Chapter 1

The precinct office carried that familiar cocktail of scents — burnt coffee, toner dust, the sour tang of sweat and institutional anxiety. Mark Carver leaned back in his worn, government-issued chair, its plastic frame creaking beneath his solid frame as he reviewed the assignment file for the third time. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, brows knitted in thought. That jaw — strong, clean-shaven, carved like something out of a recruitment poster — flexed slightly with tension. He had that rugged, square-jawed appeal that made even the most hardened new recruits glance twice, cheeks colouring before they quickly looked away. He was fit, composed, focused. A man of order. Yet whenever his eyes found her, they softened — just slightly, as if the armour cracked for only her.

Alina Carver stood near his desk, a slight lean in her posture that pushed one hip out just enough to suggest ease, though her body was wired tight beneath the surface. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a thick ponytail that swung with purpose, brushing against the shoulders of a fitted athletic jacket that hugged her curves like second skin. She was early-thirties, same as Mark, but carried herself with a gravity born from years on the force — and years of navigating the way men looked at her, spoke to her, underestimated her. Her figure betrayed her daily: generous breasts that strained subtly against her uniform no matter how tightly she zipped it; hips and thighs that filled out standard-issue fabric in ways that made even female colleagues stare. And her ass — round, firm, too alive to be tamed by a badge or belt — moved with a rhythm that could make a man lose his thought mid-sentence.

But it was her eyes that truly disarmed. Vivid green, sharp and cutting. Like glass. Like she saw too much, always.

Her nipples were hard again. Of course. They always were. It irritated her — not because she cared what people saw, but because it gave them an excuse to look. An invitation she never intended to send.

Mark glanced up from the folder, his voice low and even. “Guy’s no joke,” he said, tapping the paper with a thick finger. “Treyvon Reed. Ex-enforcer for the Giardelli crew. Black market work, underground collections. He’s suspected in at least three disappearances — maybe more.”

Alina shifted, arms crossing under her chest — not intentionally to accentuate anything, but it lifted her breasts enough to catch Mark’s eyes. He looked. Then caught himself, blinking hard and glancing down again.

“And he’s testifying?” she asked.

Mark nodded once. “Couple weeks. Until then, he’s under protection.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Ours?”

“Yeah. Ours. Just us.”

A dry smirk ghosted across her lips. “So ... we babysit.”

Mark’s jaw tensed. “Babysit a man who once folded another guy into a car trunk while he was still breathing.”

Her laugh was quiet, almost dismissive. “You worried about me?”

He met her gaze, and for a second the air between them shifted — the hum of something unspoken vibrating just under the surface.

“A little,” he admitted.

And there it was.

That flicker.

Not anger — not quite. But something colder. He didn’t say it out loud, but she felt it in the room like a change in barometric pressure. He didn’t trust this. Didn’t trust him.

“You think just because I’ve got tits and a tight shirt, I can’t handle myself?” Her voice didn’t rise, but it hardened — that low, focused intensity she used when she was done pretending. When the cop in her refused to play second string to the man she shared a bed with.

Mark’s head shook quickly. “No. I think because he’s dangerous and unpredictable, I’d feel better if—”

“If what?” she cut in, stepping closer. “You take the ‘real’ shift and I get the soft one? Is that the logic? You get the daylight, the movement, the actual risk — and I sit in the dark like some rookie you’re trying to keep out of the blast zone?”

He stood up slowly, hands open in the quiet gesture of peace. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I just...” His voice trailed, and when it returned, it carried that familiar tone — calm, diplomatic, but with the weight of calculation behind it. “I’ll take the day shift. He’s probably more active then. You’d be stuck all night while he sleeps. Quieter. Easier. Makes sense.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, silent, watching him — and in that pause, she could feel the heat of her own body betraying her. Her nipples had stiffened further beneath the snug compression fabric of her bra, the cling of her black undershirt, and the close warmth of her leather jacket. Goddamn it. Timing.

Mark’s gaze dropped — instinctual more than hungry. Not a leer, but the kind of involuntary glance that came from knowing every inch of the woman you loved, and still finding her distractingly beautiful. She was still his wife. Still devastating, whether she meant to be or not.

