, clinging to him, the first tear falling as the door rattled again he shook his head. “I’m going to handle it, doe. Do you hear me?” 

He locked eyes with her, promising darkly, “He will never fucking bother you again.” 

She stared back at him. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, but it wasn’t something he’d seen before. It wasn’t suspicion or hesitation or even surprise. It looked…it looked like relief. “Okay,” she whispered. “Please…please be safe?” 

He shoved his mask up, baring his face so he could kiss her forehead, rubbing his thumbs under her eyes, catching her tears. “Stay here,” he told her firmly. “Until I come and get you. It may be a while and you won’t hear anything, but do not come out. Understood?” 

She nodded. 

“Good girl.” 

Another flash in her eyes, a slight shiver. 

Fuck, no time for that but he would revisit it. 

He backed away, pulling the mask back down. “Lock the door behind me, love.” 

On the other side, he waited until she did. And then, he took his time, ambling back out into the main room. 

Olivia’s flat was completely barren to the casual observer. No furniture, no food out on the counter tops, no magnets on the fridge or papers or junk cluttering up the surfaces. Nothing on the walls, either. 

No evidence that she was actually there, or ever had been. It soothed something in him to realize that the dead man walking wouldn't ever get even a hint of her presence again before he ate a bullet from Simon's gun.

With the place empty like this, it looked almost like the trap that it was.

It was actually the perfect background for when the fucker finally managed to shoulder his way through the door and went stumbling to the floor, crying out, favoring his shoulder. 

Fucking moron. 

“That little bitch,” he hissed to the floor. “I’ll kill her for this, I swear I’ll-”

The click of Ghost’s gun cocking cut him off, the silencer pressed against his temple. He relished the uptick of his breathing, the shake of those thin fingers. “Get up. Slow.” 

As soon as the man started to move, Ghost moved back, keeping the gun pointed at his skull but out of his reach. 

Beneath the mask, he smirked as the guy got his first good look at him and went paper white, starting to stammer in terror. “S-sir, I’m s-s-so fuckin’ sorry, I’m j-just looking for my girlfriend, I s-s-swear!” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he said calmly, “and turn around. Start walking.” 

What happened next was routine. Getting him into the boot of his car already lined with vinyl, ignoring the tears and begging and pathetic bribes to just pull the trigger twice in quick succession, then tuck the vinyl tightly around him so nothing spilled out. 

A phone call later, and his usual spot was ready. He dropped the body off at the mortuary two streets over where he knew it would disappear. 

In a day he’d be nothing but ash, any leftovers fed to the mortician’s cousin’s hogs out in the countryside, the ashes scattered and disposed of in some random construction zone's concrete mixer. 

Five years from now he’d just be another cold case on some overworked Scotland Yard officer’s desk, forgotten and unremarkable. 

Ten years from now not even Olivia would remember him. Simon would make sure of that. 

He spent a scant minute after the drop off prepping his boot for just another such occasion. Not that he ever foresaw these sorts of events, never went looking for them, but then fortune favored the bold and the prepared. 

Soon enough he was walking back down the hall of the first floor of their building, glaring at the splintered lock of her front door as he passed through it. A weight was gone, some knot in his muscle no pressure could unravel finally relieved. 

He knocked on the bathroom door gently. “It’s Simon, Olivia. Unlock the door, pretty doe.” 

A pause. Then the click of the door unlatching. 

Olivia’s face peered at him through the crack, but she pulled it wide when she saw for sure that it was him. Her face was swollen and red from crying but she burst into fresh tears. 

“Doe,” he crooned, bending down to sweep her up off off her feet and into his arms. “It’s all over. He’ll never ever bother you again. I promise.” 

He started walking out, carrying her like it was nothing. He’d put her in his bed, with him if she allowed it, and let her catch a few hours of sleep. And then he’d cook her something, maybe another cottage pie, and order dessert to be delivered. Probably something with chocolate. Something with a lot of sugar, both as a chemical anti-depressant and because she just fucking deserved a goddamned treat. She needed more meat on her bones. 

“He’ll come back,” she cried, clinging to him tight like she wanted to crawl beneath his skin. He’d let her if that was what she needed. “He always comes back.” 

Snorting, Simon brushed a hand over her damp hair. “Not this time.” 

He climbed the stairs with little effort, trying to come up with something useful to do other than stay silent and rub her back, her hair as she cried into his shoulder. Her legs were locked around his hips and it was proving to be monumentally distracting, to say the least. 

But that would have to come later. Taking care of her would take a different context for now. 

With one hand he drew out his keys and unlocked his door, holding her securely against his body with his other hand while he walked through. He kissed the shell of her ear as he kicked the door shut behind him and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, reached behind him to flip the lock before he finally, greedily spread his hand out over her back again. 

“You need to sleep,” he said, walking her back to his bedroom. “And then eat. And then we can talk.” 

She didn’t even hesitate this time, just sniffled and sighed. “A nap does sound good.” 

He chuckled, kissed her ear again. “Good girl.” 

She shivered, curling around him tighter. 

In comparison to a normal flat, Simon’s wasn’t very decorated, but at least he did have some things that Soap and Gaz’s wife Molly had insisted on. So he at least had a little more in the way of comforting amenities than Olivia had as he set her down on the top of the line mattress in the king sized bed that only barely fit him when he managed to catch a few hours. 

Olivia was slow to let go of her grip on him, and his hands lingered too. He stood there, thighs against the mattress, her knees on either side of his legs as she stared up at him, eyes red and puffy but less glossy with tears. 

“How can you know he won’t come back?” she whispered. 

There were a thousand different ways he could answer that question, some worse than others. What he settled on was cupping her face in his palm, and asking, “Don’t I always keep you safe?” 

Probably France. They had a son in the countryside there. John only knew because Mr. Smythe never failed to complain about it to anyone who’d listen (or captive audiences like John when he’d been trimming their hedges for them out of fear that Mr. Smythe would get a heart attack just lifting the clippers) that their only child had followed some bird over the channel and stayed for the duration. 

For the most part, John didn’t expect having a new neighbor to matter. He’d lived in this house for almost ten years now, if you could call it living in it when he’d spent on average about five months total out of the year there.  

He’d put a lot of work into the property, adding back in historical details and flourishes that had been gutted by the previous owner ‘flipping’ the property. He’d gotten it as a steal, some hideous attempt at modernism that to him just made everything look like cubes stacked on top of each other in various shades of gray. 

Now, the place was back to its original polished hickory floors top to bottom, he’d finished putting up his own hand carved interpretation of the original intricately carved trim and wrought iron filigree back where they belonged throughout the house, the plumbing and electric were all cleaned up and brought up to code (and modern day standards) behind the walls he’d ripped out to do so and put back together with better insulation. 

After ten years he’d finally cobbled together enough time between his actual job and his work as the neighborhood contractor/handyman when he was on leave that the inside of his own house was finally ready for the second to last step: paint. 

Fuck, that was a depressing thought. It took him ten years just to be ready to fucking paint the place. 

His only excuse was that there’d been a lot of shitty work to undo and fix, not to mention that disaster with the fucking plumbing when his first ex wife left, and he didn’t trust a contractor to do it to his spec while he was deployed, so there’d been, admittedly, a lot of delays. 

Not to mention that the house had seen two different mistresses enter and attempt to make the place habitable, and finding no success with that or with marriage to him, promptly exit, in admittedly two very different states of mind. 

Well, here he was at long last. Drop cloths placed on his floors, trim carefully taped over, and five (the sales clerk had sworn they were all different but to John they were all fucking identical) shades of white swatched on the wall for him to stare at like he could actually tell the difference and have a preference between them. 

knock knock knock 

Thank fuck. 

He gratefully took his leave of staring at paint swatches, unwilling to admit defeat and call Gaz’s wife as the only homeowner he knew and trusted for help, in favor of answering the knock at his door. 

What he found was…unexpected to say the least. 

Again, he’d known that he had a new neighbor, but he’d only been home less than twenty four hours, mostly just long enough to sleep, shower, eat, and pick up the paint. He’d never seen his new neighbor, not even a glimpse. 

But this had to be her. 

She couldn’t be older than late twenties, hardly up to his chin, her oversized clothes only hinting at the delicious curves beneath, and way too fucking pretty, mousey brown hair tied up in a messy knot on the top of her head, exhaustion lining every plane of her face as she stood in threadbare sweats on his porch, arms cradling a sleeping baby, big blue eyes red-rimmed with tears and shining with a wild, manic sort of determination. 

