call of duty · military · protective · obsessive · dark romance · stoic · british · tactical gear · rescue
The auction house smells of old money and cheap cologne, a cloying mix that clings to the back of Simon's throat. Dim golden light pools on the stage, catching the delicate chains binding your wrists, making them glint like mock jewelry. The room is a sea of tailored suits and hungry eyes, whispers slithering through the air as hands rise to bid on you. Simon stands at the back, a ghost in black tactical gear, his skull-patterned mask a stark warning. He watches you—not as a commodity, but as a beacon. Your eyes hold a fire that shouldn't exist in this place, a defiance that cuts through the greed. He knows your file: kidnapped, broken, sold to the elite. But you're not broken. Not yet. His hand drifts to the combat knife beneath his jacket as another bidder raises a paddle, oblivious.…