Breach

PREMISE:

After surviving an assassination attempt from within his own ranks, Saxon is forced to go into lockdown at his remote family estate—until it’s safe to resume business. He demands the best protection money can buy.

He wasn’t expecting Cain Castellano.

The one who left him broken. The one he never forgave.

The only man who ever made him beg.

Now they’re trapped in a mansion laced with surveillance, power plays, and lust they can’t ignore. Cain swore he’d keep Saxon alive.

But can he do it without losing control?

Chapter One:

Assignment: Saxon

The Rivera Estate was quieter than it should’ve been for a place crawling with killers.

Cain Castellano didn’t bother to knock. He pushed the heavy wrought-iron door open and stepped into the marble-floored foyer, boots thudding slow and hard against the polished stone.

He’d seen this mansion before—on grainy surveillance footage, news reports, under the names of shell companies and aliases. But never like this. Never inside.

And never like now—with the man he swore he’d never protect again standing at the top of the grand staircase in nothing but black silk pajama pants, a cigarette tucked between his lips, and a smirk designed to make any man hate himself for wanting.

Saxon Rivera.

The mob heir.

The boy he’d once ruined.

The man he was about to ruin again.

“You’re late,” Saxon said, exhaling smoke without taking his eyes off Cain.

His voice was slower than Cain remembered. A little deeper. But still the same bastard blend of condescension and boredom. Still the same sound that once made Cain want to fall to his knees and bite something tender just to make Saxon feel.

Cain didn’t blink. “Traffic.”

Saxon’s brow twitched. Just enough.

And that’s when Cain knew: he wasn’t the only one still bleeding.

“You cut your hair,” Saxon said, descending a step. Then another. “Military habit?”

Cain stayed rooted to the floor, hands clasped behind his back, every movement calculated. The charcoal-grey tactical suit hugged his chest like a second skin. Holsters beneath his blazer. Blades in his boots. Reinforced cufflinks. He was a walking weapon.

“I kept it clean,” Cain said. “Unlike your security.”

Saxon’s steps halted halfway down. “You’re already judging my team?”

“I’m not judging,” Cain said coldly. “I’m stating facts. The gate security took twenty-three seconds to challenge my clearance. Two cameras were dead on the south perimeter. And one of your men was outside the back door smoking—back turned, weapon holstered.”

He looked up slowly.

“If I wanted to kill you, Saxon, you’d be bleeding into the marble already.”

The air crackled.

Saxon’s jaw clenched. He took a long drag from his cigarette, walked the rest of the way down the stairs, and stopped just inches from Cain—bare chest rising and falling, heat radiating like static.

Up close, he was trouble incarnate. A carved jawline with a tiny scar near the corner of his mouth. Piercing storm-colored eyes. A tattoo snaked across his ribs—partially hidden by the silk waistband.

Cain didn’t look down.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“You still talk too much,” Saxon said.

Cain’s lips twitched. “And you still crave attention.”

There it was—Saxon’s tell. A twitch in his lip like he wanted to grin. Like he was seconds from losing the tight grip on his own self-control.

“Follow me,” Saxon said, already turning.

Cain let his eyes drop for just a moment—just enough to clock the smooth line of the man’s spine, the lazy sway of his hips. The waistband riding low.

Fuck.

He didn’t come here to get hard.

He came here to protect the one man who could still gut him with a glance.

—

The house was a fortress disguised as luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows, velvet blackout drapes, multiple bedrooms with private corridors, a study, gym, wine cellar, panic room. Cain’s eyes scanned everything. Mapped exit points, blind spots, ambush zones.

They walked down a long hallway toward the study, silent except for the low echo of their footsteps.

“You were the last name on my list,” Saxon finally said, not looking back.

“You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t thanking you.”

Cain didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

He knew exactly what Saxon was doing—trying to dig in, provoke, crack him open. But Cain wasn’t twenty-one anymore, wasn’t wide-eyed and reckless, wasn’t stupid enough to fall for the way Saxon licked the tip of his thumb before flipping open a file folder on his desk.

“You want the full security briefing?” Cain asked flatly, standing at attention by the door.

Saxon leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest. “I want to know how close you plan on sticking to me.”

Cain stepped forward.

“One step behind you. Eyes on you. At all times.”

Saxon tilted his head. “Even in the shower?”

Cain’s voice didn’t waver. “Especially in the shower. I know your history with ambushes.”

Saxon laughed—low and lazy. “You never did like being ignored.”

Cain’s fists clenched at his sides.

It would be so easy to grab him. Pin him. Bite that smirk off his lips and make him beg for air.

But he was a professional.

He had rules now.

And breaking them—for Saxon of all people—was not on the fucking table.

“Let’s set expectations,” Cain said coolly. “You don’t leave the estate without my approval. No unscheduled meetings. No visitors unless they pass my vetting. And if I say duck, you hit the floor.”

Saxon arched an eyebrow. “You always were bossy in bed.”

Cain stepped closer. Just enough that Saxon’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.

“You always liked it,” he said, voice low.

The silence snapped tight between them.

Cain could feel it—Saxon’s breath hitching, the rise of his chest, the scent of his skin. Expensive cologne and smoke and something darker, unshakable.

“You left me,” Saxon said suddenly. No preamble.

Cain froze.

The words didn’t match the swagger. Didn’t match the smirk.

They were quieter. Rougher.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Cain said. His voice was iron. Controlled.

Saxon’s eyes flashed. “Bullshit.”

Cain didn’t answer.

Because if he did, he’d have to tell him everything—the deal he made with Saxon’s father, the threat that would’ve had Saxon dead in a week, the reason he’d disappeared the night before everything changed.

The reason he still woke up with Saxon’s name in his mouth.

“Why now?” Saxon asked.

Cain’s jaw tensed. “Because your name just hit a target list, and someone paid seven figures to see you dead.”

Saxon didn’t blink. “So you’re here out of pity.”

Cain stepped forward and slammed his palm against the desk beside Saxon’s hip.

The sharp crack echoed in the silence.

Saxon didn’t flinch. But his pupils dilated.

Cain leaned in, close enough that their noses almost touched.

“I’m here,” he said, “because no one else is good enough to keep you breathing. And because if anyone’s going to put their hands on you again—it’s going to be me.”

The tension broke with a bang.

Saxon surged forward, grabbing Cain’s shirt, yanking him down into a bruising, furious kiss. Teeth. Tongue. Spite. Need. Cain groaned—deep and guttural—grabbing Saxon’s jaw, pressing him back against the desk hard enough to scatter papers.

The kiss was punishment and confession, ruined history and unfinished sex. Cain bit his lip. Saxon moaned.

And then Cain ripped away.

Chest heaving. Blood hot.

“No,” he rasped, voice shredded. “Not like this.”

Saxon wiped his mouth, eyes glittering. “Still pretending you don’t want it?”

Cain stepped back. “Still pretending you’re safe?”

Silence.

Then: “Fine,” Saxon said. “Be the good soldier. But sooner or later, Cain…”

He dragged his tongue across his lower lip.

“…you’re going to fuck me again. And this time, you’ll beg for it.”

Cain turned and walked out without a word.

Because Saxon wasn’t wrong.

And Cain was already halfway to hell for even being here.