The Danger in the Damage (Sacred Trinity #4)

1 - Olive

A mbrose Sinclair stares down at me with an intensity that would’ve frightened the Olive of yesterday. His eyes are locked with mine. Dark green. Flashing. A window to the soul or a curtain drawn to conceal the shadows?

I’ve often wondered.

His face is the kind of symmetrical that people like. Square jaw framed in stubble that has been groomed to perfection and hair just a bit too long to be considered professional—tousled and with a slight curl, so it comes off as unruly.

Unruly is a good way to describe Brose. I suspect people who don’t know him might mistake this unruliness as rebellion, but I don’t.

It’s just his wild side.

Which is my favorite side of Mr. Sinclair here.

“Who are you?” His words come out with authority and conviction.

“A badass,” I reply.

It’s not the right answer, but he smiles. Even chuckles a little. “Of course, you’re a badass. I’m looking for the literal answer.”

“Olive Creed.”

“And what does Olive Creed do?” His thumb strokes my cheek as eyes dance with the invitation for mischief that I just handed him.

But this time I give what he asked for instead of what he wants. Which is a serious conversation. “Olive Creed is the consummate professional. She’s the protagonist in her own story. A hero in her own adventure.” This was not the scripted answer, but Brose is happy with my improvisation because that curtain covering the soul beyond his eyes opens a little and I get a tiny peek of the man inside.

That’s the one I work with.

The one I sleep with.

The one I love.

Picking up my ‘story theme’, Brose continues to prep me for the meeting. “Prologue…”

“Olive Creed is a sad little girl. Age eight. Brother leaves for the marines. Father goes crazy about it. Mother starts drinking.”

He makes a pouty frown at me. “I hate that past you’re dragging around.”

“Me too. But Chapter one turns it all around.”

“So this isn’t a story about sad little Olive Creed?”

“Not in the least. This is the story of powerful, grown-up Olive Creed who is ready to take on the world.”

His smile is big now. And he takes a few moments to stare at me. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

I do. I suppose. I’ve looked in the mirror and I’ve got all the components of a beautiful woman. Thin, but not in a weak and wispy way. Long blonde hair that has a bit of wave to it, hazel eyes, though they lean gray mostly, and an attractive face that gives off a ‘Clean Girl’ vibe.

“You’re gonna knock them dead with those looks,” Brose continues. “Play it up.”

Play it up . I nod. “You got it.”

The only thing on my mind as I enter the conference room and take my seat at the table is main-character energy. I lean sideways into my chair to artfully display my short skirt and long legs, and tip my chin up to look around.

Every man stops talking to watch. It’s one second of silence, and then all the conversations resume, but it’s a very satisfying one second. Mostly because it’s probably the most focused attention I’ll get from them all day. In a few minutes, the meeting will start and then everything will be about the other me. Not the one sitting here in real life, but the one on paper.

Not that I care that they won’t see me. Today is the beginning of everything. A new life. A step forward. A bit of freedom.

“All right, everyone, take your seats and let’s get started.” If I came into the room with main-character energy, Brose enters with the big-dick variety. His eyes are locked on mine when he slaps a two-inch-thick file down in front of his chair at the head of the table, and then he gives me an almost imperceptible wink.

But I catch it. And since I know what that wink means, a tingling sensation begins to build between my legs.

At twenty-seven, he’s the youngest man in this room. But he’s also the one who called this meeting so all the others quiet down and take their places without comment. A few moments later, the lights go out and a short film plays.

Three minutes. The last twelve years of my life play out in a three-minute summary. Six bullet points, seventeen photos, one thirty-second clip of my skills, and a short monologue—voiced over by me, of course—to sum it all up. “I’m ready,” the young woman on the screen insists. “I’ve been trained by the best and I have proven myself to be meticulous, hardworking, and loyal. Thank you for your time.”

The lights come on, the men murmur for a few moments, and then Brose asserts his dominance by clearing his throat and diving straight into his carefully planned presentation. “Gentlemen.” Brose pans a hand towards me. “Meet Olive Creed, SIO 2.0.”

