I don’t know for sure what fuckery Stella is up to but Idoknow one thing for certain: if given half a chance, she’ll fuck me over to help herself or Grace without a second thought and with zero regrets because Stella has zero love or loyalty for anyone other than herself.
Like hell will I let her.
The only problem is, I don’t know where her next attempt will come from, or what form it’ll take.
Or who will be helping her.
CHAPTERTWO
TEN YEARS LATER: NOW — LATE NOVEMBER
I’m frequently plaguedby nightmares.
Nightmares from which I usually awaken in a cold sweat with my heart pounding and phantom pain clenching my jaw shut on an agonized scream.
Nightmares where I’m in a foreign desert on the other side of the world. It’s a hot, dusty day, and I’m leading a patrol of men under my command through a village we’ve walked hundreds of times before.
A village normally full of friendlies. Except today’s patrol feels extremelywrong.
Lots of nervous glances and people skittering into their homes and other buildings as we approach. More so than usual.
Enoughwrongnessthat my pucker factor’s a ninety-nine on a scale of one to ten and I’m about to order my guys to retreat because I’m increasingly certain we’re walking into an ambush.
In my nightmares time slows when I hear the sound of incoming rocket fire, even slower than it felt in real-life.
In my nightmares all my guys are killed, leaving me alone and dragging myself and what remains of my left leg through the dirt.
Until arms tightly wrap around me and a soft, comforting voice firmly speaks in my ear.
“Wake up, boy.”
My eyes snap open as I gasp for air and clamp down on the scream clawing free from my throat.
Hiscalm voice wraps around me like a soft, warm blanket swaddling my soul in comfort and safety. “It’s all right, El. It’s just a nightmare. I’m right here.”
I shiver in the darkness of our bedroom. My body’s bathed in sweat and my pulse gallops while I saw ragged breaths into my lungs.
Breaths filled with the scent ofHim.
Not filled with the scent of blood, and dust, and with the agonized cries of my men jaggedly scraping inside my ears.
His chin rubs against the top of my head and he holds me while I try to rip myself free of the nightmare’s last and most tenacious tendrils.
I’m not a severely wounded soldier of twenty-four.
I’m forty-six, the president of the United States, and it’s the last week of November during the second year of my first term. Literally, nearly an entire lifetime has passed since that nightmare actually happened.
The blackout curtains over our bedroom windows keep outside light from penetrating because I sleep like shit as it is. In the thick, comforting darkness I shiver in Jordan’s arms. Then I close my eyes and deeply inhale again.
I smellHim, and hints of lube and cum from the sex we had before falling asleep last night.
Around my throat his warm, soft leather collar cradles my flesh, and will until Jordan removes it in the morning when he gets me ready for my day as the leader of the free world.
I realize I’m crying. Which isn’t unusual, because I usually awaken from my nightmares crying or screaming.
Or both.
Before we moved into the White House, Jordan had a talk with my Secret Service detail and warned them about my nightmares. That way, in case I do scream, no one will try to break into the bedroom.
