Simon Ghost Riley X Oc - Tumblr Posts

"hey I need a favor rq"

this is based off this:

Call of Duty OC: Zoey “Doe” Kilduff

Born to a zealous cult leader and notorious international arms dealer, Doe knew only to kill and fight since an early age and would face various forms of punishments if training was not done right under her father’s eye. She has grown to be the SAS’s most efficient soldier, despite her empowering emotions in the field. Though often rash and reckless, Doe’s impressive skills proved herself to be worthy of being a part of Task Force 141, joining Ghost and Soap in Las Almas for a new assignment… and hopes for allowing the mask to crack.

GENERAL

Name: Zoey Elaine Kilduff

Alias(es): Doe, Zo (by Ghost), Bambi (by Graves), El Demonio (by Valeria)

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

Birthday: March 27

Star Sign: Aries

Nationality: Scottish

Ethnicity: Romani, Balinese, Afghani, Moroccan, Lepcha

Place of Birth: Edinburgh, Scotland

Home: A repurposed Victorian era factory warehouse, Edinburg, Scotland (like this x)

Spoken Languages: Romani Sanskrit as first language, English as second, Scots Gaelic as third, Spanish, Russian, Somali, some Arabic

Sexuality: Pansexual

Occupation: SAS soldier, painter, dancer, Task Force 141

APPEARANCE

Eye Color: Grey blue

Hair Color: Natural dark brown, almost black

Hair Length: Long, waist length

Hair Texture: Wavy

Distinguished Facial Features: Long face shape, high cheek bones, big aquiline nose

Height: 5’10” / 177 cm

Build: Slender muscular

Blood type: AB-

Scars: Several on her body. Most obvious ones are on the right side of her face, on her eye brow and on her mouth, exposing two front teeth

Face Claim: Gratiela Brancusi

Voice Claim: Karen Gillan

Character Aesthetic:

FAVORITES

Color(s): Black, gold, and purple

Food: Sate meats

Drink: Scotch

Song(s): Zombie by The Cranberries and Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie

Movie(s): As Above, So Below and Lord of the Rings

Show(s): Doctor Who and Greylock

Flower: Black rose

Fashion Sense: Alternative, vampire gothic (think Anjelica Huston’s Morticia Addams), biker, casual

Hairstyle: Either down or in a messy bun, sometimes done with a diklo when doing her art

Hair color: Blood red dyed at the tips

PERSONALITY

Myers Briggs Type: ENFJ - A beast on the field, impulsive, reckless, and can be easy to provoke, but can really be joyful and positive. Hilarious but can unintentionally be blunt. Strategical and forward but can often times allow emotions to cloud her judgement. Paradoxical by nature, and for a reason. Tends to be scary when she feels like it and could kill you, but is a cinnamon roll deep down with a heart of gold

Positive and Joyful: Can make the room brighter with her unwavering positivity and put a smile on someone’s face when she can tell they need it

Empathetic: Basically a human mind reader. Can tell when someone’s sad or angry. Also works great as a walking red flag detector

Eye for Detail: Able to see hidden details and find something not many can see at first glance

Strategic and Logical: Can make plans with precision and logistics

Loyal and Loving: Strong sense of loyalty to the ones she grows close to and will do everything in her power to let them know how much she loves them

NEGATIVE TRAITS

Tends to let emotions get in the way of her thinking and may take it too far, ie. taking her impulsive anger out on the enemy and overkilling

Overprotective and argumentative. Will push back the offender with force and give them a death glare

Masks. She hides away everything that bothers her and will not speak about it for too long to the point of bottling up

Touch starved and emotionally depraved. Tends to come off as super clingy when she doesn’t mean to

Reckless and impulsive in execution, ready to fight when the time comes and tends to get out of hand

Zero fucks given attitude when she hears something she doesn’t like. This along with her tendency to have a sailor’s mouth has gotten her in trouble and makes her come off as rash

Overworks herself in order to earn peoples’ approval of her, just wants someone to be proud of her

Bottled up rage over the years waiting to be let out

SKILLS AND ABILITIES

Fighting style: Any, but leans more towards UFC style and judo

Weapon(s): Can John Wick her way through anything

Distinct Weapon: None

Special Skills: Flexible and can squeeze through tighter spaces. Specializes in silent combat and stealth. Street smart due to her past

FAMILY

Status in family: Eldest daughter, first born triplet

Siblings: One younger brother, Gavril (Male), middle born triplet, currently in the Royal Air Force as a pilot; One younger sibling, Zayne (Non-Binary), youngest born triplet, currently Senior Operative in M16 specializing in undercover and disguises

