CHAPTER 20 – Marcus
Control is everything. The ability to master your environment, your enemies, your own impulses—this is what separates leaders from the dead. I've built an empire on this principle, carved my name into Port Hollow's foundations with disciplined precision.
Yet as I watch Leona lean over the strategy table, analyzing troop movements with the same focus she once applied to corpses, I feel that control slipping.
It's been a week since we started training and she's learning fast.
"The secondary exit is compromised." Her finger traces a path through the holographic display of the marina district. "Delgado's men installed surveillance here and here in the last twelve hours. They're anticipating your approach."
Gabriel shifts uncomfortably across the table. "Our intel says that route is clear."
"Your intel is outdated." Leona pulls up satellite imagery, zooming in on a small structure near the water's edge. "This monitoring station wasn't there yesterday."
The room falls silent. My top lieutenants exchange glances, a mixture of reluctant respect and lingering suspicion. They're still not used to her presence here—to the way she's transitioned from trophy wife to tactical advisor in a matter of days.
"Adjust the approach." I make the decision without hesitation. "Use the northern corridor. Double security on point teams."
No one argues.
The meeting concludes, my men filing out with murmured acknowledgments. Gabriel lingers, his expression carefully neutral until the door closes behind the others.
"Permission to speak freely, sir."
I pour myself a whiskey, not bothering to offer him one. "When have you ever needed permission?"
"You're different with her."
"Meaning?"
"Distracted. Softer." He chooses his words carefully, knowing he's treading dangerous ground. "The Marcus Drake I've served for fifteen years wouldn't change strategic plans based on a woman's intuition."
"Your concerns are noted." My tone makes it clear the conversation is over. "Now focus on tomorrow's operation."
After he leaves, I remain alone in the strategy room, Gabriel's words echoing uncomfortably. Obsession. The term implies weakness, vulnerability—qualities I've spent a lifetime eliminating from my character.
Yet I can't deny the pull she exerts. The way my attention tracks her movements unconsciously. The constant awareness of her presence, as if some part of my brain is dedicated solely to monitoring her location, her safety, her breath.
This wasn't part of the plan. She was meant to be leverage. A tool to flush out her brother, to pressure the Delgados, to extend my reach through a fake marriage.
Instead, she's becoming essential. Not just to my operations, but to me.
Unacceptable.
***
The private training hall occupies the upper level of the penthouse—a glass-enclosed space designed for focused violence. Punching bags. Weights. Sparring mats. Everything needed to hone the body into a weapon.
I've been here for over an hour this evening, working through combat drills. Each punch, each kick aimed at purging the distraction from my system. Sweat soaks my shirt, muscles burning with familiar exertion.
It's not working.
Even alone, pushing my body to its limits, my thoughts circle back to her.
The curve of her neck as she bent over tactical displays.
The sharp intelligence in her eyes when she identified the surveillance blind spot.
The way she carries herself now—no longer a captive playing along, but a queen claiming her territory.
I strip off my shirt, moving to the heavy bag. Each blow lands with brutal force, the impact reverberating up my arms. Harder. Faster. Violence has always been my reset button, the way I clear my mind when thoughts become tangled.
The door opens behind me. I don't need to turn to know it's her.
"You should be sleeping." I continue the assault on the bag, not looking at her. "Tomorrow's operation requires your full attention."
"So should you." Her voice is closer than expected. "Yet here you are."
I risk a glance. She's changed since the strategy meeting—now wearing workout clothes, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Ready for training, though I didn't schedule any tonight.
"I needed to think."
"By punching things?" A hint of amusement colors her tone. "How very male of you."
I stop, turning to face her fully. "What do you want, Leona?"
"To understand why you're avoiding me." She steps onto the mat, barefoot and deceptively relaxed. "Ever since the war council meeting, you've been... distant."
"I'm busy planning an assault that could end this war."
"Liar." She moves closer, fearless in a way few people are in my presence. "Something's changed. What is it?"