“Can you build a bassinet?” Her voice shook, because despite the visible effort she was making to keep it level, the sweet little melody wobbled with tears all the same. 

She was trying to put on a brave front, that was clear enough to see. But her lower lip was trembling, and no matter how hard she fought them back or tilted her chin up stubbornly, tears just kept sliding down her cheeks. 

John nodded, not looking away from her. “Yeah.” 

He’d cut down the fucking tree in his own goddamn front yard and build one from scratch if it would dry those tears.  

Relief slumped her shoulders, a fresh wave of tears falling in answer that she tried to brush away discreetly. “Good. Um.” 

She ducked her head, one loose tendril of hair brushing her damp cheek as she adjusted the baby, hiding her face. He could see she felt awkward now that the feverish determination had evaporated, leaving her unsure how to move forward. 

He’d help her with that if she needed, but he didn’t think she did. 

Come on, princess, keep being brave. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she looked up at him and said, “I’m Lydia.” 

Good girl. 

Lydia. Pretty. Old fashioned, but it fit her still.  

“John Price.” He reached out, gently cupping her elbow in the cradle of his palm, leading her inside, and she moved easily with his direction. “Let me get some tools, yeah? Don’t want you to have to wait out on the porch.” 

She just nodded, brushing a hand over the sleeping baby’s head before she placed a kiss on the baby’s forehead. 

The image of her standing in his entryway holding a baby sunk inside of him, so deep and so fast there wasn’t a prayer of stopping it. And God help him, he didn’t even try. 

He didn’t even bother arguing with himself as he went into the next room and started gathering up some tools. Wasn’t worth going through the facade when he knew how it’d wind up. 

Funny thing about him was that, for all that he was a careful, deliberate man, he made his decisions pretty recklessly. 

Like buying a house sight unseen while in a completely different country. 

Or deciding with one glance and the most innocent of touches that he was missing something in his life: her. 

Fuck, she shouldn’t have brought a baby to his doorstep. Every instinct in him was screaming, clawing, and he knew they wouldn’t shut up until she had a rock on her (for the moment, bare) finger and his cum in her womb. 

It suddenly made sense, the fleeting passion that had turned first to vague apathy and then bitter regret with his first two marriages. Some part of him had always known that neither of his ex-wives were meant for him, but in his youth (and his blindness to all but the deep rooted instinct to breed create a family) he’d shoved that gut feeling aside in favor of trying to force things to work out. 

They hadn’t, and he’d been left with a vicious, acrid taste in his mouth regarding that knot of unfulfilled ambition he’d let gather dust ever since the last marriage had faded into obscurity years ago. 

Only, now, to suddenly rear it’s head higher and faster and harder than it had ever even stirred before, and God help him he wasn’t even going to go through with pretending like he was anything but eager to get started. 

Lydia’d awoken something primal and undeniable, and the poor bird didn’t even know. 

Wasn’t aware that by the end of the year she’d be wearing his ring and addicted to his cock, and he could only hope carrying his baby. 

Odd how shit worked out. 

If he weren’t the man he was, the time it took to gather gather some of his tools wouldn’t be nearly enough time to iron out a plan of attack. 

Because he wanted her, wanted the baby in her arms to be called theirs, to give her another to match. Wasn’t that much of a shock, he knew who he was at his core, and despite the two divorces, he was a romantic at heart. 

At least, romantic was a prettier word for what he was than the unvarnished truth - a beast, possessive and obsessive. Though even that had never sunk in deep with either of his wives, not like the teary-eyed angel standing in his entryway. 

Having her was a necessity. That much was already clear. 

But he had to go about things carefully. Lydia was clearly fragile in the moment, which while it would be extraordinarily useful for his purposes, it also presented a problem. 

John usually preferred a rougher approach, teasing, even a little mean if necessary, designed to corner his target against a wall, confuse them just enough that they melted all the quicker when he came back sweet, luring them into the dark. 

With her, he couldn’t be too rough. He had to be gentle. 

Even if he wasn’t all that good at gentle. 

It was a risk, one he didn’t have long to calculate, but it would be worth the effort. Lydia, the baby in her arms, they would be worth the effort. 

Very well then. He had his approach, and sweet girl that she was, Lydia’d been the one to give him his in. The gentle treatment it was, just until she was steady enough on her feet to push back, let it become a give and take game where he’d always come out on top. 

Having gathered his tools, he turned back to Lydia, opening the front door and putting a steadying hand on the small of her back. “Let’s go, love.” 

Being this close to her, she couldn’t hide the tremor in her body at his touch, the way she swayed back for a moment, seeking his heat, his strength to hold her up before she remembered herself and lurched back to rigid formality. 

Fuck, pretty bird, so fucking sweet. You don’t have to pretend, princess. Gonna teach you to ask me for what you need. 

Despite trying to appear like she hadn’t melted into his space, she didn’t actually step out of his palm, his fingers pressing down against the thin material of her hoodie.  

He followed up the short steps of her porch in silence, watching carefully, ready to catch her if her exhaustion caught up to her too fast. 

Should’ve known his bird would be too stubborn to let something like that happen. Facing the challenge of motherhood with grit teeth defiance, even though it was clearly taking a toll on her. 

He hoped to god she wasn’t co-parenting, because if there was a man in this house letting his sweet little bird do it all on her own and not taking proper care of her, he’d kill him. 

S’alright, love. You did good, coming to me for help. I’ll take care of you both. 

“I’m sorry, the house is kind of a mess,” she said as she unlocked the door, glancing over her shoulder at him. 

He could see her hesitating at the last hurdle, protective maternal instincts momentarily overcoming the exhaustion. 

Good girl. Clever girl. 

He didn’t look away from her, offering her a soft smile. “Promise I won’t judge. You saw my place, I’m sure it’s much worse off.” 

That made the barest hint of a smile flicker over her pink mouth. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

When she did let him in, still standing close enough his palm was pressed against the small of her back, he was pleased to see he was right. The ‘mess’ she referred to was mostly boxes piled up in the entryway, splashed with big bubble lettering that labeled them. Lydia’s handwriting, no doubt. 

It didn’t look like any of them had been touched, except the ones labeled with a different name: ‘Chloe’. 

Noticing the direction of his gaze to an open box that had clearly been pawed through multiple times, baby clothes spilling out of it onto the cheap vinyl floor, Lydia said softly, “Those are Chloe’s.” 

“Chloe?” The baby, obviously, but he wanted to hear her say it. 

The smile on her face this time was softer, warmer, and Lydia moved closer to the line of John’s body, seemingly unaware of the way she turned to him like a flower to the sun. “Yeah, this little one is Chloe.” 

He smiled, ignoring the thudding of his pulse in his veins as Lydia tilted that smile up at him, cheeks still lined with drying tear tracks. Slowly he reached out, brushing the back of one finger over the soft pudge of Chloe’s cheek, that gnawing in his stomach only growing worse when Lydia’s breath caught, and Chloe’s hand rose in sleep, curling around the digit. 

His blood rushed fast, some strange mix of adrenaline that made him feel like he could take off running and never need to stop, and yet he’d be more content to stand right there and never move a muscle again if Chloe kept holding his finger. 

They watched her in shared awed silence, shifting in Lydia’s arms, eyes roving behind tightly shut lids, mouth working for a moment, the sweetest little coo escaping before she settled again, still holding on to his rough finger. 

“She’s beautiful,” he said quietly. 

Lydia was close enough now that if he wanted to kiss her, all he had to do was drop his head down. 

Not yet. Not yet. Had to pretend to be a gentleman first, like her own personal goddamn white knight. At least for now. He had to get a good meal and a good nights sleep in her before he could even think about putting her on her back so he could stuff her full of his cock. 

The thrill of pursuit was half of the fun anyway, and John was damned well going to take his time and enjoy every second of it. Make it as good for her as it was for him. 

Reaching out, he cupped her face in his palm, brushing his thumb over tacky tear-stained skin, watching with satisfaction as her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned into the touch, body going lax. 

His poor little dove was touch-starved, was that it? Craving someone to come along and hold her for a change? Fuck, she was a sweet thing, and she needed touch and comfort so bad she’d take it from a fucking stranger. Good girl, clever girl, for coming to him first. 

Don’t worry, princess, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Give you everything you need, put it right in your hands so you don’t have to lift a finger anymore, until you walk around expecting that sort of treatment like it’s your God given right, the same way it’s mine to breed that pussy full whenever I want. 

