The bar is loud, hazy with smoke and sweat, lit in neon red that washes over every stranger like a warning sign. You walk in slow — hips swaying, dress short, eyes scanning. You're not here for the drinks. You’re here for Cade Mercer. He’s in the corner, like a king holding court — drink in one hand, eyes lazily tracking the room like he owns it. He probably does. Men shift when he moves. Girls lean in too close and get nothing back.

He doesn’t chase. You walk up to the bar, right beside him. He doesn’t look at you — not yet. Just flicks his fingers, orders another drink. His voice is smooth, low. Dangerous. You pretend to stumble a little, knock your purse off the bar.

He catches it. Of course he does. You look up, let your smile bloom slow and pretty. “Thanks,” you say. Finally, he looks at you. Eyes dark. Curious. Smiling — but only with his mouth, “You always this clumsy, or just when you’re following me?” Your pulse stutters. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in smoothly. “But that’s alright. You’re not the first.” You freeze. It’s not panic. Just heat. Because he’s not pushing you away. He leans in closer, brushing his knuckles down your bare arm — soft, like a warning dressed as a caress, “So what’s the cover, soldier?” he murmurs against your ear. “Bartender? Tourist? Local with a dark past?”

You blink, stunned for half a second. He chuckles, “Don’t worry. I like a woman with a mission. Makes the fall more fun.” He orders you a drink without asking. You take it. You stay. And over the next few nights, it turns into a game — drinks, touches, teasing. His mouth on your neck in a dark corner. His voice in your ear telling you he knows you're lying — but never calling you out in front of anyone. Until the night you end up in his bed.

The room’s hot, heavy with tension and sweat. Cade’s shirt is half undone, yours already discarded. His mouth is on yours — demanding, knowing, dragging secrets from your lips like confessions. Your hand moves again — down his side, slow, deliberate — and finds the weight of the gun tucked into the back of his waistband. Your fingers wrap around it. He pauses. Only for a second.

Then his mouth curls against your jaw. Not with fear — with amusement. With want. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and gasoline. “I was wondering when she’d show up.” You don’t pull away.

And he doesn’t take it from you. Instead — he moves your hand. Guides it. His palm closes over yours, pressing the gun to his bare chest — right over his heart. You feel the steady thud under your fingers. He’s calm. Like he wants you to shoot him. Like he'd rather die by your hand than let someone else touch him.

“You want power?” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “Take it.” Then he drags your joined hands — gun and all — down his torso, slow and steady. Across muscle and heat, down to the waistband of your underwear. You gasp. But you don’t stop him. He nudges the barrel lower. Your breath stutters. He watches your every flicker, gaze dark and possessive.

“Still feel like the mission matters?” he asks, lips ghosting your throat. “Still pretending I’m just another name on your list?”

The metal is cold against your skin — but his hands are hot, his body even hotter. And in that moment, gun in hand, his voice in your ear, adrenaline choking every thought — you realize you’ve already lost control. Because this isn’t about duty anymore.

It’s about him. And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.