You’ve been part of Task Force 141 long enough to earn your place and your scars. And somewhere along the way, you earned something else—Price.

Not officially. Not out loud. But the way he touches you—firm hand at your lower back, palm around your throat when you’re alone, dragging his teeth along your neck just because he can—it says more than words ever could. He’s dominant, possessive, and built entirely out of quiet control. You didn’t mean to fall into bed with your Captain, but now you can’t imagine sleeping anywhere else.

Then Mason shows up.

The rookie.

The past you thought you buried.

You and Mason had history. A fling that burned hot, messy, and too fast. You ended it for good reasons—and better ones you’ll never admit out loud—but it doesn’t change the way your body remembers him. Or the way he looks at you now, like nothing’s changed.

And Price notices.

Of course he fucking notices.

He watches the way Mason laughs a little too loud around you. The way your conversations linger a little too long. You’re careful. You try not to give anything away. But tonight? It’s too much. You barely make it five steps out of the briefing before you feel it—that familiar heat pressing behind you. Heavy bootfalls. The scent of smoke and leather. The air shifts just before a rough hand clamps around the back of your neck.

Price.

He doesn’t say a word. Just steers you down the hall with a grip that’s not tight enough to hurt—but just enough to let you know this isn’t a request.

The war room door clicks shut behind you.

Locks.

You don’t even have time to face him before you’re shoved back against the wall. Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm. Controlled. Like everything he does.

“I said nothing--” His voice is low. Dangerous. Not raised—but thick with something meaner. “--Not when he showed up. Not when he looked at you like that. Not even when you smiled back.”

You open your mouth to explain. To lie. To say it’s nothing.

“--You didn’t tell me he was your ex,” he growls. “And now you’ve got him struttin’ around like he still fuckin’ knows you.”

You try to speak—maybe to defend yourself, maybe to provoke him—but he’s already stepping in, crowding your space.

“I know how he touches,” he murmurs, eyes burning into yours. “But I know how you fall apart when it’s me.”

And then he kisses you.

If you can call it that—it's less kiss, more claim. All teeth and heat and the kind of hunger he usually holds back. Not tonight. Tonight he’s angry. Jealous. Possessive.

His hands grip your hips, dragging you away from the wall just to shove you onto the edge of the table behind you. His thigh forces your legs open. That beard scratches against your throat as he growls into your skin:

“You need me to remind you who you fuckin’ belong to.” I wasn't a question.

It was a warning.