Clearing her throat, Lydia stepped back. “Right. Um. The bassinet. It’s in here.” 

He followed without protest as she led him into the next room, which was bare except for the scattered pieces and tools of what would hopefully, eventually become a bassinet. The packaging from a big box store was set neatly to the side, but the instructions were thrown about on top of the scattered pieces, crumpled slightly like she’d mangled them in her frustration before gathering Chloe and stomping over to his house to demand help. 

Setting down his tools he glanced up at her. “Looks easy enough.” 

She snorted softly, nose wrinkling cutely as she glared down at the half assembled bassinet. “That’s what I thought.” 

Chuckling, he gathered the crumpled instructions to give a read through and get familiar with what he was working with. “These instruction manuals can put anyone’s head in a spin, love, don’t let it bother you.” 

“I just didn’t think it’d be that hard.” She pouted, and his blood pooled in his groin at the just of that soft pink lower lip. “I know I’m new to homeownership and…everything, but still.” 

He hummed, setting the instructions aside, idly arranging the parts of the bassinet in the order he’d need them. For something like this he didn’t even really need to think about it, and he much preferred for his focus to be on Lydia. “New?” 

Glancing over at him, she nodded, curling in on herself slightly. “Brand new. I only just moved in last week.” 

His teeth clenched and he had to swallow it back quick. The idea of her having to move in, all by herself, with a newborn- 

“I only just got back from deployment yesterday.” He said. “Or I would’ve introduced myself before now.” 

Lydia relaxed, the exhaustion in her face seeming to recede. “That’s sweet of you. I’m sorry you’re having to spend your second day back home here building my niece’s bassinet.” 

Niece. Not daughter? 

Some pieces were falling into place for him, and others were only raising new questions. 

He decided to leave that piece of information lie for a moment. “Not a problem,” he said firmly, standing back up and pinning her in place with his gaze. He wanted her to hear this clearly. “I like keeping busy, I do this sort of thing for the neighborhood all the time. I’m happy to help, princess.” 

It was a risk, using that word. ‘Love’, ‘sweetheart’, those could be waved away as him being a slightly over familiar and old fashioned gent. ‘Princess’ had different connotations. 

Lydia’s reaction was exactly what he’d hoped to see, though. A catch in her breath. Blue eyes blowing wide, pupils dilating, riveted to his face. The tops of her cheeks pinked the slightest bit. 

Fuck she looked so pretty. He wanted to give her a home cooked meal and tuck her into bed beside him with the baby monitor on their nightstand. Wanted to fuck her so full of cum her body would have no choice but to give in and let him breed her up. 

So calling her princess in her own home after only being introduced twenty seconds ago in the tone he knew he’d said it in had been a risk, but she liked it. It was all over her face. 

You’re gonna look so pretty begging for me to give you my cock. Gonna look so fucking pretty cumdrunk and still fucking horny enough to climb into my lap in the middle of the night, desperate to ride me. 

Even besides that, he’d be damned if she ever let it get into her head that any time he spent with her was a burden and not a fucking gift. 

Now, with her looking at him like all she could think about was how to get him to call her princess again, he had his opening to ask her about Chloe without putting her back up. “You said your niece?” 

The soft, open expression on her face crumbled, but interestingly she leaned towards him and not away from him. A good sign. 

“Yeah, it’s…it’s a long story. But Chloe’s my niece, and…now we’re all each other has left.” 

They stood in mutual silence for a moment. Then, John said, “I’m sorry for your loss. But I’m glad you have each other.” 

Lydia took a slow, steadying breath, looking down at the infant in her arms. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.” 

With the pile of things organized it was time for him to get her into a seat. Who knew how long she’d been on her feet by now. There was a sofa shoved up against the longest wall, half covered in boxes and baby items. 

John stepped closer to her, and nearly caught her pretty mouth in a kiss when it parted in a soft inhalation as he drew near. He placed his hand on the small of her back, drawing her in a little closer. “Will Chloe stay asleep if you sit?” 

Wide blue eyes stared up at him, and Lydia nodded mutely. 

“Alright then. Let’s get you off your feet, yeah?” He led her over to the couch, and made quick work of clearing it as neatly and orderly as he could, one hand on her elbow as she sat, still staring at him in something like surprise, or even confusion. 

Clearly no one had ever taken proper care of her before. 

Not to worry. My job now.  

She cleared her throat, relaxing back into the cushion by degrees, slowly allowing herself to surrender. “Thank you. I…it’s been a long day. I thought I’d be able to at least get the bassinet put together, the instructions say the only tool needed is a screwdriver, but.” 

A frustrated noise left her parted lips. “I can’t make heads or tails out of the instructions. I swear, I’m not usually helpless-”

He chuckled, unable to resist the siren call of the curve of her cheek aglow in the sunlight pouring through the large window at the front of the room, and reached out to touch the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “I’d never call you helpless, princess, I’m not that bad mannered.” 

She giggled, cheeks flushing prettily. His hand curled around the top of Chloe’s head, those fangs in his heart sinking deeper as the baby cooed in her sleep, wiggling slightly, turning her head towards him. 

“Did the neighborhood help you with your boxes and things at least?” He settled for asking when he let his hand drop.  

She avoided his eye. “I…they offered, but I…” Clearing her throat, she finished very quietly, “I sometimes have trouble asking for help.” 

Now he should have said something to the effect of chiding her that she should have gotten help moving her things into her house. 

But. 

But. 

Fuck. What a good fucking girl, waiting for him, whether she’d known it or not. 

He grinned. “Not gonna lie, that’s going right to my ego.” 

Lydia rewarded him with a brilliant, relieved smile. He could see her warming to him, each slight lean and tilt of her body bringing her closer to his body by millimeters she probably didn’t even notice. 

That’s my good girl, princess, so sweet but saving every last drop of it just for me. 

“Still, I wish I was a little better at being a homeowner,” she said sheepishly. “I mean, like I said, I’m not totally helpless, but there’ve been a few swings and misses.” 

Grinning, he raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Like what, accidentally knock a hole in the wall when hanging up a picture?” 

Her mouth curved up at him, eyes sparkling in the sun. “No, but it does sound like you’re speaking from experience.” 

“Let’s just say that twelve year old boys should not have access to tools.” 

She giggled, covering her mouth with one hand to try and muffle to sound to not wake Chloe. 

He wanted to bottle that sound. Wanted to bathe in it. 

Luckily she distracted him before he did something completely ridiculous. “Those hammers are tricky business, much more than people think. Look, I even hit my thumb.” 

John didn’t smile the way he knew she was going for. He was too busy staring at the poor little thumb she’d flashed at him, flushed an angry red and slightly swollen. 

Catching her wrist in his hand he drew her hand closer, getting a better look. 

“I - it’s really nothing, John.” 

God. 

Fucking hell. 

He wanted her to say his name over and over again for the rest of his fucking life. He didn’t want to hear anyone but her ever use it again. 

Pretty girl, calling my name already. Just wait til I give you a reason to. 

“Not nothing.” He looked up at her, watching her face, drinking in her reaction as he kissed the pad of her thumb, greedy for the fleeting surprise, the hot pink flush, the smile she tried to fight off but couldn’t quite manage. 

“John…” 

Yes, babydoll, keep saying it. 

“What, love?” 

She shook her head, biting her lip to try and hide her smile. “Get back to work, or no cookies for you.” 

Dragging his thumb over her wrist, he felt her pulse beat faster. He’d bet an entire month’s hazard pay that she was wet in her panties. 

“You making cookies for me now, princess?” 

Blue eyes dilated again, only a thin ring of sapphire around the night dark pupils. “Y-yes. If…if you like.” She swallowed, managing to smile, and tease, “But only if you get back to work.” 

He squeezed her wrist before letting go, but didn’t look away from her for a long moment, smirking. “Yes, boss.” 

As he worked, he managed to ferret out more information from her. Chloe was her sister’s child, but she and her sister had been estranged for most of Lydia’s life, and Lydia had tried to breach that gap multiple times in the past but her sister, to quote Lydia, ‘lived life fast and wild’. 

It had apparently cost her her life eventually, but left Chloe behind. With no will and no father on the birth certificate, social services had turned to Lydia as the next of kin. 

