Sweetest Touch (Touch of Trouble Billionaire #1)

Prologue

Nate

The engines scream like banshees, roaring over the heat.

The dust kicks up in angry swirls, lashing at my boots as if trying to keep me tethered to this godforsaken hellhole one last time.

I don’t slow down. Not for the noise, not for the sand.

My boots hit the tarmac hard, my steps purposeful.

They’re the final ones here. Good fucking riddance.

My squad walks with that same soldier’s gait: tight-lipped, eyes forward, bags slung heavy over our shoulders. We’re silent. Not because we don’t have anything to say, but because saying it would make this part real. The part where we leave each other.

A few of the guys give me shoulder bumps as they pass, their grips tight, looks even tighter.

“You sure you’re not coming with us?” Jones asks, pausing, brows furrowed beneath the edge of his cap.

I smirk. “Tempting, but I’ve got a ride a little less crowded.”

“You always did have a taste for fancy exits.”

“And you always had a face for radio,” I shoot back.

He barks out a laugh and flips me off, then slips into the metal belly of the cargo plane.

I stay. Wait. Watch them board. One by one, they vanish into the plane like ghosts returning to a world they never truly belonged to. We come back changed, whether we admit it or not. Some of us wear it. Some of us bury it. Me? I let mine simmer.

My hand tightens on the strap of my duffel. Then I see it.

The jet.

It’s sleek, dangerous, and unapologetically luxurious—black as sin, with a golden phoenix painted across its body like it owns the damn sky. Of course it does. Of course he had to make an entrance.

Prince fucking Sebastian.

He stands tall near the base of the jet, his posture relaxed, but that’s just for show. The man’s always watching, calculating. His bodyguard flanks him; silent, square-jawed, and probably carrying enough firepower to start a war. Standard royal procedure.

I drop my bag. A steward in crisp uniform moves to grab it like he’s handling a damn crown jewel.

“Thanks,” I mutter, clapping him on the shoulder. He nearly topples over.

Sebastian starts walking toward me, slow and smug like he’s expecting fanfare.

I snort and offer a mocking bow, low and exaggerated. “Your highness…”

He laughs, all polished charm. “That’s how you greet an old friend?”

We meet halfway, and he pulls me in for a hug. Not one of those weak-ass, back-pat ones. A real hug. The kind you only give when it’s been too fucking long.

“Welcome home,” he says into my ear.

I pull back just enough to flash him a grin. “Thank God I’m not heading home.”

Sebastian quirks a brow, but he doesn’t question it. He knows what I mean. Home doesn’t always mean peace. Sometimes it’s just another battlefield, quieter maybe, but just as brutal.

He gestures toward the jet. “You ready?”

I glance over my shoulder one last time. The plane carrying my squad is already lifting off, fading into the haze and heat.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I step toward the jet with Sebastian beside me, both of us walking like kings across a war-torn chessboard, one in combat boots, the other in royal polish. Same beast underneath. Different masks.

And for the first time in months, maybe even years, I feel the tightness in my chest loosen. Not gone. Just loosened.

The prince brought a jet.

I brought the scars.

Let’s see who lands heavier.

The moment I step onto the jet, the world outside dulls into background noise. The scent of leather, the faint hum of the engines, the low lighting, it all screams decadence, comfort, control. A stark contrast to the rattling transports and desert sand I've been eating for the past nine months.

Sebastian walks ahead, all princely grace in his tailored black suit, while I look like I crawled out of a trench, and hell, maybe I did. My combat boots thud against the polished floor as I drop into the nearest seat like gravity gave up on me.

The hostess looks like she’s floating as she offers champagne in crystal flutes—thin, cold, breakable—so far from the weight of stainless steel in my hands that it’s almost funny.

“Thank you,” I say, taking one with a nod. Her smile is warm, polite, and professional, but her eyes linger just a beat longer on me. I lean back, ignoring it.

Sebastian takes his seat across from me and raises his glass. “To survival.”

I smirk, tap mine against his. “To silence.”

I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed. The leather hugs me like it missed me. The air is cold, filtered. Clean. Not like sand-filled tents or the metallic stench of gun oil.

Peace.

A word I forgot could feel this real.

“Man,” I murmur, my voice rough around the edges. “I can’t even remember how easy it is to breathe.”

Sebastian chuckles, low and knowing. “I bet. You wanna take a shower and rest? There’s a full suite in the back.”

