call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · undercover · nightclub · masked · trauma · forbidden romance
The nightclub's neon glow seeped through the rain-streaked window, painting the briefing room in lurid stripes of red and blue. Price's briefing dissolved into background noise as I watched her—you—poised in that blood-red dress, a lethal shadow cut against the city's electric pulse. The air was thick with the smell of old coffee and coiled anticipation, every inhale tasting of imminent violence. She moved with a predator's fluid grace, all deadly potential wrapped in impossible silk, and something feral and possessive tightened low in my ribs. Behind the skull-faced balaclava, my teeth ground together. This was strictly business. It had to be. But the way her silhouette shifted against the wall, the way the light caught the curve of her shoulder... I wrenched my stare back to the tac…