CHAPTER 20
VANGUARD
I wake before dawn,which is nothing new.
Whatisnew is the woman in my bed.
Mia is curled on her side, one hand bent at the wrist, like she’s pretending to be a T-Rex in her sleep, dark hair spilling across my pillow like ink on snow. The sheet has slipped to her waist, revealing the elegant curve of her spine, the swell of her hip, the constellation of marks I’ve left on her skin over the past eighteen hours.
Eighteen hours. That’s how long she’s been in my orbit now. She left yesterday evening—said she needed to grab some things from the hotel, freshen up, check in with her editor—and I spent every minute she was gone pacing my penthouse like a caged animal, convinced she wouldn’t come back, that she had been a beautiful exotic bird I’d prematurely let out of its cage.
But she did come back.
She walked through my door two hours later with an overnight bag and a nervous smile, and I had her against the wall before she could even set it down. That was our second time, slower than the first, more deliberate. I learned the sounds she makes when I hit just the right angle. Learned she likes her hairpulled hard, that she’s not afraid of pain. Learned she whispers my name like a prayer when she’s close.
And then, there was the third time, in the middle of the night, when she woke me by pressing her ass against my cock and I took her from behind, half-asleep and desperate, both of us too far gone to form complete sentences.
Three times, and I still want more, want her again right now, even though she must be sore. The hunger doesn’t care about logic, though, and my own body is tireless.
Mine, the darkness whispers as I watch her sleep.She’s mine now.
I should be alarmed by how right that feels, by how natural it seems to have her here, in my space, breathing my air. I’ve never let anyone stay the whole night before, not since I was in the military, and even that was different. Back then, everything felt so fleeting, nothing stationary, every relationship, every encounter eventually wisping by in the wind.
I prop myself on one elbow and study her in the grey light before dawn. The flutter of her pulse in her throat. The tiny scar above her left eyebrow. The way her lips part with each exhale, still swollen from being kissed raw. She looks younger when she sleeps. Her sharp edges smoothed away until she seems innocent.
She also looks thoroughly fucked—bruises on her hips, beard burn on her thighs, a bite mark blooming on her shoulder I don’t entirely remember leaving. I can lose my mind a little in the throes of it, and the evidence of my claim is written across her skin.
Good, the darkness purrs.Let everyone see.
I ease out of bed, careful not to wake her, and walk to the kitchen. The penthouse is quiet, the city still sleeping beyond the windows. I start the coffee maker and lean against the counter, running a hand over my face, wondering how I’m going to juggleany of this. I’m lucky there weren’t any emergencies in the last eighteen hours, that there wasn’t anyone I had to save. That god, or someone up there who likes me, decided to grant me a reprieve and gift me a slice of time when I could finally truly be myself. When I could be Nate Whitaker. When I could be selfish as hell.
And frankly, that kills me. Because I know these moments are few and far between. No matter how hard I try to carve out a life for just myself, something that exists outside the Vanguard persona, it will all come crumbling down the moment I have to choose. Choose between what I want and the duties I must perform. Choose between myself and my purpose.
The coffee finishes brewing. I pour two cups, adding some lactose-free milk to hers that I had delivered the other day, and carry them back to the bedroom.
She’s awake now, sitting up against the headboard with the sheet tucked under her arms. Her hair is a disaster, her makeup long since sweated away, and she’s squinting at the window like the morning light did something to offend her.
“Coffee,” I announce, handing her a cup. “Lactose-free milk.”
“You’re a god among men.” She takes a long sip and groans in a way that goes straight to my cock. “Literally. What time is it?”
“Just past six.”
“Why are you awake so early?”
“Habit.” I settle on the edge of the bed, watching her over the rim of my cup. “Also, I wanted to watch you sleep. Is that creepy? It’s probably creepy.”
“Yeah, but it’s good creepy. So, how long were you staring?”
“Long enough to memorize your face. The way you breathe. The sounds you make when you’re dreaming. The way your hand folds under you like a little T-Rex.”
She snorts. “That’s very creepy.”
“I preferattentive.”
She laughs, and the sound fills a void in my chest. I want to hear that laugh every morning. More than that, I want to be the reason for it.
“I should probably go soon,” she says, not sounding like she means it. She sighs. “I have actual work to do. Notes to write up. An editor to appease.”
