9. The foreign minister

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.

“Careful,” a sultry voice said beside him. “You look like you’re seconds away from swallowing something dangerous.”

He turned.

She stood tall in a backless crimson gown, her posture regal, her smile slow and hungry. Dark auburn hair swept into a high twist, bold earrings, and eyes sharp enough to rival Anita’s. Damien recognized her instantly.

“Minister Celeste Arvain,” he said. “Foreign affairs. Your name’s come up in our intelligence briefs.”

“I do hope they were flattering,” she replied. “Though I’m more interested in the briefs you’re not allowed to share.”

She didn’t offer her hand. She didn’t need to.

Confidence poured off her like perfume.

“Shouldn’t the Foreign Minister be schmoozing with dignitaries?”

She stepped closer. “I’m here to keep peace. But I’m also here to enjoy myself. And you, President Voss, are... quite the temptation.”

Damien’s gaze flicked—past her, to where Killian still stood by the doorway. Rigid. Expression unreadable. But his body? Tense. His jaw locked tight.

Damien looked back at Celeste.

“Are you always this forward with heads of state?”

“Only the interesting ones.” Her hand grazed his forearm, slowly. “And only when they’re pretending not to be lonely.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t pull away.

Because he could feel the heat rising in Killian’s stare behind him. And it infuriated him.

*He set the boundary. He walked away.*

So why did it feel like Damien was still chained to him?

Celeste’s fingers now played with the lapel of his blazer. “You’re quiet,” she purred. “I expected something colder. But you’re burning.”

He finally met her eyes. “Careful, Minister. Some fires bite back.”

She grinned. “I like a little danger."

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Want to let him watch?”

Damien’s breath hitched—barely. She’d noticed.

“Who?” he asked, even though he didn’t need to.

Her tongue barely touched his skin. “The pretty soldier who hasn’t blinked in five minutes.”

His hand came up—grasping her waist.

He didn’t smile.

“Then let’s give him a show.”

---

Minutes later, the two of them were in a guest chamber down the east wing—doors shut, security detail posted outside.

Killian was waiting at the door.Damien could feel it, even without looking. A part of him wanted him to hear. Needed him to.

Celeste pressed him against the wall as soon as it closed. Her mouth was fire, her tongue demanding. He kissed her back hard, biting her lower lip just enough to draw a gasp.

“You’re not gentle, are you?” she whispered, lips brushing his jaw.

“I’m not trying to be.”

He stripped his blazer off, then tore open the first buttons of his shirt. Celeste dropped to her knees.

“You sure you want this?” she asked, voice throaty, already undoing his belt.

He looked down at her. “Convince me.”

She did.

Her lips were warm and wet, her tongue practiced, skilled. She took him slow at first, hands gripping his thighs. Damien exhaled sharply, his back hitting the wall. One hand fisted in her hair as he thrusted his hard cock into her mouth.

But it wasn’t her he saw.

It was Killian’s face—jaw clenched, eyes furious, voice saying “No one else touches you”—and Damien let out a low groan, louder than necessary.

Celeste moaned at the sound and took him deeper. Faster.

Wet. Rhythmic. Erotic sounds filled the room, echoing toward the heavy doors.

*Let him hear.*

He didn’t care.

He needed this.

He needed to feel wanted by someone who didn’t leave. Who didn’t look at him like he was the enemy *and* the prize. Someone who didn’t make him feel like… less.

Celeste rose to her feet and kissed him again—taste of him on her lips.

“Bed,” she whispered. “Now.”

---

Damien shoved her backward onto the mattress and climbed over her.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, dress bunched up around her hips.

She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, palming her thighs.

“Come on, Mr. President,” she purred, “Make a diplomatic impression.”

He thrust into her hard, without hesitation. Her pussy cleanched around like a tight globe making him groan. He started thrusting his cock harder and faster.

She gasped—arching, grabbing at his back.

He gave her all of it—every ounce of frustration, heat, confusion. His rhythm was brutal, possessive, primal. Every slap of skin echoed louder than the last. Her moans grew louder, breathy and pleading.

Damien grunted with each thrust, sweat rolling down his spine. Her nails raked his back, legs locking tighter.

“F-fuck—Damien—yes—just like that—”

He drove deeper, harder.

“Louder,” he growled. “Let them hear you.”

She screamed his name.

And somewhere behind the door, he *knew* Killian heard every second.

Killian's POV

He stood outside the door.

Back straight. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the far wall like stone.

But inside?

He was shattering.

The moment the door had shut behind President Voss and Minister Celeste Arvain, something in him had gone razor-wire tight. The walls of the corridor echoed with muffled voices—low, breathy, flirtatious. Then footsteps. Then silence.

Then sound.

The first time he heard Damien groan, Killian thought he imagined it.

The second time?

He knew he hadn’t.

And by the third, when Celeste’s unmistakable moan rang sharp through the door followed by the unmistakable rhythm of movement—wet, raw, hard—he realized what was happening.

They were fucking.

Right. In there.

And Damien knew he was here.

He hadn't reassigned him. Hadn’t dismissed him. Hadn’t asked for privacy.

He wanted him to hear.

*You don’t touch me,* Damien had said.

*No one else touches you,* Killian had thrown back.

Now here they were.

And every slap of skin behind that door was a gunshot to his chest.

---

Killian stayed rooted in place, face blank, but his pulse hammered like a war drum in his ears.

He tried to steady his breath, but then another noise came—a sharper cry. A rhythm too violent to ignore. Her voice, desperate. Damien’s grunt—low and full of rage.

Killian clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. His fists were balled so hard his knuckles burned white.

Fuck, Damien…

He wanted to walk away.

He should’ve walked away.

But his boots didn’t move.

Because something sick and coiled inside him needed to hear it.

To feel every second of what he’d been denied.

To burn.

He imagined it—Damien’s body slick with sweat, muscles flexing, that mouth curved in something savage. The same mouth that had *almost* kissed him on the plane. The same voice that had whispered to him in the dark.

He’d memorized it. All of it.

And now Celeste had it.

She had her hands on him. Her mouth. Her moans filled the corridor like a war cry.

Mine...

The word surged up in Killian’s chest like bile.

He wasn’t supposed to think that.

He wasn’t supposed to want this man.

Not his president. Not his mark.

But hearing him with someone else?

It didn’t make the feeling go away.

It made it worse.

He didn’t want Damien gone. He didn’t want Damien dead.

He wanted him ruined.

---

Killian finally stepped back, boots heavy on the marble. The moans inside spiked again, followed by Damien’s growl—

“Louder. Let them hear you.”

Killian froze.

His lungs stopped.

He *heard that.*

He *meant that.*

It wasn’t just about sex.

It was war.

A message.

A punishment.

And Killian had no armor for it.

His hand hovered near his sidearm. Not for use. Just to feel something real, something cold.

Because what he felt in his chest wasn’t cold anymore.

It was wildfire.

He turned slowly, started down the corridor, footsteps quiet, breath shallow.

He didn’t want to be a witness anymore.

But every sound followed him.

Every breathless cry.

Every skin-on-skin echo of the man he couldn’t stop wanting—and the woman who now had him.

Behind closed doors.

Where Killian used to imagine being.