Chapter 8
Connor
I’m sprawled on the old couch in the main room, my phone in one hand, my gun within reach on the table.
The bedroom door’s closed, Luke tucked away inside, probably doodling his peli-corns or whatever else that Little brain of his dreams up.
I can still hear his giggle in my head, that slip of “Bossyguard” that had me fighting a grin.
Damn, he’s trouble—sassy, stubborn, and way too cute for his own good.
But cute doesn’t mean safe, and he’s hiding something. I can feel it, like a weight in the air, and it’s driving me up the wall. As undeniably cute as Luke is, it’s no excuse for him to withhold information from me, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it whether he likes it or not.
But right now, I’ve got other avenues to explore…
I tap out a message to Cole, my fingers moving fast over the screen:
CONNOR: Need more intel on Haynes. Cartel ties, specific players, any sightings abroad with known associates. Dig deep. The client is in deep, holding back evidence. Update ASAP.
I hit send and lean back, the couch groaning under my weight. Cole’s good—best intel guy I know—but even he’ll need time to pull that kind of dirt.
Haynes’s a slippery bastard, all charm and polished speeches, but the cartel doesn’t back clean politicians. I know that from my own past experiences. Luke’s got a piece of the puzzle, something big, and I need to know what it is before his reckless streak gets us both killed.
My mind drifts, to a mission five years back…
Berlin, humid as hell, guarding a whistleblower who thought he could play games with the truth.
He was a tech exec, some slick suit who’d stumbled onto a trafficking ring and decided to play hero—without telling me the full scope of what he was holding.
He’d been cagey, feeding me half-truths, keeping his laptop locked up like it was Fort Knox.
I’d pushed, but not hard enough, figuring he’d crack eventually.
He didn’t. The mafia got to him first, a sniper round through his hotel window.
I got his assistant out, barely, but the blood on my hands still lingers.
A life lost because I didn’t push hard enough, didn’t see the whole picture…
I clench my jaw, the memory bitter. Luke’s not that exec—he’s sharper, braver, with a fire that burns brighter than most—but he’s pulling the same stunt, holding back.
That flash drive, the text he flinched at, the list he stuffed in his backpack at that cocktail bar—I know he’s got something, and his silence is a ticking bomb.
I’m not letting this mission go the way Berlin did.
The boy is gonna open up, whether wants to or not…
My phone stays silent, Cole probably digging through encrypted files or shaking down some contact in a back alley.
I glance at the bedroom door, picturing Luke curled up with Swift, his pencil scratching away. That Little side of his is a damn distraction, all pouts and giggles, tugging at my Daddy instincts.
I can still see his cheeks flush when I called him “good boy,” the way his eyes widened, all defiant and needy at the same time. Three years ago, that spark between us was real—hot, electric, a kiss that could’ve started something if he hadn’t bolted.
Now though? It’s a complication I very much don’t need.
I shift on the couch, restless, my body humming with pent-up energy. I know Luke is in there, plotting his next move, thinking he can outsmart me and whoever’s hunting him.
The thought of his defiance makes my blood heat, my Daddy side rumbling with the urge to march in there, toss that sketchpad aside, and make him talk.
Not just talk—behave.
I imagine him over my lap, his sassy mouth silenced, his cheeks pink under my hand, teaching him what happens when he pushes a Daddy like me too far.
The image hits me hard, a jolt of heat that has me gripping the couch arm, my knuckles whitening as my cock grows bigger by the second, the blood pumping hard and my desires ramping up all the way.
I’d tear his briefs off, show the boy who’s boss. One spanking is all it would take…
Get a grip, Connor.
Keep that head in the game…
This is a mission, not a fantasy. Luke’s a client, not my Little, no matter how much that bratty streak begs for discipline.
And speaking of discipline, I need to show some myself too. All this thinking about what I could do to Luke—it’s a security risk in itself. And the last thing we need is a single sliver of weakness in our defenses.
I rip off my t-shirt, the fabric suddenly too tight, and drop to the floor.
Push-ups.
That’s what I need—something to burn off this edge, to keep my head clear. I hit the deck, my palms flat on the worn carpet, and start pumping, my muscles flexing with each rep.
One, two, three—focus on the burn, not the boy.
My breath comes steady, controlled, as I push through twenty, thirty, forty reps. Sweat beads on my skin, my arms and chest straining, but it’s not enough to drown out the image of Luke’s pout, his eyes flashing defiance.
I grit my teeth, pushing harder, faster, the carpet rough under my palms.
Fifty, sixty—my body’s screaming, but my mind’s still on him, on that spark we had, on the way he called me “Bossyguard” like he was daring me to do something about it.
I hit seventy and pause, chest heaving, my arms trembling just enough to remind me I’m human.
The room’s too damn quiet, and I can still feel his presence through the door, like a magnet pulling at me. I stand, wiping sweat from my brow, and grab my phone again.
Still no word from Cole.
I pace the small room, my boots thudding softly, trying to shake off the tension. Luke’s in over his head, and I’m not just talking about Haynes or his cartel buddies. He’s playing with fire, keeping secrets from me, and it’s not just his story at stake—it’s his life.