Father: Rozric “Lord Ragnarok” Kilduff, notorious international arms dealer and zealous cult leader. Abusive and power hungry. Sociopathic and unstable. Possibly schizophrenic, but unable to properly diagnose by professionals. Currently imprisoned in Broadmoore Hospital for life

Mother: Ayta Batwal Kilduff, deceased, attempted to escape her “husband’s” growing cult and take their triplet children with her but was killed. Kind and protective. Fierce and compassionate. Died not knowing whether or not her children would make it out alive

Relationship with parents: Despises her father and wishes for him to rot away in his prison cell as his punishment for making her and her siblings’ lives a living hell. Does not remember much of her mother but remembers how warm and caring she was to her children. She knows that her mother would sing for them whenever their father abused them to calm them and Zoey swore she would grow up and protect her mother from her father.

Brother: Gavril Bayek Kilduff, alive, loves him dearly and will do anything to keep him safe while also letting him take on the world for himself. Has protected him many times from their father. Currently in the Royal Air Force as a pilot under the call sign “Vulture”. Very into making music

Sibling: Zayne Arachne Kilduff, alive, loves them dearly but often times have gotten into plenty of disagreements on what to do and how to do it. They tried to keep up with their older sister, but could never seem to do so. Currently in the M16 as a Senior Operative specializing in espionage and undercover. Drag queen on the side and makeup artist

Pet: None, but is a dog person (also loves cats)

TRIVIA

The name Kilduff is of Irish or Scottish origin, an Anglicized form of Gaelic Mac Giolla Duibh ‘son of Giolla Dubh’ ‘the black-haired lad’ from dubh ‘dark black-haired’

Zoey has had four previous relationships in her younger days: two girlfriends, one boyfriend, and one partner. While she has kissed before, she has never actually gone all the way, and therefore is still technically a virgin. She qualifies in giving relationship advice and can pick up red flags in an individual. Despite having four failed relationships, she yearns for having a lifelong partner to give her the love she gives her partners

Ethically collects deer skulls for her art projects and paints them. Most of the paintings are of her fallen soldiers under her watch and makes them as a memorial in their honor

Tends to use dark humor too often and accidentally lets the mask crack to reveal the darkest parts of her past

Swears. Like a lot

Takes pride in her figure and has no problem showing skin. Likes wearing crop tops, sports bras, and tank tops

LOVES Anjelica Huston’s Morticia Addams and Elvira and aspires to be like both women

Her first concert was a Rob Zombie concert and her uncle snuck her out to let her have some fun for the day when she was younger

If she wants to dress up more, her fashion sense leans way more into gothic and alternative fashion

Used to be able to braid her hair in minutes but due to losing her right arm, she can’t do it as fast (and tends to get her strands caught in the prosthetic’s joints)

Her arm tattoos used to be symmetrical but after losing her right arm, her left arm is the only half she has of the tattoo

Speaking of, she has a deer skull tattoo with roses on her chest and one on her back

She was trained in ballet, and she can dance on a more professional level

BACKSTORY

Born to a zealous cult leader and notorious international arms dealer, Zoey knew nothing more than hardships and crime. Her father only wanted a first born son to live up to his expectations and inherit his empire. Sadly for him, Zoey ended up being born first in a set of triplets, and hence forth swore to make her life a living hell for her. She had been set up for failure right from the start, living up to her father’s impossible expectations, enduring beatings and other punishments from him. Her mother would shield her three children from their father’s unpredictable wrath and fought with him, stood up to him and swore she would leave him and never let him see the triplets again.

At age 7, that was the last time Zoey would ever see her mother. No one would tell her or her siblings what happened to her or why she left without them, causing deep heartbreak in Zoey’s heart. However, that was also the same day she vowed to step up in her mother’s place and pick up where she left off. Her father’s cult only grew as did his underground arms dealership. His global connections allowed him to have his children be trained to be his own soldiers in his little cult army. Their teachers also set higher expectations on the triplets and some would take extreme measures to keep them in line, but Zoey would get the worst of it. Despite the cruel and unusual punishments, Zoey still tried to keep her siblings safe and did everything she could to make them smile.

She ended up proving to have above average intelligence than her father expected from her. Her specialties included espionage, sabotage, stealth, and hand-to-hand combat. At 14 after her and her siblings returned from a personal mission of her father’s in Ethiopia as child soldiers, the M16, SAS, FBI, and CIA had surrounded her father’s compound after they finally received a distress call coming from within. Her father suspected it was Zoey and so he used her as leverage to make any further threats, not wanting to be taken into custody. What none of them knew was that Rozric had planted bombs within the compounds’ walls in case he was to be arrested and captured.