He pauses here to smile at me, and I return that smile in exactly the way we planned before he continues. Everything about this meeting has been scripted and I’m not about to break character.

“In the past,” Brose continues, “Silent Intelligence Operatives were deemed a complete failure and that’s why the program was shut down twenty-five years ago. We had mental health issues with the agents, there were numerous ethical violations in our training methodology, and many operatives went rogue and had to be eliminated. But I assure you, all that has been fixed. We’ve spent the last twelve years redefining what it means to be SIO. We’ve spent countless hours poring over the latest research in mental development, incorporating the strictest operational controls, and implementing a partnership program that should ease all your fears about moving forward with CORE SIO projects using these agents in the future. If Olive here is SIO 2.0, then I am POD 2.0, her Personal Operations Director. We will never be out of contact. There is no more independent deep cover as far as SIO agents are concerned. We’re in it together, as we have been for the last two years, and I’m here to tell you that she is ready. We both are.”

Brose pauses here to read the room and finds all the men are thoughtfully considering his words. Because he’s only twenty-seven—at least twenty years junior to everyone else present, aside from me—there was a small chance that they would not take him seriously.

Of course, it was never more than a small chance. He’s Ambrose Sinclair. His great-great-grandfather was part of the initial CORE Directive back in the forties. His great-grandfather ran hundreds of operatives in the sixties and his grandfather did the same in the nineties, and then… well, the whole thing fell apart when his father was killed by the agent he was running just after the turn of the century.

Brose was just a toddler when that happened. But he was raised in it. That’s the important part. Because so was I. This is what makes us different from all the failures that came before. Even though I didn’t start my training until I was nearly nine, I come from these people just like he does.

When he continues, Brose is somber, his mood not dark in any way, just very serious. “Our problem was, and as a Sinclair,”—he puts a hand over his heart—“I take full responsibility for those past failures, but our problem was that we expected civilians to care about the program. We plucked them out of the ether and dropped them into our world with very little understanding of the situation. They had neither the fortitude, nor the compulsion, to—forgive my language—to give a fuck, gentlemen. They didn’t give a fuck about what we were doing or why we were doing it.”

Once again, he pans a hand to me, smiling. “All that has changed with Olive Creed. We brought her in young. She’s a veteran junior agent and she’s only twenty years old. Forty-three missions.” He holds up a hand, pressing it towards them as if to ward off any incoming objections. “And I know what you’re thinking—these missions were simulations. But the simulations are vital to the success of the Silent Intelligence Operative project. They’re not simply training exercises. And Olive rose to the top as the best of the best, I promise you. And with me by her side, she will be everything we’ve hoped for.”

Brose pauses once again to look at me. And as I look back, I believe him. I have zero doubts.

We’re a team.

It’s us against them.

I spend every moment of my day with this man. We work together, we live together, we sleep together. This is what it means to be handled.

My mission is you and your mission is me . These words tumble around in my head in his voice because he’s said them to me thousands of times.

I would never betray him. Not in a million years. And he will always be on my side.

I lose time, I think, because the next thing I know Brose is saying, “Please open the folders in front of you, gentlemen. This is our first operation and we’re not leaving this room until you know it inside and out.”

It takes fourteen hours to explain the mission and answer every possible question that the CORE Oversight Committee has about what we’re doing and why we’re doing it.

Lunch is served, dinner is served, coffee is served. More water pitchers come and go than I can count. Only Brose is still wearing his tie and suit coat by the time it’s all over and he opens the door to walk them out, but every single one of them is smiling.

And so are we.

Because he and I have done it.

Final approval has been given, SIO is back, and tomorrow we are going to start an operation that will put to rest past failures and bring forth the next generation of success.

Brose comes back to the conference room and steps inside, then slowly—while looking me dead in the eyes—pushes the door closed until there is a soft click. He smiles as he twists the lock and I know what’s coming next.

My reward, of course.

Two years. That’s how long we’ve been partners. And in this time we’ve come up with a very effective reward and punishment system. A system that satisfies both of us.