"Nothing's changed."
"Another lie." She stops just out of arm's reach. "You're slipping, Marcus."
The challenge in her voice triggers something primal. Before I can analyze the impulse, I'm closing the distance between us. "You want the truth? You're a distraction. A complication I didn't anticipate."
"I've always been a complication." She doesn't back away. "That's nothing new."
"This is different."
"How?"
The question hangs between us, demanding an answer I'm not prepared to give. Instead, I deflect. "Show me your form. The defensive stance I taught you."
Her eyebrow raises at the sudden shift, but she complies, dropping into the position with better technique than I expected. Feet planted. Center of gravity low. Hands raised to protect her face.
"Not bad." I circle her, professional assessment overlaying the more dangerous currents beneath. "But your weight is too far forward. You'd be easy to unbalance."
To demonstrate, I sweep a leg toward her ankle. She anticipates, jumping back, then countering with a strike toward my midsection. I block easily, but the speed of her response surprises me.
"You've been practicing."
"I'm a quick study." She attacks again, a combination of moves I taught her just days ago. Better executed than they should be for a novice.
I deflect, counter, test her defenses without putting real force behind my strikes. Then she does something unexpected—feints left, strikes right, landing a blow to my ribs that actually registers through muscle memory. Not painful, but solid contact.
"Good." I acknowledge the hit. "But predictable."
The next exchange moves faster. I increase the pressure, testing her reactions under stress. She adapts, compensates, uses her smaller frame to evade rather than block. Smart.
When I manage to trap her arm, intending to demonstrate a weakness in her guard, she twists unexpectedly, using momentum and leverage to break the hold. The move sends her stumbling back, but she recovers quickly, a flash of triumph in her eyes.
"Predictable?" She circles me now, predator rather than prey. "You underestimate me."
"Never." The word comes out rougher than intended. "That's one mistake I won't make again."
She attacks again, more aggressively. I counter, using her momentum to sweep her legs from under her. She falls but rolls immediately, bouncing back to her feet with unexpected grace.
"Better." I advance, pressing her backward. "But still not good enough."
Her eyes narrow at the challenge. The next sequence comes faster, harder, her frustration lending power to her strikes. I block, deflect, control the exchange, but find myself working harder than expected to maintain the upper hand.
When I finally pin her, securing her wrists above her head on the mat, her chest heaves with exertion, eyes blazing with defiance. The position brings us face to face, bodies aligned, separated by inches and willpower.
"Yield." The command comes out hoarse.
Instead of surrendering, she twists violently, bridging her hips in a move I didn't teach her. The sudden shift in balance catches me off guard. She hooks a leg around mine, leverages her weight, and somehow—impossibly—flips our positions.
For a heartbeat, she's on top, straddling my waist, hands pressing my shoulders down, triumph bright on her face. "You were saying?"
The victory is brief. I surge upward, reclaiming control.
When I pin her again, her body yields differently beneath mine—not surrendering, but inviting.
"This is why you've been avoiding me." Her voice drops lower, understanding dawning. "You're afraid of this."
"I'm not afraid of anything."
"Prove it."
The challenge snaps the last thread of my restraint.
Her lips part as I lean down to kiss her—ferociously, demanding.
The kiss is bruising, raw, and I feel her mouth respond with equal intensity, matching my hunger with her own.
My hand moves down her side, tracing the curve of her body, before landing on her thigh.
I grip it, pulling her closer, desperate for the contact, for the connection.
Her body presses into mine, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper into her. She groans against my mouth, her fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer, as if she can’t get enough. Neither of us can.
I don’t waste any more time.
I tear away from her lips, moving down her neck, kissing, biting, marking her skin with the same intensity I’ve always used to claim what’s mine. Her moans grow louder, but I don’t care. I need to hear them. I need to know that she’s as lost in this as I am.
