The President and his Military Bodyguard

Damien's POV "Sir," my secretary, Richard, called out, cutting through the static hum of my concentration. "It's time for your meeting. We should get going." His voice was always irritatingly polite, as though he hadn't yet accepted that I no longer had the luxury of days without urgency. Since the moment I took office as President of Ameria, the throne has brought no crown of peace. Just ink-stained fingers, sleepless nights, and the obligation to smile while others lied through their teeth. I rose from the leather chair behind my desk in the Ash House, letting out a slow exhale. Another day, another round of performative diplomacy. Outside, my chief of staff, Anita Farr, was already waiting. She was young, razor-smart, and dressed like she intended to outpace anyone who challenged her. Her black power suit fit like it had been stitched onto her determination. She didn't speak when I emerged—just fell into step beside me, tablet in hand, briefing already loaded. The convoy

Killian’s POV I arrived at the apartment just as dusk seeped through the windows, grocery bags in hand. The quiet ache of normalcy trailed me—bread, vegetables, Anna’s favorite pasta sauce. My mind wandered ahead, anxious about tomorrow, but nothing prepared me for the image at my door. It was left slightly open, a shard of shattered glass stuck in the frame. My heart doubled its beat. I dropped the bags—it all went soft and heavy—and drew my pistol. The tile hallway was cold under my boots as I slipped inside. Darkness. Shadows clinging to corners. I flicked the hall light on and watched dust dance. Then I saw it: a single, heavy envelope on the coffee table, bearing the Blackguard sigil—the black falcon with clasped talons—and the words TOP SECRET stamped above it. I exhaled hard, sliding down the wall into a seated crouch. My life—my choice, damn it—refused to leave me alone. I sighed hard. I already left this life. It does nothing but take more and more from you. My only

Killian’s POVThe room was small, dim, and quiet enough that our breaths filled the silence between shadows. Kieran tasted like whiskey and lust, and I needed both. He shoved me back onto the bed, and I let him, my mouth still clinging to his like I’d forgotten how to breathe.His tongue was possessive, his hands worse. They slid beneath my shirt, dragging across my skin like he owned it. He yanked the fabric over my head. I did the same to him. His body was solid—lean, lightly scarred, the kind that told stories without words. The kind I understood.I didn’t want his name. I didn’t want his past. I wanted friction. Sweat. A body under mine to make me forget I had one of my own.“Turn over,” I whispered.He grinned darkly, rolling onto his stomach, arching slightly. His ass was tight and perfect, framed by the dim light filtering through yellow curtains. I bit his shoulder—he hissed in pleasure—and reached down to stroke him from behind.He groaned, a low, needy sound torn from his th

Damien's POV Something changed after that moment on the plane. I don't even know what to call it. Not a kiss. Not a touch. Just—charged air and a breath held too long. But whatever it was, it carved something sharp into the quiet between us, something that lingered like heat trapped beneath skin. And I can’t stop thinking about it. Killian Reeve is a man. That much is obvious. But this… attraction? It doesn’t feel like it’s about men or women. It feels like it’s just him. And that’s not a thought I’m used to entertaining, especially not on diplomatic trips where nuclear energy and international weapons agreements are the agenda—not my libido. I straighten the cuffs of my suit as the jet begins its descent into Valeria. Through the sleek windows, the sprawling city shimmers below like molten glass. I press the thought of Killian out of my head, or try to. “You’ll meet President Roul tomorrow being Friday,” Richard says beside me, flipping through the digital itinerary on his tab

Damien's POV The reception hall glittered like a dream—crystal chandeliers casting golden light over marble floors, live violins weaving slow music between the hum of conversation. Elegant Virelian elites swayed in polished silks and sharp suits. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Power exchanged with every glance. Damien stood near the far end of the room, drink untouched in his hand, expression unreadable. It wasn’t the wedding that bothered him. It was the fact that Killian Reeve, his bodyguard, stood by the archway behind him. Silent. Watching. Always watching. Not a word since that cursed conversation about boundaries. And yet, his gaze never left Damien. Like Damien belonged to him. *No one else touches you.* The words looped through his mind with the arrogance of ownership. And the nerve of it—Killian, with those hands and that voice and that body, thinking he could just say that and make it real. Damien lifted the glass to his lips, only to find his drink replaced.