I crack one eye open. “Nah, I’m good. If I wash off the grime, I might feel human again. Not ready for that yet.”

He lifts his glass. “Suit yourself.”

We drink. The bubbles hit smooth. Way smoother than the rotgut whiskey back on base. This life of his, all glitz and privilege, should feel like a foreign world. But with Sebastian, it doesn’t. We've bled beside each other too many times to let gold fences get in the way.

“So,” I say, rolling my glass between my fingers. “How’s everything on your end? Haven’t gotten hitched yet?”

Sebastian groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not funny.”

I chuckle. “Kinda is.”

“The closer my birthday gets, the more I feel it, like a chokehold. Grandpa doesn’t press, but he doesn’t have to. I know the moment I hit the mark, he’ll come for me with a folder of noble candidates and a damn ceremonial pen.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Would he actually choose one for you?”

He nods, exhaling hard. Resignation clouds his face like a storm rolling in. “If I don’t pick one soon, yeah. Politics, alliances, appearances. The whole game. I’m just a piece on the board.”

“Man, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

I lean back again, eyes on the ceiling. “Tradition’s a bitch.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. The kind you let out when the truth digs a little too deep.

“Sometimes I envy you,” he admits.

I tilt my head, smirking. “That’s new.”

“You get to fight for something real. No masks, no tabloids, no bullshit. Just purpose.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at the swirling gold in my glass. “But it comes at a price.”

Silence falls again, thick and honest.

I look across at Sebastian, watching him sip champagne like it’s apple juice. Cool, collected, effortlessly royal. But I know better.

We met when he was just another guy thrown into a uniform and told to serve the crown with dignity. Except the difference was, he was the crown. Or at least the next best thing. A real-life prince, dumped in a war zone where bullets don’t care about your bloodline.

They told us to keep his ass safe.

Turns out, he didn’t need much babysitting.

The guy adapted faster than I expected. No whining.

No diva fits. He learned how to shoot, run, and stay alive.

That earned my respect faster than his little golden crest ever could.

And during those fourteen months, we bonded.

Trained together. Fought side by side. Shared stories over terrible rations and worse coffee.

He even started snoring during patrol naps. Human, after all.

I remember sneaking in some late-night reading on him after a mission.

Couldn’t help it; wanted to know who the hell I was risking my ass for.

Their royal lineage reads like an epic. Traditions older than some countries.

It was… fascinating. And yeah, an honor.

How many guys can say they’ve got a prince in their contacts under Bastard Seb?

But I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything.

Someone ruling over my choices? No thanks.

I’ve had enough of that with my own family pushing, shoving, shaping me into something they wanted.

I grew out of their grip the moment they sent me to the military academy.

Being told what to do, who to love, what to be?

That’s a curse worse than a battlefield.

I shake my head, brushing off the weight creeping in. Time to lighten the mood.

“So…” I roll my glass in my hand. “Why the hell are you going to Melbourne again?”

Sebastian sighs dramatically, leaning his head against the seat like I just asked him to march through sand for five miles. “The royal family needs to make an appearance. PR, goodwill, smile-and-wave bullshit. You know, the usual.”

I arch a brow. “Fun.”

He smirks. “Wanna come with? I’ll get you a suit. Or a sword. Whatever fits your vibe.”

I down the rest of my champagne in one go. “Nope. They cannot know I’m back. Not yet.”

Sebastian raises a suspicious brow. “Right, right…” Then his grin turns wolfish. “You need to get your dick wet first.”

I bark out a laugh, loud enough the hostess peeks her head around before vanishing again. “Subtle, your Highness.”

“I try.” He lifts his glass in mock salute. “So, how’s she look like?”

“She’s a bombshell,” I admit before I can stop myself. Just the thought of Amanda makes me smile. I met her online—innocent chats that turned into late-night messages, which turned into something more than I expected. Lust.

Sebastian perks up. “Is she waiting for you?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I haven’t told her I’m back.”

His eyes go wide, hand pausing mid-air with his glass. “What?”

I shrug, suddenly unsure. “I dunno. I just… I want to see her. Not talk about it. Not prep for it. Just… show up.”

Sebastian whistles low. “So you’re planning on showing up out of the blue? Like a war-hardened prince charming?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Saying it out loud makes me realize how dumb it might sound. My mouth pulls into a crooked smile anyway.

He snorts. “Well, good luck, man. Hope she doesn’t mace you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a woman tried to knock me out.”