Chapter 15 Octavian
OCTAVIAN
Keira introduces me to another wealthy couple. I've lost count. Ten? Twelve?
"This is Octavian," she says, her hand resting lightly on my forearm. "A family associate."
The words are casual, dismissive even, but her touch burns through the fabric of my sleeve.
Tonight, I'm not leaning against a wall; I'm her date.
At least, that's the story she gave the press and donors.
Just the "family associate" escorting her to the annual gala.
In reality, I'm still her protection detail.
Only now I'm playing a part that requires standing too close, touching too often, and enduring the sickening warmth curling in my gut every time she leans into me.
An old lady's eyes sweep over me, lingering on the tattoos visible at my wrists where the cuffs don't quite reach. "My, my. Handsome and mysterious. Keira, you do know how to pick them."
Keira laughs, the sound light and practiced. "He's excellent at what he does."
I nod, saying nothing, because what the hell do you say to that?
Her laugh reminds me of the car ride. I hadn't laughed like that in so long. I still don't know why I did. But it felt good.
I think since I saw her the other day, when Callum told her about her father, it pulled at something in me. Relatability. Probably thoughts of my brother.
I shake my head and think about other things, though clearly I haven't been able to.
I glance at my watch. I've been beside her for two hours.
Two hours of champagne flutes and forced smiles.
Two hours of her perfume wrapping around me every time she leans close to speak over the music.
And what feels like a hundred hours of watching men's eyes drop to her cleavage or lower when she walks, watching the curve of her ass when she moves.
I've counted four waiters, six donors, and two security guards who've looked too long and who I might have to kill after the event.
I've stopped myself from stepping between them and her eleven times.
I've told myself this is just a job, a fucking mission, but my body doesn't care about the distinction.
A waiter passes, his gaze sliding down Keira's body as he offers champagne. I shift my stance, blocking his view, and he startles, moving quickly away.
Keira doesn't notice. She's already turning toward the next cluster of donors, her smile bright and easy.
I follow.
A man at the bar watches her approach, straightening his posture, smoothing his tie. When she speaks to him, he leans in too close, his hand coming to rest on the bar beside hers.
My fingers curl into a fist at my side.
He says something that makes her laugh, genuine this time, not the fake performance she gives the others, and something dark unfurls in my chest.
I know the difference now. I've learned the cadence of her real joy versus the bullshit she wields in rooms like this.
Watching her use that fake laughter to charm wealthy donors is actually amazing to see. Impressive even.
A politician approaches next, his hand landing on her arm as he thanks her for the work here in the city. His thumb strokes her sleeve once, twice.
I take a step forward before I catch myself.
Easy.
But control is slipping through my fingers like water, and I'm drowning in the need to touch her the way these men think they have the right to.
At first I told myself that keeping these people's hands off her was for her protection. Now I'm starting to think it's mine. How long do I lie to myself that something is shifting and I'm losing my grasp on shit.
I should've just told her.
Earlier, when she asked how she looked, I should've said the truth.
Beautiful.
Not pretty. Not okay. Fucking beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes a man forget his discipline, his training, every rule he's built his life on.
But I didn't say it, because saying it would make this real.
And real means I can't walk away.
Keira excuses herself from the politician and turns to me, her green eyes brighter than I've ever seen before. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The brooding, silent bodyguard thing. You're going to scare people."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
Her lips twitch, almost a smile. "Relax. We're supposed to look like we're enjoying ourselves."
Heat crawls up my neck because to some degree I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. "I am."
She arches a brow. "Really? You look like you want to murder someone."
Several someones.
But I don't say that. I shrug. "I'm just trying to keep you alive," I say in a deep voice, mimicking her from earlier.
She laughs and covers her smile.
"Don't do that," I say without thinking.
"Do what?"
Shit. I can't believe I said that.
"Nothing. I'll try to look more relaxed."
She nods and we start walking and a man approaches.
Keira doesn't recognize him, so their interaction becomes my world.
"Not formally. Taylor Floridin. I represent several investors interested in expansion efforts here in Boston."