Alina let out a quiet breath through her nose. “We said we were partners, Mark. Don’t treat me like some probationary officer just because I’ve got ovaries and better posture.”

He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re right.” He hesitated — just a beat — then stepped in a little closer. His voice dropped lower, softer. “Sometimes I overstep and try to shield you. I’m sorry. I’ll tone it down. But it’s not because I don’t think you’re a great cop, Alina. I do it ... because I love you.”

Her eyes met his, and for a moment something unspoken passed between them — not doubt, not tension, but gratitude for a kind of honesty that was rare between two people trained to conceal so much.

“I know,” she said gently. “I love you too.”

The moment passed, full but unburdened. They turned back to packing — gear, folders, magazines slotted into pouches. The kind of shared rhythm that comes from years of moving in tandem. There was ease in their silence, the quiet intimacy of two lives stitched together not by habit, but by choice.

Mark looked at her again, his voice low and fond. “You sleep okay last night?”

Alina shrugged. “Fine.”

“You take the test again?”

She nodded. “Negative.”

His fingers found her hip, thumb stroking in slow, grounding circles. Then he leaned in, brushing a kiss to her forehead, then her lips. A kiss without urgency — but full of weight.

“We’ll get there,” he said. “And when we do ... you’re going to look so goddamn sexy carrying our baby.”

Alina smiled — soft, hopeful. “You always say that.”

“Because I always mean it.”

They stood like that for a few seconds longer than necessary, held in the quiet warmth of something unspoken. Then Mark grabbed his keys from the desk and slung a plain black windbreaker over his fitted tee, the fabric stretching slightly across his shoulders.

“Let’s get changed out before we pick him up,” he said. “Last thing we need is showing up in uniform like we’re transferring an inmate.”

Alina smirked as she moved toward her locker. “Right. Wouldn’t want to scare the neighbours.”

She unzipped her jacket in one smooth motion, peeling it off along with the compression shirt beneath. The stretch and shift of her body drew Mark’s eyes before he could stop himself — not directly, but in the reflection of the narrow window panel. The bounce of her breasts, the tautness of her waist, the hypnotic sway of her hips as she reached up for a clean black tank top. Every inch of her moved with unconscious power, and it hit him low in his gut — a tight, possessive hunger that never really left.

God, he wanted to put a baby in her.

He exhaled hard, half-laughing to defuse the heat. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep walking around like that.”

Alina didn’t even look back at first — just smiled, amused and wicked. “You can survive a few weeks of blue balls.”

Then she glanced over her shoulder, catching his eye, her voice dropping into something dark and syrupy.

“Besides ... think of the size of that load when this is over. You won’t just knock me up — you’ll flood me.”

Mark groaned, part arousal, part agony. “Jesus, woman...”

She turned fully then, hair falling forward as she pulled her jacket back on, her smirk playful and deliberate. “Triplets,” she added, tossing him a wink. “I’m aiming high.”

The heat between them was thick enough to taste when a sharp knock on the door broke it.

A briefing officer leaned in, his expression smug with the kind of smirk reserved for men who’d just seen something interesting. “Your package just arrived. Big guy. Real polite. Kinda scary.”

Alina raised an eyebrow, already tying her hair up tighter with swift, practiced fingers.

Mark didn’t say a word.

She stepped toward the door, all business again — but that glint in her eye lingered like a secret no one else could see.

“Let’s go meet him.”

The holding area was forgettable, sterile — a narrow hallway flanked by walls painted in that institutional shade of beige that sucked the life from every surface, the same bland tone found in precincts across the country. It smelled like all of them too: recycled air, cheap industrial cleaner, and the lingering trace of human sweat from the last body hauled through. No one lingered here. You passed through it, or you stood guard. Nothing more.

Mark stood with his arms folded across his chest, posture razor-straight, his stance saying authority before he ever spoke. His windbreaker hung open just enough to show the black leather holster at his side. Beside him, Alina waited in plain black — dark jeans hugging her hips, the hem of her tight tank top tucked just enough to emphasise the subtle curve of her waist. Her leather jacket hung open, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing forearms that were both slender and toned. Her hair was tied high, sharp and practical, and she wore no makeup. She didn’t need it. Not with the way she carried herself — coiled, alert, unconsciously sensual. The kind of woman who could turn a suspect’s confidence into a stutter with a single look.