“It’s probably stupid of me,” Lydia sighed, cuddling Chloe close like someone would try to march into the house and take her right then and there. “I’m twenty six, I’ve only just got a real job post uni, I’ve been in three relationships my whole life and one of those was in primary school, what business did I think I have raising a child all on my-”

“Princess,” he cut her off, pausing as he fastened a leg to the bassinet. “Look at me.” 

She did, immediately, without question, his good fucking girl. 

“You love her.” 

Lydia blinked, clearly not having expected that. “Well, yes, of course I do.” 

“And you want to be her parent.” 

“Well. Well, yes, but-” 

“No,” he said firmly, but not loud enough to startle poor Chloe. “No buts, princess. Those two things count for way fucking more than anyone gives credit to. I’m not a parent myself, but I know what it looks like when someone’s doing the job right, and you can be damned sure that you are. Chloe’ll turn out right, because she’ll have all she really needs to: you.” 

The whole house was quiet following that. 

He didn’t speak, letting the words linger in the air, in Lydia’s ears. 

Lydia’s hand curled into a white knuckled grip on a hanging corner of the baby blanket tucked around Chloe. He watched tears gather in sapphire eyes, glittering like gemstones on her lashes. 

“God…John…” Her voice was wet with tears, slightly forced. “Thank you.” 

Fuck it. 

Following his impulse to he stood, crossing the distance between them and putting a hand beneath her chin, lifting her face to his. As he leaned down her eyes slipped closed, a few tears falling down her cheeks and leaving fresh tear tracks for him to brush away with his thumbs. 

He kissed her forehead before leaning his own there. He could smell the scent of her shampoo, something fresh and mouthwatering like pears, and the scent of baby, and the two things laid against the walls of his lungs, settling there for him to hunger after forever. Because he would, he already knew he would. 

“You’re doing bloody amazing, babydoll. If no one’s told you that yet, they’re just all fucking idiots.” He dropped her another kiss, letting his lips and his hands linger before reluctantly drawing back to finish the bassinet. 

He let her pull herself together again in peace, but he kept an eye on her, pleased when she spent a lot of her own silence staring at him. 

She’d been fighting the urge to resist letting him in, but John couldn’t have picked a better moment to insinuate himself if he’d tried. She was exhausted, scared, painfully lonely, and extremely frustrated. Craving companionship, reassurance, someone to take the reins and know what the fuck they were doing. 

And the best part was, she’d been the one to seek him out, without any other pushes needed from him. His good girl, who’d known somehow that he was finally there to help her and had come running to him to demand what she needed. 

He’d happily spend the rest of his life giving it to her. 

“You say you don’t have kids,” Lydia began, and he had to tuck his smirk away that waiting for her to be the one to start the conversation up again had worked out so well, “but you seem really familiar with the concept. Have you really never…” 

He shook his head wryly. “I want them, but don’t have any of my own.” 

Yet. 

“Just godfather to one of my sergeant’s sons. Gaz and his wife are working on their third right now, so you can imagine how happy the two of them are that he’s back home.” 

Lydia grinned. “Probably not as happy as his kids.” 

Thinking of five year old Nick and three year old Wesley, John smiled warmly. “No, probably not as happy as them.” 

He went back to the bassinet, tightening up a few screws and checking that things measured up properly. 

On the couch Lydia kept shifting, and he could feel her curiosity on the air. But he wanted to see how she’d approach asking him about it. 

In his head, he had a quick debate. Lie and say he’d never been married, or be honest. 

But it didn’t take him all that long to decide he had to go with honesty. His neighbors knew about his previous marriages, and he’d rather not blackmail everyone in his civilian life. Though, of course, if necessary, he’d do what needs must. 

“So if you want children,” Lydia said slowly, looking at him from beneath her lashes, testing a boundary, “why don’t you have them?” 

The truth it was, or a concise and slightly prettier version of it. “I had plans. First wife said she wanted them too, but things busted up before we got that far. We were too young to be married, not even twenty at the time, but there you go. In the end she wanted a husband who was around more, and I didn’t blame her.” 

Still didn’t, truthfully. At least, not for that, but maybe for sleeping with his at the time commanding officer. 

“Then my second marriage,” he shook his head, sighing, “Caught her snooping on me at work one too many times. She accused me of sleeping with my boss.” 

Lydia’s eyes were wide. “God, that’s awful. Were you?” 

Despite himself, he smiled, raising an eyebrow at her. “Cheeky bird. No. I’m a very traditional man when it comes to monogamy. One woman is all I need.” 

He watched, pleased, as Lydia blushed with that information, clearly setting it aside for later consideration. 

“Besides,” he continued as if he hadn’t noticed, “my CO is very happily married, and her wife would have my guts for garters if I ever even looked in her direction.” 

A giggle bubbled out of Lydia, though she quickly stifled it. “And your wife didn’t see that, uh, orientation as precluding this theoretical affair?” 

“She did not.” 

Lydia shook her head, snuggling back against the sofa, her hand rubbing idle circles over Chloe’s back. “Damn, John. I have a couple dating horror stories myself, but nothing that bad.” 

He shrugged. “Shit happens. No use regretting it. You make the decisions you make and have to live with those choices. The both of them are much better off.” 

“No,” Lydia said, sharp, sitting up suddenly, reaching a hand out to him. “Don’t say that. How could they be better off without you, you’re…” 

Blushing, she swallowed back whatever she’d wanted to say. 

But he could still taste it on the air between them. Not the words themselves, he had no clue what she’d been about to say, but he could taste the meaning, the sweetness of it on his tongue. 

As soon as he could, he was determined to get her on her back with her legs around his head to see if her pussy tasted as pretty and sweet as her voice. 

That comment about his exes being better off hadn’t even been meant to manipulate or draw a comment like that out of her. He’d assumed it would be far too soon for something like that, all he’d meant to do was present himself as a normal, well-functioning man who didn’t have the mindset of a fucking caveman. 

His exes were likely better off, though he hadn’t checked up on either of them once after the ink on the divorces dried. Better off with some husband who they could shape and mold and still be disappointed by than the bloody-handed animal who’d once shared their beds and saw through their veneers of sweetness and innocence to their cold and detached underbelly beneath. 

It was a relief to him that Lydia was already so different from them. Her expressions were paper-thin when she tried to cover them, and for the most part she didn’t bother, either too tired or simply not practiced. If ever there was a girl who embodied ‘heart on her sleeve’ it would be this one. 

Sweet as candyfloss and just as soft, unbroken by life and the world, but there was no empty-headedness to her vulnerability either. Clearly smart, his good and careful girl who kept her windows shut and locked tight, with three different locks on the front door. There were depths there, ones he was burning to figure out. 

And she was all his. She’d been his the moment she knocked on his door, whether she’d known it or not. 

She just proved that with her reaction to what she assumed was a self-deprecating comment, not the scathing indictment of both of his former wives that it was. 

“Thank you,” he settled for saying, winking at her. 

She relaxed, smiling as she leaned back against the sofa. “At any rate, it’s good to hear that you’re not perfect.” 

“Perfect?” he chuckled. “My men would beg to differ.” 

Shifting on the sofa, she asked, “How many are there? On your squad? Or is that an off limits question?” 

He laughed. “What we do and where are the primary off limits questions princess, everything else is probably pretty fair game.” 

At least for her. So he answered. 

“There’s four of us. Me, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap.” 

“Ghost, Gaz…Soap?” She blinked. “I thought…I thought callsigns were a pilot's only thing. Like in Top Gun? I thought you were in the SAS.” 

He put down his screwdriver, finished, but not yet telling her that. Why would he when he could smirk at her, gaze hot as he teased, “Yeah, I’m SAS. But I didn’t tell you that, did I?” 

Her cheeks went a bright, glowing pink. “Well. No. Um.” Her lower lip got caught between straight white teeth, and she flashed those big innocent blue eyes at him like a lamb begging for mercy. “I may have heard a little about you from our neighbors. And then, well. I may have asked them all to tell me about you.” 

Fuck, such a good girl, who’s the hunter and who’s the prey here, babydoll, the lines are blurring even to me. 

“Yeah?” His voice was low, beckoning. “Just how much asking about me have you been doing, sweetheart?” 

That blush got hotter, but her eyes never left his. “A lot.” 

In his chest his heart was pounding, and he was half hard in his jeans and quickly losing the willpower to fight it back. “See, that right there? That’s going straight to my ego too, princess.” 

Among other things. 

It was only worsened by her little giggle, eyes dancing as she teased, “Would it make it worse if I admitted I heard about you around the neighborhood so I may or may not have waited until you were back to try tackling the actual construction work?” 

