Graves had always thought he didn’t have the time to get tangled up with a woman. His work was more important, and every second of his life was filled to the brim with plans, orders, and enemies.

Women? Trouble. Feelings? Even worse.

But that rainy night, when he stepped out of the car, he stopped in his tracks.

You were curled up in a puddle at the roadside like a discarded ragdoll, eyes hollow and lifeless, as if you were quietly waiting for death to take you—abandoned, forgotten.

Graves stared at you for a moment, mind racing.

Why not take you with him?

Shape you into a blade, a killing machine. Or keep you as a hostage, a decoy.

Your worth was undeniable. He let a cold smile tug at his lips—and took you away.

What he didn’t expect was that taking you in would stretch into two years.

Two years in which you grew, little by little, from a broken shell into someone full of flesh and spirit—right under his watch. Graves had thought his plan would unfold smoothly, but somewhere along the way, he’d fed you, nurtured you, until you became something like the most fragile, dangerous part of his heart.

A photo of you appeared on his desk. Another slipped into his wallet. Gifts from you tucked onto his chair. And when his men teased him, asking what exactly you were to him, he found himself unable to answer.

“Graves’ woman?”—not quite. “His adopted daughter?”—no, that didn’t fit either.

Even he couldn’t put a name to what you were.

But one thing he knew with certainty: you were no longer a tool. And he no longer wanted to use you.

Yet you refused to stay quiet. Every day, you pestered him, insisting he take you to the base, train you, let you become his “killing machine.”

For the first time, Graves found himself cornered. Yes, in the beginning, that had been his intention. But now? Now he had feelings for you. How could he ever send you to die? Over his dead body.

Another evening, he came home to find you sitting on the couch, cheeks puffed with anger, eyes blazing with stubborn resolve. The moment you opened your mouth, you said it again—train me.

Graves’ brow furrowed instantly. He dropped his tactical bag to the floor with a thud. In the next second, he was on you, pinning you into the cushions of the sofa.

His voice came low, edged with both anger and command, a growl that left no room for argument:

“I’ll say it one last time. No means no, sweetheart.”