2. The bodyguard

Damien's POV

The morning after the explosion was a blur of fire reports, media silence, and intelligence briefings. I had barely touched my coffee when my secure line buzzed. Richard, ever punctual, passed me the encrypted receiver.

“President Raoul on the line,” he said.

I took the call with one hand, the other hand still holding a report smeared with ash from yesterday's chaos.

“Damien,” Raoul's voice crackled through. “I’m just now hearing the full extent of the attack. Are you all right?”

“I’m alive,” I replied coldly. “That’s more than I can say for the building you sent me to.”

There was a pause. “We were delayed. A motorcade accident—not serious, but enough to hold us back.”

“How convenient.”

“I understand your suspicion, but believe me, this wasn’t from our end. Virelia had no hand in this.”

“And yet, someone knew we’d be there.”

“That’s why I’m calling. Our advisors agree: rescheduling is necessary. Neutral ground: Valeria City, the Arcadia Conference Dome.”

I turned toward Anita, who had entered quietly and was already noting down details on her tablet.

“Valeria?” I asked.

“It’s secure: high-altitude surveillance, an internal military perimeter, and no civilian traffic within a five-mile radius. Friday, 10:00 a.m. Valerian Standard Time.”

“We’ll be there.”

The line clicked off. No goodbyes.

“Thoughts?” I asked without looking up.

Anita adjusted her cuffs. “It’s not ideal, but it’s stable. Arcadia Dome has seen two decades of peace talks and not one breach. I’ll have a team sweep it before we land.”

“Make sure they do.”

She hesitated, then added, “Sir, I don’t like the timing. The deal with Virelia is vital, but someone went to great lengths to stop it. If you’re there again, they’ll try harder.”

That sat heavily with me. The deal—one that would open Ameria to Virelian tech sectors, granting us defense-grade drone systems and satellite relay support—was worth billions. More importantly, it would reduce Ameria’s dependency on the increasingly unstable E.U. bloc. We needed this alliance. Economically. Militarily. Politically.

Richard entered next, folder in hand.

“Preliminary intel,” he said, placing the sealed report in front of me. “The explosive was military-grade, embedded inside the elevator core. There were no fingerprints or a trail. Whoever did this had clearance—or tech that mimicked it.”

I flipped through the pages, eyes narrowing at the grainy surveillance captures.

“Any affiliations?”

“None confirmed, but there are whispers of a private network of mercenaries. They're possibly funded by an offshore ghost account linked to Red Crescent operatives.”

Of course. The same Red Crescent we were about to step into through our Virelian alliance.

Richard cleared his throat, suddenly hesitant. “Sir… I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

He didn’t smile. “We’ve reached a point where your security is no longer just about protocols. You need someone close—someone who doesn’t answer to departments or oversight.”

I looked up. “A bodyguard.”

“A shadow, loyal only to you.”

“I already have shadows. I need results.”

“I think I found him.”

He opened another folder. Black dossier. No name on the cover, just a silver insignia burned into the leather.

“Killian Reeve. Former Blackguard Division. Elite recon. Officially dead on paper. Five years deep ops. Quiet. Lethal. No political ties. No online presence. Perfect for what you need.”

“And why would a ghost come work for me?”

“Because ghosts like money, and he’s been paid. He’ll arrive in twenty minutes. I want to give you a shield, someone trained to neutralize threats before they materialize. We’ve vetted him; he’s clean and lethal.”

I arched a brow. “You move fast.”

“You’re not safe, sir. I don’t wait anymore.”

Twenty minutes later, the west lounge of the Ash House was cleared and silent. Anita stood near the door, arms folded, while I waited near the window, watching the grey skies of Ameria bruise deeper into dusk.

The silence was palpable—thick with unease. Outside, the wind cut through the marble courtyard like a blade. Even the guards seemed quieter today, more aware. More alert. Something had shifted in the air.

The door opened. He stepped in.

Killian Reeve moved like a ripple through still water—smooth, controlled, silent. Tall, somewhere between six-foot-two and arrogance. He wore black tactical fabric tailored so perfectly it looked poured onto him. Underneath, his physique was unapologetically military: broad chest, slim waist, powerful legs built for close-range combat or climbing glass-faced walls if needed.

His skin was bronze-gold, kissed by the sun and war. His face was a contradiction—sharp cheekbones, a strong, carved jawline, and lips that belonged in a softer world. But those eyes…

They were the kind that studied every room with brutal calculation. Hazel-green with a ring of burnt amber, watching, always watching. And they locked on me the moment he entered.

He didn’t fidget. He didn’t blink too much. He stood like someone who knew every inch of his body was a weapon—and had already assessed the exits.

“Mr. Reeve,” I said, not moving from the window.

He nodded once. “President Voss.”

No salute. No theatrics. Just a statement—as cold and composed as I was.

“You come highly recommended.”

“I don’t care about recommendations.”

“You don’t speak like someone seeking a job.”

“I’m not. I already have it.”

That amused me, slightly. I turned to face him fully. “Then let’s be clear. You don’t answer to protocol. You don’t get medals. You exist to keep me alive, and invisible while doing it.”

“Understood.”

“Any questions?”

“One.” He tilted his head just slightly. “How many threats are internal?”

I gave a small, unreadable smile. “More than external.”

He nodded again, eyes lingering on mine for a fraction longer than necessary.

He had the kind of presence that lingered—scented faintly with clean soap, metal, and danger. His voice, though quiet, carried weight. Like someone who didn’t need to speak loudly to be heard.

Anita broke the tension with a dry cough. “He’ll be assigned a room near your quarters. Briefings at 0600. Armory access has been granted.”

I began walking toward the door. “You start now.”

Before I exited, I spoke without looking back.

“You’ll find I don’t trust easily.”

Killian replied, calm and deep, “Good. I don’t protect carelessly.”

Later that night, as I sat in my study overlooking the sleeping city, Richard entered quietly with a glass of whiskey in each hand. He offered one.

“Do you believe him?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But I believe in what he can do.”

He took a seat across from me. “You’re different since the explosion.”

“I saw what almost happened,” I said. “What still could.”

Richard studied me for a moment, then asked the question he had been sitting on all day.

“And if this goes deeper than Virelia? If we’re already compromised?”

I sipped my drink, the fire crawling down my throat.

“Then we burn everything and start over.”

In the silence that followed, somewhere in the shadows of the west wing, Killian Reeve stood watch.