Worse? That depended on your definition. 

What it made him feel was like he wanted to rail her seven ways to Sunday and paint her body inside and out with his cum until she forgot who she’d been before she had it. 

Thankfully, he managed not to terrify her by saying that. Instead, he said, “Just makes me wish I’d gotten back from deployment when you were moving in so I could’ve helped you.” 

“I would’ve been stubborn,” she warned, slightly breathless. “I wouldn’t have let you help either.” 

“I dunno,” he grinned, knowing it was the same cocky, arrogant smirk that drove Laswell up a wall because she knew it always spelled trouble. “I can be pretty charming when I want to. I think I could’ve talked you into it, princess.” 

“Oh you think so?”  

“You tell me, sweetheart. You just said you’d waited til I got back to start trying to build your furniture.” 

She bit her lip, pupils dilating as her eyes dragged over his body. “I did, didn’t I?”  

He rose, putting the bassinet on its steady feet, finished. He didn’t miss the flash of realization and disappointment in Lydia’s eyes when she saw he was done. Nor the spinning gears behind that blue gaze as she tried to puzzle out a way to keep him there. 

No need, princess. You’ll be seeing me a lot. In your life, in your house, in your bed. 

“This one’s done, at least,” he said as he crossed his arms over his chest to keep himself from reaching for her. “Wanna try it out?” 

He’d moved it close to Lydia, so she didn’t even have to stand to slowly, carefully, lay Chloe down inside of it. 

The baby didn’t even flicker an eyelid, too deeply asleep. Lydia’s hands tucked the baby blanket more firmly around her. “It’s perfect,” she sighed quietly. 

She turned her face up to his, smiling sweet and lovely. “Thank you, John.” 

Time to test her boundaries, one more time. He reached out, catching her chin gently, lifting it just a little higher, out of her comfort zone, drawing her in just a hair closer. Her breath caught, hands twitched on her thighs, pupils dilating. 

Fuck, she was going to be so gorgeous when he had her begging, glassy-eyed and wanton for his cock. 

“Anything else that needs fixing around here?” He smirked, dragging his thumb over her lower lip. “After all, you promised cookies. I just wanna make sure I earn them.” 

Lydia swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was thready, betraying the heat of her body, the wet pussy he knew she was hiding beneath old, ill-fitting sweats. “Yes. I mean, I’m…I’m sure I can think of something.” 

Much as he loved a bit of fight, a give and take game, there was something to be said for this as well. Hunting when the prey wanted to be caught, but not by anyone but him. Something so instinctual it didn’t even need speaking. His. Utterly and completely. 

Or, more literally, when she’d been launched at him, crashing into his chest with a soft, pained sound, the wind knocked out of her. 

He wasn’t affected, what pussy ass kind of soldier would he make if he couldn’t handle getting tackled by a girl half his size? His arms came up to cradle her against him, shielding her, something primal in his gut-deep initial reaction to pull her closer instead of pushing her away, all before he even noticed the cruel sneer on the doorman’s face, before he registered the parting shot of ‘whore’ that left the man’s lips. 

Graves let instinct handle it from there. 

He hadn’t even gotten a good look at her face but he could feel her shaking like a leaf, could hear her crying, the fast, quiet, panicked kind when you were trying your fucking hardest to stop and you just couldn’t. 

That was enough for him. 

His gun was out of it’s holster and leveled at the doorman’s forehead with ease, a cold smile playing on his face as he watched the son of a bitch go paper white with fear. Graves’ other hand cupped the back of the woman’s head, gentle but firm enough she’d be good for him, not be tempted to leave her new home tucked against his chest and see the weapon positioned to strike. 

“You got an ugly mouth, ever been told that before?” 

For some reason, the sound of his voice, even as careful as he was to keep himself controlled, keep it level and even friendly, made his sweet crybaby flinch. 

Soothing her, he ran his fingers through soft dark hair, winding it around his digits, feeling it catch on his callouses and scars. 

“S-sir, I apologize-”

“Not to me, motherfucker,” he snapped, letting his temper through his voice a little. 

“M-miss, I-” 

Nope. Immediately no. When the doorman addressed her his pretty damsel just tucked herself tighter against Graves, hiding her face, letting him handle it like a good girl. 

Fuck, he hoped she was ready to give up a significant portion of alone time in her future because he was gonna take up as much as he could goddamn well fucking get. But first things first. 

He tapped the gun directly against the doorman’s forehead, clicking his tongue disapprovingly at the same time, the scent of urine in the air making him want to laugh. “Naw, I don’t think that’s good enough. Here, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can go inside, get your shit, and go find a new job. Preferably one not in Texas, so I won’t feel the need to come find you and give you a lecture on how to talk to a lady.” 

Grin more like bared teeth, he flicked the safety back on and lowered his gun, slipping it back into place as if he’d never had it out. “Well. Better get going, huh?” 

The doorman didn’t even go back inside, just took off running down the street. 

Graves rolled his eyes, his now free hand rubbing over the pretty, hiccuping back half hidden by dark silky hair. 

“Alright, honey, he’s gone.” Graves made a mental note to tell his team to scrub the surveillance around the area. Just in case. “Just you and me now, I gotcha, sugar, I gotcha. Cry it out, baby, atta girl.” 

Any decent man would’ve left it at that, let her dry her eyes and sent her on her way with a polite, dickless smile. 

Graves wasn’t a decent man. So he didn’t. 

Something inside of him was clanging an alarm bell he’d never heard go off, like a glaring klaxon of ‘Caution - Important Life Event’ that made him pause, made him fight back against the deep bred instinct to do the polite, frigidly distant thing and turn her loose. 

Even as he thought it, he hugged her tighter, feeling her body loosen in response, lean heavier against his in relief. 

Turn her loose? 

Naw. 

Not on his life. 

He wanted to talk to her. Wanted to get a good look at that face and ask who he had to kill to make her smile. 

And that was just to start. 

She felt like heaven pressed against him, plush and fucking soft. He liked women with a bit of curve, enough that he could really see it when his fingers dug into their hips, that their bodies swelled more than they plateaued. 

Stupider men had called him some uglier versions of ‘chubby chaser’ but the truth of the matter was that he liked a woman who could take it when he fucked her like he meant it. 

That was exactly how this pretty little thing was built, all softness and sweetness and tears for him to dry. 

Fuck, the devil couldn’t get him so he’d sent an angel who ticked his every box, even the one about a rescue fantasy. What a way to go though. 

Briefly he closed his eyes, dipping his head down to press his nose into her silky hair  as he maneuvered them both to the shelter of his truck, needing to pin her against something and unwilling to drag her inside his brother’s ugly ass building. He’d make do with the tools at hand. 

As he moved her, he took a deep breath of the heady scent of her skin. Fuck, she smelled like summer distilled, honey sweet and thick on his tongue, down the back of his throat. She smelled like Texas summer roses and being outside in the sun all afternoon. 

He wanted it in his mouth. Wanted to know if her pussy tasted as good as she smelled, or fuck, even better. 

To her credit, she was being so good for him. Doing exactly what she should, exactly what he told her to. She shivered with something like relief and went lax when he crowded her up against the shaded side of his truck. Clinging onto him as she cried it out, letting him cuddle her close and rub his hands in soothing circles over her back, keenly aware that her body was at most two very thin layers of summer breathable fabric away from his bare palms. 

It made his mouth water. 

But that would have to come later. 

First he had to fix whatever made her cry before he could make her cry for all the right reasons with three fingers inside her and his mouth on her clit, making her cum for the fifth time in a row. 

When her sobs had turned to sniffles, after he let her sneak her hands up and wipe her face, gather herself a little (but not completely, he wanted to keep an edge over her just in case her docility snapped and she tried to brush him off), he curled a hand beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. 

Fuck. 

In the back of his head, some dark, lethal voice crooned: 

Mine. 

Fuck the devil sending her to tempt him, she had to be from God. No one else could’ve known exactly what got him going this well. She was his fucking type head to toe, and it made his body ache dangerously. 

God, she was so pretty. Big dark eyes, soft mouth, round cheeks, Roman nose. He just wished the tears still clinging like diamonds to her lashes and the puffy, red-raw cast to her lips was because he’d had his cock down her throat. 

Again, that would come later. He’d make sure of it. 

