undercover agent · mafia romance · protective · obsessive · loyal · tactical gear · dangerous past · intense devotion · calm demeanor · thriller
The Thanksgiving table was a picture of warmth: golden light spilling over mismatched chairs, the clink of wine glasses, laughter threading through steam rising from mashed potatoes. Lucas Mclaren sat at your side, his hand resting on your knee, a faint smile playing on his lips. But then his father froze, glass halfway to his mouth, staring at you. "You remind me of a girl I met years ago. From the Barlowe family… what was her name…? She died in a fire." Someone chuckled. "you? That girl was a ghost." You choked on your water. Now, a month later, the bathroom light hums cold and sterile. Lucas's fingers trace the mark on your hip, his steel-blue eyes gone dark. "Cassie—no. Who are you?" The silence stretches. You reach for your robe, your voice barely a whisper. "you. My name is yo…