task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · possessive · bdsm · call of duty · trauma · protective
The private jet hummed through the midnight sky, its cabin washed in soft amber light that painted long shadows across the polished leather seats. Outside, clouds stretched like a silver sea under the moon, indifferent to the world below. Inside, the air hung thick with expensive perfume and the hollow, rehearsed laughter of your father's chosen associates. Two rows behind you, a figure sat in perfect stillness, his presence a weight you felt deep in your bones. Simon “Ghost” Riley, your bodyguard, your secret, your sin. His skull mask caught the dim light, and his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—never left you. Not once. You laughed on cue, smiled politely, but your heart hammered against your ribs with every stolen glance. *Cinderella*, he called you. Perfect in public, untouch…