“Sugar,” he crooned, cupping her face in his hands, brushing her tears away. “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

There was a growing, baffled expression on her face, like she’d tried to put two pieces of a puzzle together and they hadn’t fit. “I…you…Frank, what-” 

Hearing his brother’s name on her mouth made something vicious snap inside of him, and he just barely caught the growl in his chest. “Let’s cut that off at the pass, honey, Frank’s my dumb bastard brother. I’m Phillip.” 

At least she’d never get him mixed up with Fred. Fred hardly ever worked out, other than the odd jog, not to mention the distinct scar over Graves’ face, over his cheek and slashing up his right ear. 

They’d been truly identical when they were young, but that hadn’t been true for years and years. 

“Phillip?” 

Fuck, that was so much fucking better. His mood instantly improved by a factor of a million. “Damn, honey, I like the way that sounds when you say it.” 

Her breath caught, eyes widening, cheeks flushing. 

Tugging at her lower lip with his thumb, he leaned in slightly, skin buzzing, blood racing. “Say it again for me, hm?” 

For a second, he thought she would. But the she shook her head, hard, pulling out of his hold, trying to shake off the transfixed glaze in her eyes. “Wait, just - wait.” 

Damn. Here he’d been wondering if she’d let him pet her pussy out there on the street, or if she’d make him put her in his truck to get her to cum on his hand for the first time. 

He let her retreat, but not too far. He kept one hand planted above her head on his truck, his body caging her in still. “I assume you know my brother, then?” 

Again, she flinched, tears gathering fast in those pretty doe eyes like polished mahogany. She tried to look away, and he gently caught her chin, turning her face back up to him. 

“Come on, sugar, tell me. I’ll kick his ass into next week for you if you want.” 

She laughed, or tried to, the sound wet and unconvincing. 

“It’s - it’s nothing,” she said shakily, still not convincing him in the slightest. “I probably shouldn’t - he said not to-” 

About a hundred different possibilities for her presence, her tears, boiled down sharply to less than ten. 

“I don’t answer to my brother,” he said, catching a few of her tears on his thumbs, gently brushing them away. “Do you wanna tell me here, sugar, or do you wanna go get a cup of coffee and something to eat first? You look like you need something sweet, honey.” 

Her mouth worked, and he could see her arguing with herself. Good girl, fucking smart girl, trying to analyze him, weighing her safety and her suspicion with her need to be comforted, to be listened to. 

It’s alright sugar, let me in. I may eat you whole same as any other animal but I swear you’ll like it. Be a good girl and let me take good care of you.  

“I’ll follow you in my truck,” he said, giving her the appearance of a peace offering of neutral travel arrangements. “You pick the place. And if when we get there you decide you don’t want to talk, that’s alright too. I’ll just buy you a coffee and a brownie and let you alone, honey.” 

Yeah right. 

Whether she knew it or not, she was his now. Sights firmly set, target locked. No going back. 

She sniffled, shaking her head, a smile trying to fight its way to the surface. “How’d you know I liked brownies?” 

Chuckling, he tapped her under her soft, round chin, winking. “Sweet thing like you? Course you’d like brownies.” 

She let him hold her car door open for her to get in, blushing faintly as she did, and as promised he followed her to a nearby bakery. It was a cute place, some small business and not a chain or an overcrowded tourist trap piled twenty deep at the counter with kids desperate to take Instagram pictures. 

The awning outside was a light green striped with white, and strangely he thought it fit his girl completely. There were some wrought iron bistro tables scattered outside, a few occupied, and a chalkboard menu advertising the lemon poppyseed muffins. 

Not exactly his usual haunt, but he was here for the company. 

He kept his smug smile to himself when she got out of the car after he’d parked and he noticed that she’d touched up her makeup. 

Even so she looked a half second away from bolting, her freshly applied lip gloss unable to disguise the hesitation in the line of her mouth. 

He couldn’t have that. 

Grinning the smile at her that had been known to cause panties to literally drop, he held the bakery door open for her. “After you, sugar.” 

She paused, but then gathered her courage and stepped through. He followed close behind. 

He kept a hand on the small of her back, crowding her just enough that she’d be aware of it, but not close enough she could call attention to it without sounding ridiculous. 

He knew how to play these games, and he usually didn’t bother. But for her? Fuck, he wasn’t above psy-ops if that was what it fucking took. 

She was a tantalizingly innocent lamb left wounded and alone in the forest, and he was a wolf half starved from winter, ready to feast. 

She ordered a raspberry iced tea (probably related to the climbing early summer temp), and a brownie, just as he’d predicted. Although he had her pegged as an iced latte girl, which was curious. 

The startled look on her face when he ordered an iced blonde roast coffee with hazelnut and vanilla syrup, cinnamon powder, and whole milk made him grin and wink at her. “I’m a soldier,” he volunteered, “I take my luxuries when I can get ‘em.” 

Much like her. Because she was a luxury, and what a luxury she was. Manicured nails, dainty jewelry (real gold but not real stones, inexpensive but tasteful and hinting at a job that paid fairly well but not buckets, probably something in marketing or maybe even publishing), glossy hair down her back tamed from where he’d had his hands in it not long before (the sides pinned back with a white bow on each side that matched her dress), and a cute little sundress that clung in all the perfect fucking places and made her mouthwateringly delicious, just short enough it would’ve made his mother’s eyebrows raise. 

He sure as shit wasn’t fucking complaining. God, imagining those legs around his hips, around his head? Fuck. 

He handed the bored girl at the till a fifty before his little lamb even got her card out. And when the teller opened her mouth to ask about how he’d like his change he smiled at her and said, “Keep the tip,” which cheered her considerably. 

Once they had their drinks and her brownie, he led her to one of the little tables by the floor to ceiling windows at the front of the bakery. 

He didn’t have to sit with his back to a wall like a fucking asshole anymore, even if he occasionally preferred to, and he knew she’d be more comfortable in the sunlight pouring through the glass. The table he selected was tucked slightly away from the counter, shielded by a convenient wall, and away from the only other occupied tables in the bakery. 

As much privacy as they were going to get, and good enough for him. 

He watched her shift in her seat, clearly unsure of how to start. She’d made up her mind to tell him (for the moment, he’d seen her change it at least three times just while they were ordering), he could feel that, but it was clear just by looking at her that she didn’t know how to begin. Pretty thing, he’d handle that part for her just fine. 

“Let’s start with names.” He smiled warmly when she looked up from her iced tea she was pretending to drink. “You know mine. Tell me yours, honey.” 

“Allison,” she said immediately, and his gut clenched around a hot pulse of desire right down to his cock. “I’m Allison.” 

He let his eyes travel slowly over her face, the curves and divots of her bone structure (some animal hind brain part of him saw the hint of dimples in her cheeks and started muttering at him that he needed to paint them with his cum), down her pretty neck to the soft swell of her tits in her cotton sundress. 

When he looked back up at her, she was wide eyed, glossy lips parted softly. 

“Allison,” he said, letting loose a little of his control, letting the faintest edge of the burning desire she’d dared awaken in him bleed through, just to test her see how she reacted, and fuck if she didn’t pass with flying colors when her cheeks flushed and her pupils dilated like he’d touched her pussy. God, such a good fucking girl, where’d she been all his life? “Good to meet you.” 

A small, careful smile blossomed on her face, but it shattered immediately, and he watched her curl in on herself like her chest had caved in. “God, what am I even - I shouldn’t have done this, this was such a bad idea, I’m so sorry-” 

Red alert. Red fucking alert. 

“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” he crooned, catching her wrist gently as she tried to rise from her chair, locking eyes with her when she gathered the courage to look at him. “Now I told you that all you had to do was say you changed your mind and I’d respect that, baby,” a bald faced fucking lie, “and that’s still true. I understand my brother musta done something awful to you to make you balk like this, but I promise you one thing. I am not him. I’m nothing like him.” 

Now that part was true. 

Much to his great relief and his parent’s long suffering dismay. 

Oh well. In the end it’d worked out for the best. His brother was a dog begging for scraps in Texas politics, and Shadow Company brought in nine figure contracts on the regular without blinking. 

“It doesn’t have to be anything other than a stranger with a familiar face just listening to you talk.” He squeezed her wrist. 

Come on, sugar, be a good girl and lay your worries in my lap. Lay that pretty head in my jaws, I won’t bite down too hard, honest. 

He could see her hesitating, back on that tightrope she’d gotten on and off of so many times in the last half hour alone. 

“Judgment free,” he promised, dragging his thumb over the thin, fragile skin on the inside of her wrist, trying to beat down the animalistic need inside of him to mark her somehow. Only made it better that she shivered when he did it, and didn’t try to pull away, actually shifted a little closer. 

