The monster and the mercenary

NATHANIEL'S POV

Nathaniel King was once composed of sunlight, saltwater, and speed. At least, that’s what the glossy magazines used to say before I became the world’s favorite tragedy.

Now, I was made of shadows and the electronic hum of a server rack.

I sat in the center of my study, a room that had become my entire universe. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls, which once offered a billion-dollar view of the Pacific, were smothered by motorized blackout curtains. I’d had them installed the day I came home from the hospital. I couldn't stand the light. The sun belonged to the man who surfed at dawn—a man who died six months ago in a scream of tearing metal and the scent of burning rubber.

Six months. One hundred and eighty-two days of being a ghost in a gilded cage. I adjusted the joystick on my armrest, the electric motor whirring—a pathetic, mechanical whine that served as a constant reminder that I was no longer the one in control.

A notification pinged on my primary monitor.

Security Alert: External Gate. Visitor: Ava Bennett.

I leaned forward, my chest tightening. I tapped a key, expanding the security feed. At my gates sat a rusted 2008 Honda that looked like it was held together by spite and duct tape. Beside it stood a woman in faded navy scrubs. She wasn’t the usual "elite" nurse the agency sent—those perfumed dolls who looked at my legs with watery eyes and spoke to me like I was a dying puppy.

This woman looked like she’d just finished a double shift in a war zone. She looked tired. She looked gritty.

Most importantly, she looked like she had nothing left to lose.

"Let her in," I rasped into the intercom. "And tell security to keep her phone. I want no witnesses to what I’m about to do to her."

I’d fired four nurses this month. One cried within ten minutes. Two argued and quit by lunch. The last one simply turned white and ran. I was going to break this Ava Bennett, too. I had to. If I didn't keep the world out, I might have to face the fact that I was still in here.

AVA's POV

I sat in my idling Honda, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. The engine gave a pathetic wheeze, and I prayed not for my life, but for the car to stay alive long enough to get me up this driveway.

Insufficient Funds. The notification on my phone was a neon scar on my soul. Forty-three dollars. That was all I had left to my name. Forty-three dollars and an eviction notice that was currently taped to my apartment door like a death warrant.

"You can do this," I whispered to the cracked dashboard. "He’s just a man. A broken, rich, probably miserable man. And you really, really like sleeping indoors."

The massive iron gates creaked open silently. I drove up the winding path, my eyes widening at the mansion. It wasn't a home; it was a fortress of concrete and dark glass carved into the cliffside. It looked like the kind of place where hope went to die.

I parked next to a line of black SUVs that cost more than my entire education. A security guard built like a vending machine met me at the door. He took my phone, searched my bag, and didn't smile once.

"He’s in the West Wing," the guard said, his voice flat. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not touch the curtains. And good luck. You’ll need it."

I followed him through hallways that felt like a very expensive morgue. No photos. No flowers. Just the smell of antiseptic and cold air. When we reached the double mahogany doors, the guard stepped back as if he were afraid of catching whatever was inside.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my scrubs, and pushed the doors open.

The room was pitch black, save for the eerie blue glow of a dozen computer monitors. It smelled of ozone and isolation. In the center of the glow sat a figure in a wheelchair.

Nathaniel King.

Even from the back, he looked imposing. His shoulders were broad, his arms corded with muscle from what I assumed were hours of punishing upper-body exercise. But he was motionless. He was a statue in a high-tech tomb.

"You're late," he barked. His voice was like sandpaper on glass.

I checked my watch. "It’s 8:59, Mr. King. My shift starts at nine. Technically, I’m early."

"I changed my mind an hour ago. I wanted you here at eight," he said, finally rotating his chair.

The motor whirred, and then he was facing me. My breath hitched. He was beautiful in a devastating way—sharp angles, dark eyes that looked like they hadn't seen a moment of peace in years, and a mouth set in a permanent sneer. But his eyes... they were dead. Cold as flint.

"Since you weren't here when I desired," he continued, "you are incompetent. Leave. Now."

I stood my ground. The old Ava—the one before the debt, before the cheating fiancé, before the world chewed me up—might have apologized. But that Ava was dead.