The steel door buzzed, mechanical and final. Then it swung inward with a low, metallic groan.

And he stepped out.

Treyvon Reed.

Even in the flat, overhead light — the kind that made most men look pale and hollow — he radiated something else entirely. Presence. Power. He was tall. Six-five, maybe more. His shoulders seemed to block the doorway for a moment as he passed through, and his arms, relaxed at his sides, looked carved from something heavier than flesh. A plain grey tee clung to his chest and upper arms, stretched just enough to reveal the hard cut of muscle beneath, the swell of biceps lined with veins thick like corded ropes. One forearm was laced with ink — bold, dark shapes that crawled across his skin and disappeared under his sleeve. His complexion was flawless: dark, smooth, the kind of rich skin that caught even the worst lighting and made it look cinematic. His neck was thick, jaw sharp. But his eyes ... his eyes were still.

Calm. Deep. Observing.

And then that smile.

It unfolded slowly, confidently — full and unapologetic, flashing perfect white teeth that somehow made him look both beautiful and dangerous. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of smile that unlocked people. The kind that made you forget what you were about to say. It carried a quiet arrogance, but not the kind you could resent — because deep down, you understood it. He smiled like someone who’d been told his whole life that doors would open for him ... and they always had.

“Detectives,” he said, voice a smooth rumble, velvet dragged over gravel. “Guess y’all pulled the short straw.”

Mark stepped forward, keeping his tone professional, level. “Treyvon Reed?”

“Trey,” he corrected easily — but his gaze was already shifting. Past Mark. Directly to Alina.

And then it lingered.

She met his gaze without hesitation, but for a moment — a breath, nothing more — she felt something hitch inside her. A strange pulse, low in her belly. His expression didn’t shift, not by much. No leer, no open invitation. But there was an intent there, slow and unspoken. The way his eyes moved over her — not in a sweep, not in a scan, but like he was measuring something he already understood.

It wasn’t disrespect.

It wasn’t flirtation, either.

It was presence. Singular. Focused.

And it hit her harder than it should have.

For a second, Alina didn’t move. Something flickered beneath her skin — not nervousness, not attraction, not yet — but a kind of heat that unsettled her in its quiet confidence. Like she’d been seen by someone who wasn’t asking permission to look.

She forced the breath to come steady. Forced her voice to land clean.

“You ready to move?”

Trey didn’t take his eyes off her.

“Always ready when the lady is.”

Mark shifted slightly, clearing his throat.

Alina turned her eyes forward again.

Mark’s voice was cool, precise. “Let’s go.”

The drive passed in a slow, quiet stretch of asphalt and silence. Trey sat in the backseat with his hands relaxed in his lap, posture loose but undeniably present. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t fidget. He just watched. Every turn, every shadow. When Mark checked the rearview mirror, Trey’s gaze was already there — steady, unblinking, unreadable. Calculating, maybe. Or just ... aware.

But when Alina turned her head to glance back at him — casual, just a quick look — he smiled.

Not wide. Not showy.

Just slow. Full. Like a secret shared between only them.

They reached the Safe House a little after 2:00 PM. The place was exactly what it needed to be — forgettable. A squat fourth-floor studio in a building that didn’t deserve a name. No real security, just the comfort of being beneath notice. A locked front door. A crumbling back stairwell that even the rats had probably given up on. The hallway outside reeked of mildew and indifference. Inside, the space was cramped and tired: a single bed pushed against one wall, a worn couch sagging under its own weight, a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t hosted a real meal in years. A rickety table with two mismatched chairs leaned precariously in the corner. One door led to a bathroom. The carpet was dull and stiff underfoot. The walls were thin enough to hear the neighbour cough.

The air smelled like old curry. And bleach trying to erase it.

It was claustrophobic. Stripped bare.

Too bare.

