The President and his Military Bodyguard のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Killian’s POV The cold water hit me like a slap. I stood in the shower long after the routine should have ended, hands braced against the tile, forehead pressed to the wall. The pipes rattled from the force of it, steam curling up from my back—but I kept it on cold. I needed the sting. Needed something to anchor me. I hadn’t slept. My cock throbbed through the night like it remembered every second of his taste. Every gasp. I wanted more. And that terrified me. My body was a battlefield. Lust burned under my skin, but it was wrapped in barbed wire now. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face in the storeroom—red-cheeked, desperate, broken open by my mouth. And part of me, the part I usually keep buried, wanted to do it again. Slower. Rougher. Just to see how far he’d go before he begged. I turned the tap off violently. Water streamed off me in silence. I dressed in clean blacks—tactical pants, undershirt, sidearm holstered, jacket zipped to the neck. Tight, crisp. Controlled.

Damien’s POV The news is everywhere. Every screen in the Ash House, every broadcast channel, every whisper in the hallways—it’s all the same: charred beams, black smoke, sirens, faces covered in ash. The Legislative Assembly Hall reduced to twisted metal and smoldering ruin. Even with the volume muted on the TV in my office, I can hear the sirens in my head. They loop the footage on repeat: firefighters hauling hoses through collapsed archways, emergency medics carrying the injured, news anchors fighting to keep their voices steady while scrolling casualty numbers in the corner of the screen. The numbers change every hour. The dead don’t come back. The whole country is in chaos. I’m dressed in a dark suit, tie sharp and perfect, but I can’t remember tying it. The routine feels automatic—like muscle memory for survival. Killian walks one step behind me as I leave my office, his presence the only still point in the rush of aides and security. He hasn’t spoken since the Situation Ro

Killian's POV The dishes from breakfast this morning were still on the counter, but Damien hadn’t let me touch them. He’d insisted the staff would handle it, the same way he insisted I sit down and eat beside him this morning instead of hovering like a shadow. Now the room was quiet, after the kitchen staff took the dishes away. Sunlight spilling through the tall windows of his private residence, and the silence between us felt heavy in a way that wasn’t about duty anymore. I leaned against the frame of the glass door that opened onto his balcony, a cup of untouched coffee from breakfast in my hand. My muscles were tight, not from the usual alertness that came with guarding him, but from something else—something I had been trying to bury since the night on the jet, since the moment he chose to taunt me. Damien was watching me. I felt it before I turned. He had that look again, the one that stripped me bare, the one that made me feel like I wasn’t just a man doing his job but somet

Killian's POV I should have known better than to ignore the gut feeling that kept me awake the night before. It was the same gnawing instinct that had kept me alive all these years, the one thing sharper than any blade or bullet I’d ever faced. Paranoia, they call it. I call it survival. Richard was moving differently these past days. Quieter. Less stiff in his posture, less careless in his routines. A man who handled calendars and documents shouldn’t know how to vanish into a corridor like a trained shadow. Yet he did. I saw it this morning, after Damien dismissed him. Richard slipped his phone into his coat pocket, murmured a farewell, and left through the north hall. Not unusual on its own. But the way he adjusted his tie, scanning both ends of the corridor before stepping out, tightened every muscle in my body. That was no secretary’s nervous tic. That was someone trying not to be followed. So, naturally, I followed. I stayed far enough to be invisible but close enough to cat

Damien's POV I leaned back in my chair the moment the door closed behind my father. The weight of his presence lingered in the air long after he had gone, like the echo of a command I couldn’t shake. Killian hadn’t moved from his spot, still stationed in the shadows of the office like a constant reminder that I was never truly alone. His eyes didn’t meet mine, but I felt them. Watching. Calculating. Always too steady, always too silent. “Sir,” Richard said quietly, stepping forward, “should I add the family gathering to your official calendar, or would you prefer me to… leave it unmarked?” “Put it on there,” I muttered, my voice lower than usual. “Saturday. Daniel’s wedding.” Richard adjusted his glasses, nodding without comment, though I caught the faintest flicker of curiosity on his face. He, of course, knew who Daniel was. My younger brother—the golden son who could do no wrong. The silence stretched for a moment before Richard spoke again. “Would you like me to draft an off