I think back to Berlin again, the whistleblower’s face flashing in my mind.
He’d been stubborn, too, thought he could handle it alone.
I’d let him keep his secrets, thinking I could work around them, and it cost him everything.
Luke’s not him—but he’s got that same reckless streak, that belief he can outrun the danger.
He can’t.
Not this time.
Not with cartel money in play, not with shooters bold enough to open fire in a hotel lobby in broad daylight—that’s a whole other level of danger.
I stop pacing, my eyes locked on the bedroom door.
I need him to trust me, to tell me what he’s holding back.
That flash drive, the text, Carla’s list—whatever he’s got, it’s the key to keeping him alive.
But he’s so damn stubborn, so determined to prove he doesn’t need me, that I’m half-tempted to storm in there and demand answers.
Or worse, to pull him close, let him feel the weight of my protection, my control, until he stops fighting and lets me in.
I shake my head, cursing under my breath.
Focus, Connor.
I grab my water bottle from the table, take a long swig, and force myself to sit back on the couch. My phone buzzes, finally, and I snatch it up. Cole’s reply:
COLE: Haynes has been spotted in Panama, twice last year, meeting with known cartel lieutenants.
Names: Raul Mallen, Raphael Garcia. Offshore accounts linked to Caymans, shell companies—too many to list. Working on specifics.
Client’s evidence could be the key. Push him, Connor. He’s holding out, it’s gonna bite him.
I grunt, pocketing the phone. Cole’s confirming what I already suspected—Haynes’s neck-deep in cartel shit, and Luke’s got something that could blow it wide open. But pushing the boy won’t be easy. He’s not just stubborn—he’s scared, even if he won’t admit it.
I lean back, my bare shoulders sticking to the couch’s cheap fabric, and try to piece it together. Luke’s smart—brilliant, even—but he’s young, and this is bigger than anything he’s tackled before.
Cartel money, offshore accounts, hired guns—it’s not just a story, it’s a war.
And Luke’s walking into it with a sketchpad and a pelican stuffy, thinking he can outsmart men who’d kill him without blinking.
My Daddy side rumbles again, that urge to protect him, to make him listen. I picture him in there, curled up with that pelican stuffy Swift, his pencil moving over that sketchpad, probably drawing something ridiculous like a pelican with wings driving a truck.
He’s so damn vulnerable, even if he’d rather die than admit it.
I want to march in, sit him down, and tell him how it’s gonna be—no more secrets, no more solo missions. But I know him—he’d just double down, call me bossypants, and storm off to do something even dumber.
My phone buzzes again, another message from Cole:
COLE: Got a hit on one of the shooters from the hotel. Low-level cartel enforcer, works for Mallen. They’re not playing, Connor. The client is on a hit list. Get him to talk, or you’re both fucked.
My stomach twists, and I set the phone down, my hands clenching into fists.
A hit list… with Luke’s name on it.
I knew it was bad, but this is next-level.
I think back to Berlin once more, the whistleblower’s blood on the spilled, the assistant’s screams as I dragged him to safety. I’m not losing Luke—not to a bullet, not to his own stubbornness.
He’s gonna talk, and he’s gonna do it tonight.
I stand, pacing again. The pushups burned off some of the tension, but not enough. My mind’s still racing, my body still keyed up.
I glance at the bedroom door, half-expecting to hear Luke sneaking around, but it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
I’m tempted to check on him, make sure he’s not climbing out the window or some other crazy stunt, but I hold back. He needs space, and I need to cool off before I do something stupid like barge in there and start a fight we won’t come back from.
I grab my t-shirt from the floor, but instead of putting it back on, I toss it over the couch arm and drop for another set of pushups.
Eighty, ninety, one hundred—my muscles scream, but I keep going, the burn grounding me. I need to stay sharp, stay focused. Luke’s not just a client—he’s a liability, a distraction, a damn Little who’s got me tied up in knots.
But I’m a Night Ops Guard, and I don’t fail.
Not again.
I hit one-twenty and collapse, my chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the carpet.
I stand, wiping my face with the back of my hand, and glance at the bedroom door again.
I take a deep breath, forcing my Daddy side down. I can’t let him get to me—not his sass, not his pouts, not that spark that’s still there, no matter how much I want to ignore it.
I settle back on the couch, grabbing my phone to check in with Mr. G. I need more than Cole’s intel—I need a plan, a way to keep Luke safe while he chases this story. Because if Luke’s on a hit list, nowhere in West Quay is safe, not even this safehouse.
I tap out a message to Mr. G:
CONNOR: Client’s holding back evidence. Confirmed cartel hit list, Luke’s name on it. Need extraction options and backup if this escalates. Advise.
I hit send and lean back, my eyes drifting to the bedroom door again. Luke’s gotta come clean, and soon. I’m not losing him—not to Haynes, not to the cartel, not to his own damn stubbornness.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get Luke to talk, even if it means playing the Daddy card harder than I should. Because if Berlin taught me anything, it’s that secrets get people killed—and I’m not letting Luke be next.
Keeping Luke safe won’t make up for what happened in Berlin—nothing will.
But if I keep this boy out of the cartel’s crosshairs then it’ll go some way to righting those wrongs…