She squirms beneath me, her body moving in time with mine, her hands pressing against my chest as if she’s trying to push me away, but it’s just a game. She knows I won’t let her. And for once, neither of us wants to escape.
I press forward, and she gasps as I enter her. The heat of her body swallows me whole, and I groan into her neck as I fill her completely. She clenches around me, her body reacting with the same urgency that surges through mine.
“Fuck, Leona…” I breathe against her skin, my hands gripping her tighter as I thrust deeper, faster. “You feel so goddamn good.”
Her nails scrape down my back, dragging across my skin, leaving marks that only make me go harder. She moves with me, her hips rising to meet every thrust, every violent push. Her body is in sync with mine in a way that feels like we’ve been doing this forever.
The tension builds quickly, that familiar coil winding tight in my gut, but I don’t want it to be over yet. I want to control it. I want her to break first.
I pull back slightly, pulling her legs up around my waist, holding her there as I drive into her again, deeper, harder. She cries out, the sound of her pleasure echoing in my ears, and I feel myself push closer to the edge. But I can’t let go yet. Not until she does.
“You’re mine,” I rasp, my breath heavy, my voice rough with desire. “Say it.”
Her eyes flash with defiance, but the moment she opens her mouth to speak, I slam into her again, hard enough to make her body tremble.
“Say it, Leona,” I command, my hands gripping her thighs, holding her in place as I continue to fuck her mercilessly.
“I’m yours,” she breathes, the words dripping from her lips like honey. The submission in her voice is enough to drive me insane, enough to make my own control slip. “All yours.”
I don’t let up. I can’t.
The feeling of her around me, the way her body tightens and releases with every movement, is almost too much. My body jerks, and then, finally, the coil snaps.
She comes first, her body clenching, her back arching, a scream escaping her lips as she trembles beneath me.
The sight of her losing control like that sends me over the edge.
I thrust into her one final time, feeling the pleasure crash through me in waves, filling her completely as I spill inside her.
We both lie there, tangled in the aftermath, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing slowly returning to normal. My chest rises and falls against hers, our hearts beating in sync as we try to come back down from the high.
“I wasn’t afraid of you,” I whisper, my voice low and rough. “Not at all.”
She turns her head slightly, her hand tracing a line across my shoulder, feeling the scratches she left on me. “You were afraid of us,” she replies softly.
The words hang in the air, unspoken but understood. What we’ve just shared wasn’t about power. It wasn’t about control. It was about something deeper. Something neither of us was prepared for.
I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I’m certain of one thing: this—her—is worth everything. And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.
Later, we lie on the mat, sweat cooling on bare skin, breathing gradually slowing. The ceiling above us is glass, revealing a night sky obscured by city lights—stars invisible but present nonetheless.
Leona's head rests on my chest, her fingers absently tracing the scratch marks she left on my shoulder. Neither of us speaks for long minutes, the silence comfortable in ways I never expected to experience with another person.
"Gabriel thinks you're compromising my judgment." The admission comes unbidden. "That I'm obsessed."
She shifts, propping herself up to look at me. "Are you?"
The question deserves honesty. "Yes."
Her expression remains neutral, but something flickers in her eyes—satisfaction, perhaps. Or recognition.
"Good." Her hand splays against my chest, directly over my heart. "Because I think I'm obsessed with you too."
"I would burn this city to the ground for you." The truth spills out, raw and undeniable. "If anyone tried to take you from me now..."
"You'd drown the world in blood." She completes the thought, understanding perfectly. "I know. I'd do the same."
Her words should disturb me. Instead, they soothe something I didn't know needed soothing—the certainty that this obsession, this need, this consuming fire isn't one-sided.
She's as lost in me as I am in her.
Perhaps Gabriel is right. Perhaps this mutual destruction is dangerous for a man in my position. Perhaps empires have fallen for less.
But as Leona's lips find mine again, gentler this time but no less claiming, I find I don't care.
Let the world burn. Let enemies gather. Let my reputation for cold calculation suffer.
She is worth it all.