"I don't work on 'desires,' Mr. King," I said, stepping fully into the room. I dropped my bag onto his pristine desk with a heavy thud. "I work on contracts. My contract says nine o'clock. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be."

NATHANIEL's POV

She didn't flinch.

I narrowed my eyes, looking for the crack in her armor. Every person who entered this room eventually broke. It was the only power I had left the power to make everyone as miserable as I was.

"Do you know who I am, Miss Bennett?" I asked, my voice dropping to a predatory whisper.

"I know you’re the man who’s fired four nurses in the last month," she countered. She stepped closer, invading my space. She didn't smell like perfume; she smelled like soap and exhaustion. "I know you’re a billionaire who thinks that because his legs don't work, his manners don't have to either. And I know that if I leave this room, I won't be able to pay my rent on Friday."

She leaned over my desk, her face inches from mine. "So, here’s the deal. You can be as miserable as you want. You can pretend you're a monster. You can even try to fire me. But unless you have that refrigerator of a guard drag me out in handcuffs, I’m staying. I need the paycheck, and you need someone who isn't afraid to tell you that you're acting like a spoiled child."

I felt a surge of white-hot rage, followed by something I hadn't felt in six months.

Shock. No one spoke to me like this. My mother treated me like glass. My board members treated me like a liability. But this girl... she looked at me and saw a man who was simply being a jerk.

"I am a nightmare," I hissed, my hands gripping the armrests until my knuckles turned white. "I will find your breaking point within the hour, Ava. I will enjoy watching you cry as you drive that piece of junk back down my driveway."

"I've been broken by experts, Mr. King," she said, her voice steady. "You're just an amateur with a bad attitude. Now, hands on the desk. I need to check your pulse."

"No."

"Hands. On. The. Desk."

She stared me down. It was a battle of wills, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was facing an opponent who wasn't intimidated by my bank account or my rage.

Slowly, I placed my hands on the desk.

She reached out and took my wrist. Her skin was warm—terrifyingly warm—against my own. As she pressed her thumb to my pulse, I felt the rhythmic thrum of my own heart. It was fast. Frantic.

She looked at her watch, her expression unreadable. "Pulse is high. Probably the rage. We'll work on that."

"We will work on nothing," I snapped, pulling my hand away. "You are a mechanic for a broken machine. Nothing more."

AVA's POV 

He called himself a machine, but I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was a man drowning in his own bitterness, and he was trying to pull me under with him.

"A machine?" I let out a dry laugh. "Machines don't hide in the dark, Nathan. Only things that are afraid of being seen do that."

I turned away from him and walked toward the heavy velvet curtains. I could feel his eyes on my back sharp, angry, and confused.

"What are you doing?" he growled. "Don't touch those."

"I’m doing my job," I said.

I gripped the edge of the fabric and, with one violent tug, I ripped the curtains back.

The California sunlight exploded into the room. It was brutal and brilliant, hitting the marble floors and reflecting off every glass surface. Nathaniel flinched as if I’d struck him, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

"Close them!" he roared. "I didn't give you permission"

"The sun doesn't need your permission to rise," I said, standing in the center of the light. I turned to look at him. In the glare, I could see everything the scars on his arms, the dust on his monitors, and the raw, naked vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. "And you don't need my permission to start living again. But as long as I'm on the clock, we’re doing it with the lights on."

He looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. But beneath the hate, I saw a flicker of something else. Curiosity.

He wanted to break me. He thought he could.

But he didn't realize that I was already broken. I was a survivor, just like he was. And I wasn't going anywhere until I got my paycheck or until I saw the Sun King rise again.

"You'll regret this," he muttered, his voice raspy.

"Probably," I agreed, opening my notepad. I capped my pen with a decisive click. "But at least my rent will be paid. Now, let’s talk about your physical therapy. And don't even think about saying 'no.' I've already heard it once today, and it's only 9:05."

I sat down on the leather sofa, my heart hammering against my ribs. Round one was over. I’d survived.

But looking at the rigid set of Nathaniel’s shoulders, I knew that round two was going to be hell.