Atta fucking girl, lean in, honey, give it to me. 

She sniffled, ducking her head. “You’re going to hate me,” she whispered. 

“No,” he said immediately, holding her wrist tighter. “Fuck, sugar, how could anyone hate a sweet thing like you?” 

Her eyes were miserable as she looked up at him. He watched her take a deep breath, bracing herself for the fallout. Brave fucking girl. 

“I slept with your brother.” 

He’d figured that. 

“It’s a free country, baby, I should know, that’s my job.” For all intents and purposes, anyway, or at least that was the line they sold angry or poverty stricken teenagers looking to belong. 

“He’s married,” she breathed, horror and disgust thick in her voice, clouding her expression. “I swear, I swear I didn’t know, I never - I’m not - that’s not - I would never-” 

She was working herself back up to hysterics, poor thing. 

He tugged on her wrist, making the same soothing sort of sound he made when the Shadows were getting a bullet dug out of their body in the field with nothing but him and a knife to help them through it. “Aw, hell, honey, he’s a goddamn sonuvabitch, not your fault if a man takes off his ring and cheats. You’re not responsible for him. Guarantee it isn’t the first time.” 

For either Frank or his wife. Neither of them had what anyone could call a ‘faithful’ view of their relationship. 

But that didn’t soothe Allison. “It was just one time, I - and now, with the ba-” 

She cut herself off quick, but he’d heard the first syllable, and that was all he needed. Doe eyes were wide as they swung to his, self-flagellation melting into cold fear on her face, waiting for him to react the same way any good ol’ Texas boy would react. 

Fortunately for her, he’d lost a hell of a lot of those good ol’ Texas boy rules in the Corps. Just wasn’t room for ‘em in the desert. And besides, he’d already decided he’d have her. No matter what it took. 

She hadn’t meant to tell him, but he’d have gotten it out of her anyway. 

Naw, this didn’t change a thing for him, didn’t quiet or cool the ache in his hands one fucking bit. 

He dragged his thumb over her racing pulse, greedy for the contact she’d allow him. “I knew you were an iced coffee girl,” he grinned, teasing her. “You keep looking at that raspberry tea like it’s a snake that’s gonna getcha.”  

Her eyebrows drew together. “You - how - is that really all you have to say?” 

Shrugging, he took a sip of his coffee. “Sugar, religious judgment should be left to people with a little less blood on their hands.” 

He watched her process that, first confusion and then the flash of recognition when she remembered his offhand comment about being a soldier, followed by a warm sort of look in her eyes like she wanted to come close to him and tell him his hands weren’t bloody at all. 

If she only knew…but then he’d make sure she never would. 

That might even be fun, once she felt a little more comfortable with him, to let her crawl into his lap and tell him she didn’t think he was a monster, kiss his mouth blissfully unaware of all the things his hands had done as they ripped the clothes off her body to fuck her raw. 

Putting his half empty drink down, he leaned in closer over the little table, breaking off a piece of her brownie and lifting it to her lips. “So you found out and went to go tell his royal fuckhead.” 

The heat of her lips was a delicious sensation against the pads of his fingers, slightly sticky with gloss as she accepted the bite of brownie, still too thrown by his non-reaction to her pregnancy with his married-to-another-woman-brother’s child to have the brain capacity to object to him feeding her by hand (like an animal, fuck, he was discovering something about himself here he simply did not have any expectations of having but fuck if this wasn’t doing something for him). 

She nodded slowly when he raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to confirm the timeline.  

Good girl. 

“And he must’ve been his charming self.” God, he could fucking imagine it. His brother, lecturing from the pedestal their mother put him on as first born, smug and righteous and nauseating. 

Frank always did like to lecture about anything and everything, often with no goddamn clue what the fuck he was even talking about. 

Looking back Graves wondered if he’d started tuning Frank out even in the womb. It certainly felt like he’d had to do it all his life, at any rate. 

No, he could imagine what Frank must’ve been like when Allison dropped by and discovered he was married and told him about the baby. The picture in his head of it happening set his teeth on edge, made his trigger finger itch. 

Allison’s eyes went tight, and she let her gaze drop. “I swear I didn’t know he was married.” 

Of course she hadn’t. His girl wasn’t mistress material, though she was certainly fucking gorgeous enough. No, she was all wife, soft curves and clean hands and sweet perfume. Pink lip gloss and a diamond solitaire in a yellow gold setting, that was her. 

Cupping her cheek, he lifted her face back up. “I believe you,” he said firmly, no room for argument or question. 

The tense line of her shoulders eased, and her face turned into his palm. Just a little. 

“Thank you.” Her voice was soft, but no less fervent for it. No less heartfelt. “God, it’s been such an awful day.” 

Maybe the first half. He could guarantee the second half would be better. Grasping her jaw, he asked, “Sugar, how would you feel about giving my brother a little payback? And maybe getting to know me better at the same time?” 

He could take a step back from things for a bit, have the Shadows focus on domestic ops until he got this pretty thing locked down tight on his dick and in his life. 

Because the longer he was near her, the more certain he was about that instinct that had had him cradling her closer to him instead of putting her gently back on her feet when she’d gotten tossed into his arms. This girl was his, had always been meant to be his. 

The baby didn’t bother him a bit. If she chose not to keep it, he’d take her anywhere she needed to have it done. And if she chose to keep it…well. Frank was his twin after all. Same DNA right down to every last gene. 

No one would ever be able to tell the difference, not even him or Frank. Because at the end of it all, he knew he could make the baby feel like his. Fuck enough of himself into Allison it would wipe anything else right out of her head.  

Once he made his sweet little Allison love him, once he got his ring on her pretty finger, even she would forget that their firstborn baby wasn’t made with his cock. And if she ever remembered, ever felt guilty about it, he’d just give her another and add a fat diamond to that charm bracelet on her wrist, spoil her until she forgot what she’d even been so upset about in the first place. 

Mind made up, decision made, future set in stone, just like that. And Allison, none the wiser, still puzzling through his offer. 

“You…you want to…are you asking me out? After what I just told you?” She blinked at him, searching his face. “Why?” 

“Before that pretty head goes spinning off in a weird direction, I’ll tell you three things. One, I’m not gonna sway you one way or another about the baby. That’s not why I wanna get to know you better. You get to decide what you wanna do, and when you do, no matter what your decision, I will be there with you.” 

He could taste the ‘why’ that bubbled off of her tongue and gently pinched her chin between his thumb and curled pointer finger, pulling her mouth open slightly, silencing her. 

“Because two, I’m a gut instinct sort of man. I don’t question my gut, for right or wrong it’s what I follow.” He winked. “My gut just likes the look of you, honey. And three, if you want to do this the same rules apply. Your pace, your choice how it goes.” 

Another lie, he’d get what he wanted through fair means or foul, and make sure she never knew the difference. But one could always hope people made the right decisions first before you made it for them. 

Mahogany eyes narrowed at him, mind whirling behind them. “So if I told you I wanted you to take me to a clinic, right now?” 

“Let’s get in the truck, I’ll take you there then take you home. Probably have to fly out of state ‘cause Texas loves fucking around in people’s private shit, but you say the word and we’ll go.” 

Her chin lifted in challenge. “And if I said I wanted to keep it?” 

“Great. I’ll have a nephew or a son in nine months.” 

“A s-son?!”

“Well yeah, honey, that’s how dating works if things go well. Your kids become our kids.” He tilted his head, grinning at her. “I like you throwing these scenarios at me, baby. Tell me how I’m doing, am I passing the class, professor?” 

“Don’t - don’t-” 

“Don’t what? Flirt? I mean I can try, but it’s gonna be hard with you around sugar, I gotta warn you right now.” 

She huffed, rolling her eyes and throwing her free hand up in surrender. But notably, not the one he had hold of. That one stayed right where it was, like if she thought she didn’t move it he wouldn’t realize he was still tracing the veins in her wrist. “I’ve just had an extremely eventful morning, can you let me catch my breath?” 

He chuckled. “I’ll let you catch whatever you want, ‘cept a cold. Like I said, if we do this, we do this at your pace.” 

The only truthful part of that was that he knew how to make her feel like it was her decision and not his influencing things along. She deserved to have the stained glass, Prince Charming on a white charger, fairytale love story, he wouldn’t ruin that for her. It would just be a bit more of a whirlwind than not. 

