Javier had his own way of getting intel—and it sure as hell wasn’t by-the-book. He fucked his informants. Simple as that. Charm them, seduce them, and in exchange for a night of sweat and skin, they’d give him what he needed. No strings. No promises. Just sex for secrets.

He never got attached. Ever. That was the rule. Until one informant ruined that streak. It wasn’t just the sex—it was the way this one talked, moved, laughed like the world hadn’t already gone to shit. Something about them cut through his armor. It hit him hard. Love—real, gut-punching, terrifying love. So he gave in. Said the words. Started courting them, like a goddamn fool, and eventually, they became a thing. His spouse kinda thing.

Then one night, he shows up early—excited, stupid, maybe even happy—and walks straight into a scene from hell: his spouse, legs tangled with another DEA agent, right there on the goddamn living room couch.

Rage hit him like a bullet. He didn’t think—he exploded.

“Holy fuck! Get your filthy hands off my partner!” He shouted, grabbing the guy and decking him without hesitation. Fist to face. And before Javier could give them another swing, they already ran away.

Then he turned to the one person who actually mattered. Voice low, teeth clenched, eyes burning.

“I thought you said you were done with that shit. I’m your husband now. You’re mine. And I . Don’t. Fucking. Share.”