Mark gave Trey the basic rundown, pacing the room with professional detachment as he listed expectations — no leaving, no visitors, no internet. Rotate every twelve hours. Keep it tight. Keep it clean.

Alina stood back against the wall, arms crossed beneath her chest, her posture casual, her eyes not. She watched Trey like a puzzle she hadn’t quite solved — not with suspicion, but with that cool, quiet scrutiny that always came before she trusted a read.

Trey dropped his duffel bag near the edge of the bed and gave the place a glance, his expression unreadable.

“Cozy,” he said finally, flashing that unnerving, full-lipped smile. “Just missing some candles. Maybe a little music. Real Safe house shit.”

Mark didn’t even blink. “No leaving. No visitors. No internet access. We rotate every twelve hours.”

He paused, glancing between them — something in the air shifting with it.

“We’ll split the shift today. Alina, you take over at ten tonight. Full eight-to-eight starts tomorrow.”

She nodded once. Simple. “Fine by me.”

Trey looked at her again — openly, deliberately. His eyes lingered, slow and direct, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it on her.

“See you tonight,” he said.

It wasn’t a flirt.

It wasn’t even a tease.

It was a promise.

Alina’s throat tightened. A strange heat bloomed low in her stomach, spreading like something unwelcome but unstoppable. She didn’t speak. Didn’t react.

Night 1

The clock read 9:57 PM when Alina stepped out of the elevator and into the stillness of the fourth-floor hallway. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a muted amber glow that barely touched the frayed edges of the carpet. Her boots made no sound as she moved down the corridor, the building around her silent, resting in the weight of late-night hours. She paused just outside the apartment door, rolled her shoulders once, and exhaled slowly.

Just another shift. Just another assignment.

She knocked once — sharp, composed. A second later, the bolt scraped back with the dry slide of metal on metal.

Mark opened the door. Sleeves rolled up, shirt wrinkled from wear, the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow now grown into something darker and rougher. He looked tired, but sharp, as if sleep had tried to find him and failed. Behind him, the apartment was low-lit, bathed in the soft orange glow of a single lamp above the couch. No sound. No movement. No trace of their guest.

“He’s slept most the evening,” Mark said, stepping back to let her in. “Didn’t say much after eating a late lunch. Stretched. Showered. Knocked out.”

“Jet lag,” she muttered dryly, walking in.

“From the prison?” Mark smirked.

“Maybe.”

They spoke in low tones as they crossed into the living space, trading soft updates — fridge stocked, back stairwell still clear, no signs of surveillance. Trey hadn’t asked for anything beyond coffee. Simple. Compliant. Almost boring. And then, without thinking, Mark’s hand found her hip — not possessive, just familiar. His fingers lingered in that subtle way they always did. He leaned in, brushing a slow, deliberate kiss against her cheek. The kind of kiss you give someone when the room is calm and the world isn’t watching.

And then—

From the shadows, a voice.

“Damn. You two a thing?”

They both turned.

Trey stood in the bathroom doorway, half in silhouette, all skin and shadows. Shirtless — bare chest broad and wet from a recent rinse, ink wrapping one shoulder, glistening along the deep cut of his torso. A towel hung low on his hips, too low, clinging like it wasn’t fully convinced it wanted to stay. The soft yellow light caught the lines of his body, the sharp planes of muscle and the sheen of damp skin.

Alina’s breath caught before she could control it.

Trey smiled — wide, beautiful, unnerving. A smile that opened something up and looked inside.

“Well shit,” he said, casually. “That’s cute. You two married?”

Mark straightened, his voice flat but firm. “Yeah. We are.”

Trey’s gaze dropped — not just at her hand, but at the ring, glinting faintly in the low light like something decorative rather than binding. He made a soft sound in his throat, part hum, part amusement.

“How sweet,” he said slowly. “Live together. Work together. You must have so much in common.”

And then his eyes found Alina’s again — locked on, slow and deliberate.

“And now...” He let the pause stretch, the smirk pulling wider. “You’ll have me in common too.”

The air shifted.

Mark let out a short, dry laugh — low, but not warm. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

Trey shrugged, the motion smooth and unbothered, muscles shifting like sculpture under skin. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. It’s a lot of quality time we’re about to spend.”