Graves wasn’t all that patient at heart. Not when something like her was waiting for him on the other side. 

“This is weird,” she said, trying one last ditch argument. “Right? He’s your twin brother.” 

“Last time he and I were ever on the same page was in the womb, and maybe not even then. Think I’m closer with my maid than him. Doubt he’d know my birthday if it wasn’t also his. Etcetera etcetera. Next argument.” 

“You don’t even know me.” 

“That’s why they call it dating, sugarcube. Next.” 

“What if you get to know me and you hate me? Or I have the baby and you can’t love it cause it’s not yours?” 

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what kinda bitch boys you’re used to dealing with, but that’s not me, so put that second one out of your head entirely, you hear me honey? The baby, if you decide to have it, is family and that’s enough. Period, end of story. And so long as you don’t go selling American military secrets to the Iranians or the Russians you’ll be good on that first one.” 

Allison stared at him, the slightest glimmering sparking back to life in those dark pretty doe eyes. 

Squinting at her slightly, he smirked. “Actually, scratch that. You ever wanna commit treason you just come tell me and bat those pretty eyes at me and I’ll just give you a spanking and call it a day.” 

“Phillip!” 

“What, baby?” 

“Be serious!” In spite of herself, she was blushing, the color back in her face, a genuine smile there as she fought off laughter. 

“I’m completely serious, angel, don’t think I’m not. Can’t commit treason and get away with it completely, spanking’s non-negotiable honey, I’m sorry.” 

She laughed, unable to stop it, and his whole chest squeezed, cock throbbing in his pants. 

Yes. 

This was his fucking wife. 

God he couldn’t fucking wait. 

“Alright,” she giggled, eyes sparkling, only the faintest trace of worry still lingering there. “Alright, I give in. I’ll go on a date with you. On one condition.” 

Smirking, he raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

Allison threaded their fingers together, hers soft and cool in his own. “Our first date can’t be with your family. I want us to have a plan prepared. I want to make your brother so stressed out he throws up.” 

With Frank that would be an easily achieved objective, he’d always had a weak stomach. Even as the Agriculture Commissioner of the state of Texas that was still true. Dealing dirty under the table for kickbacks and kissing up to everyone around him at all times had only made Frank more paranoid and anxious of getting caught. 

Pity. 

Some of the best men Graves’d known had been cauterized in the crucible of political backstabbing. Of course, those men had started out at least halfway decent, and brother or not, Graves would never claim that Frank was anything close to decent. 

Allison wanting to make him throw up was a fun little twist, and he found himself ravenous for more glimpses of the real woman he’d go on to marry. He was encouraged that she could be just as petty as he could. Not to mention turned on. 

“Morning sickness that much fun, huh, sugar?” He chuckled knowingly. 

She shuddered. “Ugh, don’t remind me.” 

He squeezed her fingers a couple times, still smiling. “Alright, I accept your condition. How about dinner, tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up at six?” 

There was a future in her cautious answering smile. “It’s a date.” 

Lifting their intertwined fingers he brought her hand closer to his mouth, eagerly watching surprise flicker over her face as he bypassed her knuckles, and turning her hand, pressed his lips to the thin, warm skin of her wrist. 

He nearly groaned at the taste of her skin, the satin smooth surface honey sweet, that scent of distilled summer and Texas roses heady in his nose. 

God, her pussy would be so fucking sweet. He couldn’t wait to get her on her goddamn back so he could eat her out until she cried and forgot everything but his name and how to cum on his tongue. Wanted to shower her with affection and adoration until she was so used to getting it that she’d pout at the slightest bit of delay. 

Wanted her to pout when he didn’t give her his cock on demand, didn’t whip out his credit card and buy her whatever she set those sweet doe eyes on. 

She’d never be a natural brat, at least not until he got her comfortable with him, but he could teach her how to make demands that, no matter how outrageous, he’d always, always meet. 

Gently, he scraped his teeth over the skin of her inner wrist, her charm bracelet tinkling faintly as she shivered, arousal flaring in her eyes, pupils dilating and mouth parting in invitation. 

“It’s a date,” he agreed lowly. Grinning, he laid her palm on his face, her cool fingertips brushing over the scar on his cheekbone. “Can’t fucking wait, sugar.” 

She was still a flight risk, of course, but this was a major win. And as she giggled, blushing like crazy, ducking her head, he started laying it out in his head. He’d keep playing it careful, reeling her in closer, insinuating himself into every corner of her life until she expected to find him there everywhere she turned. 

Until she turned to him to answer everything for her. 

He’d let her keep working if she really wanted to, but. Well. He made more than enough money for the both of them and all of the kids he’d give her a dozen or so times over. 

And of course it would make him feel a little better (hornier) to know that when he was away on a job she was back home with nothing to do but care for their kids and wait anxiously for him to come home and fuck her through the mattress. 

(And the floor, and the wall, and the kitchen table, the stairs, the shower, over the couch, in the hot tub on the balcony of his penthouse, there were so many places he’d have her…) 

With a hot little wife, though, he’d have to be a little more careful, though. Which meant getting a discreet distance from Shepherd, and manipulating the dynamic until he got his orders directly from Laswell. 

Graves didn’t give a fuck one way or the other about the legality of what he did the way that Laswell cared, but Shepherd had been making some questionable comments and implications lately anyway. 

A problem for later. For now, he had more pleasant things to concern himself with. 

“That poor doorman,” Allison frowned, her fingers curling tighter around his own. “I do feel a little bad about what happened.” 

Graves raised a brow. “Honey. There’s not a damn reason why you should have any reason to feel bad, even a little bit. Hear me?” 

She sighed, mouth pursing slightly (fuck, please let that be a hint that she’d be easy to lead into pouting whenever she didn’t get her way, that face was so fucking pretty he wanted it painted in his fucking cum), and she protested, “But he lost his job. Is that an equal consequence?” 

He chose not to enlighten her that the doorman had come very close to losing something infinitely more precious than a job - his life. “I’d say he’s getting off easy.” 

“Being jobless in this economy isn’t getting off easy.” 

True, but most people didn’t care as long as it didn’t happen to them. That Allison cared? That was…unexpected. Actually, it was excellent. 

If she had a little pet charity to pour her time into it would clean up his image, Shadow Company’s, give her something to do, and make her think better of him all around. 

He’d have to start Shadow Company’s lawyers on the logistics of setting something like that up. If it wasn’t combating homelessness, he would bet she had a whole list of causes up that sweet, short little sleeve ready to take up a flag for, and he was more than willing to help her do it. 

“He called you a word no woman should ever be called,” he said finally, firmly. 

Allison flushed, and not in the way he liked. He squeezed her fingers, drawing her gaze. “I made a decision in the moment that I could either tell him to get lost or I could…give in to an urge my Lieutenant was always telling me not to overseas.” 

Dark doe eyes went wide again. “You would’ve attacked him?”

He shrugged. “Probably. But you took priority, so I didn’t. Plus, figured you wouldn’t appreciate a scene like that.”  

Or getting blood and gore and brain matter on her pretty little sundress with the little embroidered wildflowers. That probably wouldn’t have endeared him to her. Right? It’d been too long since he’d tried to get into the head of a civilian he honestly wasn’t totally sure anymore. 

Allison was staring at him, unblinking. “You really…for me? But…but we didn’t even know each other.” 

Not looking away, he shrugged once more. “Gut feeling guy, remember? Sides. I really don’t like that word used on women.” 

At least, not when it was used like a weapon and not something said during sex to make them drip around his cock. 

Her fingers squeezed his, a quick pulse like a twitch. He would easily bet she wasn’t even aware she’d done it. A there-and-gone tell that he’d just broken through another layer of defense. 

At this rate he might not even have to wait until after their second date to get under that short skirt. 

Atta girl, atta fucking girl. Letting me knock down those walls one by one, you were just waiting for me to come along, huh? Wanted to be such a good fucking girl but needed the right man for the job.  

“Thank you,” she whispered thickly. “I don’t…I don’t usually need so much rescuing, I’m really good at taking care of myself, I promise.” 

That was a pity if true. 

Keeping his eyes on her, he tilted his head, smirking as he drained the last of his coffee. “Wouldn’t mind in the least if you weren’t, but doesn’t surprise me in the least.” 

The pleased glow on her face was good comfort for the white lie. 

Sugar, damsel in distress or not you’re not gonna have to take care of anything yourself from now on. Mine, all fucking mine.