She shakes his hand, and I watch his fingers wrap around hers.
Something dark and violent unfurls in my chest.
He's holding her hand too long.
Keira tries to pull away, but he doesn't release her.
I don't think.
I just move.
My hand slides around her waist, spreading possessively across her hip, and I pull her against my side.
Of course she fits perfectly.
Her body molds to mine, and the heat of her sears through every layer of suit; every wall I've built to keep myself at a distance crumbles in a goddamn instant.
She leans into me without hesitation.
Floridin's smile falters for half a second before he releases her hand. "Of course. Lucky man."
He nods and disappears into the crowd.
But I don't let go and she doesn't move.
My thumb brushes the curve of her waist without thinking, and I feel her breath hitch.
I should step back. I should put distance between us. Stop this immediately.
But I don't.
Because this, her body against mine, her warmth seeping into me, the way she's not pulling away, this is the first thing that's felt right in I don't know how long.
And I'm disgusted with myself for it.
I used another man's interest to justify touching her the way I've wanted to all night. I used my position, my role as her protector, to claim her.
Even briefly.
It's a line I swore I'd never cross, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Keira tilts her head to look up at me, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her eyes widen slightly.
We look at each other for a moment, but before I can speak the music stops and a woman on stage calls her name, and the spotlight swings to the podium.
"Come on up here, Keira, and say a few words."
I watch her ascend the stairs watching her dress cling to every curve, and forcing myself to breathe.
She grips the podium, and the room quiets.
I listen as she talks, as she's magnetic.
I glance around the room and see a few men off in the corner. It looks like they're arguing about something. I want to go over, but a waiter is close to me with a tray of drinks, and I grab one, remembering.
The room applauds her as she steps back from the podium, her smile radiant.
I give her a glass of champagne, remembering how she mentioned she likes fresh air after being on stage.
She stares at me, surprised. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the glass, and the contact sends a jolt through me.
But she tells me she's not interested in going out; she's fine where she is, and I take that to mean with me.
We turn toward the auction, and I'm acutely aware of how close she's standing. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough that her perfume wraps around me like a vice.
I put my hands behind my back to stop me from doing something stupid and force myself to focus, scanning the crowd, cataloging exits, mapping any threats. Just trying to stay in work mode.
After a few minutes we take some seats to watch it all unfold, but I'm not watching the auction, I'm watching her.
The way she bites her lower lip when a bid climbs higher than expected. The way her fingers drum against her thigh when she's thinking. The way she leans forward slightly when something catches her interest.
I've memorized every detail and called it work.
And as she looks at me and smiles and then back at the item being auctioned off, I'm in fucking trouble.
This isn't professional anymore; this is something else entirely, and I'm not sure how I got here.
A man in a suit walks by us and he glances at Keira awkwardly. He's one of the men I saw arguing earlier. I watch him walk away only to have him come back.
I straighten, every instinct screaming. I turn and watch as he disappears into the crowd, taking a mental note to watch out for him.
Time passes in a blur of bids and laughter, and Keira's smile never falters.
She leans toward one of her coordinators, I think. "Are there any more water bottles under the chairs by you?"
The woman shakes her head. "No, sorry. I think we're out."
Keira sits back, and I notice the slight furrow in her brow, the way she presses her lips together.
"I can get you some water if you'd like," I say.
She turns to me. "What? Are you sure? I can—"
"It's all right. Stay here. I'll be right back."
I need distance anyway, take a walk to get some thoughts out of my head.
Because what I've thought about more than once was wanting to lean in and press my mouth to the curve of her neck just to see if her skin tastes as good as it smells.
I move through the crowd, forcing myself to think about anything else.
But my mind replays the night in fragments.
Her laugh. The way she looks in her dress. How she leaned into me like she belonged there.
The way she didn't pull away.
I've carried wounded soldiers through warzones. I've extracted high-value targets under fire. I've lost men I called brothers.
But this, this is different. It isn't war. It's her.
I should report this to Callum. Request reassignment. Walk away before I compromise her safety.