There was nothing overt in the way he said it — no overt threat, no blatant challenge. But something in the air had changed. Mark gave Alina a quick glance. It was still professional. Still composed. But there was a flicker behind it — something primal. Not jealousy. Not yet.

Just instinct.

A man recognising another man’s eyes on his wife.

Alina stepped further into the apartment, the door easing closed behind her. “Thanks for the handoff,” she said evenly. “You’re free.”

Mark hesitated for only a breath, then gave a small nod. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and passed her with a squeeze to her shoulder — steady, familiar, grounding.

“Text if you need anything.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him with a final, weighted sound.

Silence settled.

Leaving her alone.
With him.

Trey turned without a word and walked back into the bathroom. And that was when she saw it...

The sweep of his back, impossibly broad, each muscle casting its own shadow under the soft amber light. The towel hung low, scandalously low, clinging to his hips like it was seconds from surrender. His legs were massive — thighs thick, calves sculpted like stone — and each step he took made the towel bounce just enough to suggest what hung beneath it. Heavy. Unmistakable. The silhouette alone was enough to conjure the weight, the length, the shape.

Her mouth went dry.
She blinked and looked away instantly, pulse thudding once — low and unwanted.

He was gone only a moment, then emerged again — barefoot, shirtless, in a pair of loose black basketball shorts that clung low on his waist like they had no intention of behaving. His chest was still damp, skin glistening under the light, muscles flexing subtly with each movement. Ink curled over his torso and arms, the dark shapes of his tattoos looking somehow sharper wet. His presence filled the space. Quietly. Completely.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said casually, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and twisting it open with one hand. “You two are cute together.”

Alina didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze stayed locked on the notepad in her hand, as if the act of reading her own handwriting could somehow ground her. Professionalism was armour. But it was already beginning to feel thin.

Trey tilted the bottle back and drank deep, and the sound of it — the audible swallow, the slow stretch of his throat, the rhythmic flex of his abs — hit her in a way she hadn’t braced for. Her skin prickled with an involuntary heat, her spine tight with stillness.

Then he looked at her.

That same calm, unshakable stare.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I got a little left from earlier.”

Alina finally raised her eyes. Steady. Measured. Jaw set.

“I’ll cook.”

The kitchen barely qualified as a space. It was more of an apology — a shallow nook carved out of the wall, fitted with two aging cupboards, a scarred countertop stained with time and neglect, and a rusting coil stove that clicked and hissed like it resented being used. The refrigerator wheezed in the corner, humming with a ragged mechanical breath that sounded vaguely asthmatic.

Alina moved with clean efficiency, sliding into the rhythm of preparation as if it offered her a form of meditation. She unpacked the groceries without a word, fingers steady, movements economical. A bottle of oil sizzled in the pan, heat blooming into the cramped air. The sharp, clean sound of her knife sliced through peppers in precise, even strokes. Slowly, the scent of garlic and cooking onions began to push back the lingering bleach and tired carpet. It was the first real warmth the apartment had known all day.

Trey sat behind her at the rickety table, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, arms thrown lazily across the back of the mismatched chair like a man utterly at ease. He was shirtless again — the brief appearance of a tank top apparently dismissed as too much effort. The overhead light, flickering softly above him, danced along the curves of his torso, tracing the defined slope of his chest, the ridged ladder of his abs, the bold ink curling across his skin like smoke over polished stone. His skin gleamed faintly, still damp from the shower. His shorts clung low on his hips, dangerously low, riding the line between casual and indecent. Every shift of his thighs made the fabric pull tighter around the thick weight between his legs — and it took actual willpower not to look.

He didn’t hide that he was watching her. Not in the least. But it wasn’t just appreciation — it was attention. Focused. Still. That predator stillness. The kind that didn’t blink unless it meant to. He watched the way her body moved, the curve of her back when she reached, the subtle flex of her legs when she bent to retrieve something from a low shelf. Her outfit was unremarkable — dark jeans, a soft black tank layered beneath a fitted zip-up jacket. Practical. Non-flashy. The kind of thing she wore without thinking.

