Chapter 12 Vanguard #2
Three armed suspects, all wearing masks, all carrying weapons that look military-grade. They’ve got a dozen hostages corralled in the Tang Wing while NYPD has set up a perimeter outside, but they’re outgunned and out-negotiated, and they know it.
I don’t bother with the front entrance.
I crash through the glass ceiling and drop into the middle of the gallery like a nightmare in black, shards going everywhere, alarms blaring.
The first gunman doesn’t even see me coming.
I hit him hard enough to crack ribs, catch his weapon before it hits the ground, crush it in my fist. The second one gets off a shot that bounces harmlessly off the Kevlar around my chest before I put him through a display case. Glass shatters. More alarms scream.
The third one grabs a hostage—a young woman, maybe twenty, tears streaming down her face—and presses his gun to her temple.
“Back off, Vanguard!” he screams. “I’ll do it, I swear to God—”
I move faster than he can track. One second, I’m ten feet away; the next, I’ve got his wrist in my hand, squeezing until the bones grind together then snap, and he drops the weapon with a howl.
The hostage stumbles away, sobbing, and I let the darkness in just enough to enjoy the fear in his eyes before I knock him unconscious with a jab from my elbow.
The whole thing takes less than ninety seconds.
I leave the cleanup to the cops and fly home with blood on my gloves and an empty feeling in my chest. The adrenaline is already fading, leaving behind the familiar emptiness that always follows violence. The reminder that this is what I’m for. What I’m exceptionally good at.
Breaking things.
Hurting people.
Being a weapon.
The penthouse is dark when I return. Mia is gone—Danny must have taken her back to her hotel—and the silence presses in from all sides. I strip off my suit and my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor, and step into the shower.
The water is scalding. I let it pound against my shoulders, my back, washing away the sweat and the remnants of the fight. I should feel satisfied. I saved those hostages. Stopped the bad guys. Did my job. Hoorah.
Instead, I feel empty. Restless. Like something is crawling under my skin that I can’t quite reach.
And underneath it all, her face.
Mia. Licking cheese off her thumb. Her shoulder bare where the sweater slipped. The way she said my name—Nate—like it meant something. Like I was a person instead of a product.
Like she really knew me. More than that, I wanted her to know me.
My hand moves without my permission, sliding down my stomach to grip my cock.
I’m already hard, which is fucked up, considering I just beat the shit out of three people.
But that’s the thing about the darkness—it doesn’t discriminate.
It’s violence and desire all tangled up together, two sides of the same coin.
I brace one hand against the tile and start stroking, letting my mind go where it wants to go.
Mia on her knees, those dark eyes looking up at me, waiting for instruction. I’d fist my hand in her pretty hair and tug until her head tilts back. She’d open her mouth without being told because she’d know. She’d understand what I need. She’d want it just as much as I do.
I stroke faster, my breath coming harsh.
I think about bending her over my kitchen counter, right where she stood eating that sandwich, shoving her jeans down around her thighs and taking her hard, no warning.
She’d gasp—surprised, maybe a little scared, maybe even hurt—but she’d take it.
She’d take everything I gave her because she’s not fragile, not breakable, not like everyone and everything else.
I imagine the sounds she’d make, those sharp little moans and soft purrs, the way her voice would catch when I hit a spot that made her see stars.
I’d wrap my hand around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, for now, just reminding her who’s in control—and she’d arch back against me, trusting me not to hurt her.
Or maybe she wouldn’t trust me.
Maybe that’s what would make it good.
Maybe she’d fear me.
The fantasy changes, darkens. Mia pinned beneath me, wrists trapped above her head in one of my hands.
She’s struggling—not really trying to get away, but testing, pushing, wanting to see what I’ll do.
And I’d show her. I’d hold her down and make her feel every inch of me until she stopped fighting and started begging.
“Please,” she’d say, and God, the way that word would sound in her voice—
My orgasm hits like a freight train. I groan through gritted teeth, spilling over my fist as the fantasy shatters into white-hot pleasure. My vision blurs. My legs shake. For a few perfect seconds, there’s nothing but release.
Nothing but freedom.
From my thoughts, from my wants, from everything I’m pretending to be.
Then, it’s over, and I’m just a man alone in a shower, cum washing down the drain, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
Where would I even begin?
I press my forehead against the cool tile and breathe.
She’s a journalist. She’s here to write about me. She’s probably reporting everything I tell her back to someone—her editor, her magazine, maybe someone else entirely. I should be keeping her at arm’s length, not fantasizing about choking her while I fuck her from behind.
But I can’t stop.
Ever since that first night at the gala in London, she’s been under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out.
Every conversation, every glance, every accidental touch—it all feeds into this hunger I’ve spent years trying to bury.
The particular hunger Julia knows about, that she’s ‘calibrated’ more times than I can count.
The part of me that wants to dominate, possess, consume.
The part of me that’s terrified of what I might do if I ever really let go.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and scrubbing myself dry, harder than I should, like I’m trying to slough her away. In the mirror, I look the same as always—strong jaw, blue eyes, the body of a weapon—but underneath, something is shifting. Cracking.
She’s doing this to me. Mia. With her sharp tongue and her sharper eyes and the way she looks at me like she can see straight through to the monster I keep caged.
Maybe she can.
The gala is in a couple of nights. A presidential fundraiser, all the usual suspects.
I’d asked her to be my date before I could talk myself out of it, and she’d said yes, and now, I’m going to have to spend an entire evening with her on my arm, smiling for cameras, pretending I’m not thinking about bending her over every available surface.
I pull on sweats and walk to the windows, staring out at the city I’ve sworn to protect, knowing she’s out there. Maybe, with any luck, she’s thinking about me.