There are cameras in here. At least twenty of them, since it’s an A-level meeting room, which means everything is top secret. The cameras are here to keep everyone safe. If any of this got out to the general public, there would be an uproar. It wouldn’t change anything, not in the long run, but missions would be paused and opportunities would be lost.

As Brose has told me thousands of times, “Cameras keep us honest, Olive. And they keep us all equal.”

But a stupid camera—or twenty, as is the case in this room—isn’t enough to make me pause when he walks around the conference table, comes up behind my chair, spins it around, places his hands on my knees, and bends down. The whole time, those dark green eyes are locked with mine.

I draw in a deep breath, feeling happier and more hopeful about our future than ever.

His hands push my knees open, forcing my already short skirt to ride up. He licks his lips and lowers his gaze as he slides his fingertips up the inside of my thighs and then he dips his head between my knees and a moment later his lips are pressing up against my panties.

I scoot down in my chair to give him better access and let my head fall back as he arranges my legs over the armrests, spreading me open.

His tongue slides up and down my already wet panties, but it’s his hot breath that drives me crazy. He knows this. Brose knows everything about me. We have no secrets. When we first started sleeping together when I was eighteen, we had long discussions about how we could please each other, so I know everything about him as well.

This, what he’s presently doing to me, is one of my top five. I love the slow tease. It’s all about the anticipation with me, which is completely opposite of how he prefers it.

Everything he does with me is foreplay for what I will do with him.

“Do not come, do you hear me, Olive?”

I bite my lip, eyes pressed closed, and nod. “I won’t. Not until you give me permission.”

He reaches up and strokes my breast. “That’s a good girl. You’re a good girl.” His fingertips find my bare nipple under my blouse—he forbids me to wear a bra—and he gives it a good pinch.

I squirm a little, because it’s such a turn-on I need to focus so I don’t lose control. But when his lips resume their provocation between my legs, and his tongue begins to probe and press against the sweet spot he knows so well, I need to begin silently chanting to keep my arousal in check. He thinks for me, I act for him. He thinks for me, I act for him. He thinks for me ?—

“Oh.” The moan slips out when he begins flicking the tip of his tongue against my stretched-tight panties.

“Don’t. You. Dare come, Olive.”

“I won’t.” But it comes out as a whimper and I’m no longer feeling confident about this.

Of course, this is the game we play. He tempts me into failure. It gets him off—and me, as well. He loves it when I can’t control myself.

He punishes me, of course. But I like to be punished.

Just as my failure is his goal, his punishment is mine.

That’s when I really let go. That’s when it all becomes bliss.

He pinches my nipple again. Harder this time. “ Don’t .” And he’s angry, so I open my eyes. “Do not. I’m fucking serious. I will choke you, Olive. If you come before I allow it, I will choke you until you pass out. Do you understand me?”

I smile, but I nod. I love being choked. It’s the pinnacle of everything as far as I’m concerned.

And for him, it’s the ultimate climax.

My mission is you and your mission is me .

“Say it,” he says. “Say it to take your mind off what I’m doing to you, Olive.”

I take in a breath, hold it for three seconds the way he taught me, and then slowly say the words as I let it out. “You think for me, I act for you. You think for me, I act for you. You think for me, I act for you.”

And with these words comes the control.

I do not let myself release. Not yet.

He stands up, pets my head, and leans in and kisses my lips. “Good,” he says, whispering the word into my mouth. “You’re such a good girl. I’m so proud of you and so is everyone else. And when we get home, Olive, I’m going to fuck you blind.”

I smile as I gaze up at him, picturing what that might mean. “Do anything you want to me. I will not disappoint you.”

If he can tantalize me to the extreme and I can hold out—oh, God, he loves that. He gets off on it so hard. “Challenge accepted, puppet.”

And then he kneels back down, pushes my panties aside, flicks his fingertips against my sweet spot, and pushes them deep inside me. He rips my blouse open, grabbing at my breast, eagerly doing his best to make me fail.

But I am strong and I have my mantra.

He thinks for me, I act for him.

He thinks for me, I act for him.

He thinks for me, I act for him.