But her body didn’t care about intention.

Her hips filled the denim too well, pulling the seams taut with each subtle sway. Her ass moved with a sculpted bounce that didn’t seem to know how to be modest. And her breasts — full, natural, high — shifted visibly beneath the soft stretch of fabric, nipples always just barely stiff, as if constantly in conversation with the room. She wasn’t trying to be sexy. That was what made it so devastating. She just was. She moved like a woman who’d forgotten how much power she had, and every unconscious flex and breath made Trey want to push her against the wall and remind her.

They hadn’t said much since Mark left. And that was fine with her. The silence served as a boundary — a fragile one, but still there. It let her focus on the food, the heat, the edge of the knife, the rhythm of control. It gave her the illusion that she was still running this.

But the silence couldn’t last forever.

“You cook like you’re used to feeding a man,” Trey said from behind her, voice low and lazy, his tone edged with amusement. “Married life’s got some perks, huh?”

Alina didn’t turn around. Her hand stayed steady over the stove. “I cook like someone who doesn’t want to live off gas station sandwiches for the next two weeks.”

He let out a quiet laugh, deep and unbothered. “Still a perk.”

She stirred the vegetables a little harder than necessary, the spoon clinking sharply against the sides of the pan. The air had grown warmer — from the stove, she told herself. But the heat at her back felt far too alive, as if it pulsed with breath. She didn’t need to turn around to know where his eyes were. She could feel them — locked on the way her jeans clung to her ass when she leaned forward, the subtle sway of her hips each time she shifted. He wasn’t subtle. He didn’t care to be.

She plated the food without asking if he wanted any, her silence deliberate. She slid one plate across the table and took her seat opposite him, fork in hand, posture straight. Controlled. Intentional.

He didn’t thank her. Just picked up his fork and started eating — slow, methodical, like he was still measuring her, bite by bite.

“This ain’t bad,” he said eventually, chewing thoughtfully. “You always this domestic on the job?”

Alina met his gaze over the rim of her plate, her voice flat and unflinching. “I don’t let witnesses starve. But if you keep testing me, I’m happy to stop at that.”

Trey grinned — not mocking, not cruel. Just deeply amused. “So serious,” he murmured. “You always like that with your man too?”

Her grip tightened slightly on the fork.

“I don’t talk about my marriage with protected witnesses.”

“Right,” he said, nodding as if he understood something she hadn’t offered. “But I already saw it. You and him. The way you move around each other. He loves you.” A pause. His voice dropped half a register. “You ... like keeping him in check.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

Trey leaned back in his chair, stretching like a man who had no reason to rush. His arms slid wide over the backrest, every inch of his torso lengthening and tightening under the light. The movement made his muscles ripple — full cords shifting across his chest and shoulders. And with it, his shorts pulled taut in one direction, then the other — the fabric briefly moulding to the shape beneath.

It pressed, slightly to the side. Thick. Curved. Impossible. Not fully visible — not vulgar — but there, unmistakably there. Even relaxed, it carried weight. And it wasn’t even hard.

That realisation hit her like a jolt.

She looked back to her plate — quickly, sharply — but it was too late. The image had imprinted. Burned behind her eyes. A slow, silent throb settled low in her abdomen, and she hated that her body had felt it before her mind could deny it.

And he saw it.

He had to have seen it.

But Trey didn’t press. Not directly. Not yet. He just kept eating, slow and easy, eyes half-lidded, like a man who knew how to wait. A man who enjoyed the waiting.

The rest of the meal passed in silence — but not the comfortable kind. It was taut. Charged. The air between them felt stretched like a wire pulled too tight, humming with a tension neither of them acknowledged aloud. Alina sat rigid, eyes trained on the ticking red LED clock above the microwave, willing her mind to fixate on the time, on the sting of pepper in the back of her throat, on anything but the man across from her — a man who seemed to take up more space than the room allowed. His presence was weight. Heat. Oxygen stripped from the air.

When they finished, Trey rose without a word and took his plate to the sink. But he didn’t rinse it. He just turned and leaned back against the counter, arms folding slowly across his chest, posture easy, gaze not.