As a last ditch effort, Rozric blew up the building and allowed it to collapse, hoping the rubble would kill everyone in the compound, Zoey and her siblings included. By some miracle, Zoey, Gavril, and Zayne were still alive and the two younger siblings were taken to safety, but medics and SAS soldiers had to get a huge concrete wall off of Zoey’s right arm. Unfortunately, they had to amputate her whole arm in order to get her out, and could not save her arm. CIA and M16 eventually found Rozric still alive and captured him, ending his criminal empire and forcing him into custody at the Broadmoore Hospital as he continues his ongoing trial for his crimes.

Once Zoey had recovered and was given a prosthetic arm, she and her siblings did their best to live a relatively normal life with their uncle, but Zoey was always getting into fights she wasn’t involved in and even bullied by the kids during secondary school. By 17, she recalled the day she was rescued by the SAS members and thought about joining the military as an escape from her troubled past, and possibly a way to give closure to her father’s criminal empire for good. She waited until her 18th birthday and both her and her siblings set out to join their respective branches.

Despite being an amputee prior to joining the Royal Army, Zoey’s skills and speed overpowered her disability and was given the name “Doe”. While her skills and abilities had her climb up to the top of the SAS, her behavior problems have gotten her into trouble plenty of times and threaten to be written up if she didn’t improve on them. It wasn’t until she was personally approached by Captain John Price himself that she was recruited into Task Force 141 and assigned a mission in Las Almas would Zoey allow herself to let loose and break the mask she kept up.

Ghost: My wife doesn’t bite

The wife in question:

Anyone actually interested in hearing me talk about my Ghost x OC ship or even König x OC ship?

I really wanna have more moots to talk about them with

You ever black out during break at work and now you’ve gone drawn up a comic cover for your CoD OC?

I felt inspired by @sleepyconfusedpotato and just did it, cause, girl, Doe deserves to have her story told

(Now to get motivated to actually finish it lol)

I know last image’s lineart looks really wonky, I accidentally screenshot that bit instead of the before step 😅

Song motivations were 100% Which Witch by Florence and the Machine (specifically this version), Brutus by The Buttress (the instrumental version), and Tili Tili Bom for the story

I do kinda want to have her origin story comic to be leaning more towards psychological thriller/horror (think movies like Bone Collector, Silence of the Lambs and Black Widow with a hint of Black Swan) just to show how fucked up everything in her early life was

Depending on how many pages I do end up making, there’s no guarantee it’s all gonna be lighthearted

Anyway, I hope you like the progress shots so far!

^^

I’ll probably post the final when I get done with it

Doe 🤝 Cleric

Thinking of a Doe x Ghost wedding and now I can’t decide if I want her to wear a more Romani dress, Hindi one, or a Balinese one since she is part Balinese and has Hindi relatives on her mother’s side

Either way, Ghost is gonna be in awe with her dress

Thinking about getting a notebook so I can write out/plan out Ghost x Doe’s story

When you finally get around to writing out the main plot of your Ghost x oc fic during downtime at work

I was rewatching the 2024 Eurovision entries and if Bambie Thug’s semi-final performance of Doomsday Blue isn’t the most GhostDoe thing ever, I don’t know what is

Last Line Tag

Tagged by @cloudofbutterflies92

—

Doe, unbothered by the middle aged woman’s remarks, collapsed her parasol before handing it to Ghost and making her way towards the other towering over her. “Listen, bhagini. I dun ask fer ‘nyone’s opinion tha’ much, but if I wanted tae hear your’s-” Doe lowered her sunglasses enough the other woman can see her stormy blue eyes. “-I know more ways then one tae get it outta ya.”

—

Tagging: Anyone who wants to do this!

I wanted to join in on this! (Many months later)

Feat. My own Ghost x OC ship, GhostDoe (or Phantom Stag)

I loved Sleepy’s idea of adding their individual petnames/nicknames for each other!

Tagging: Anyone who wants to do this!

[Saw @cloudofbutterflies92 post and wanted to try and do it, too! So this is inspired by her and @moosch who drew the characters inside the boxes of the template. Wanted to try that for a long time so I'm glad I could do it now! Thank you both tho for the idea and inspiration <3 !]

Blank Template + silly little brainrot:

-

I love how I was able to give them a more domestic vibe somehow. By the way, I just realized...

This is them in a nutshell, your honor. I cackled fr.

-

Taglist [opt in/out]: @alypink @graveyard-party666 @mutantthedark @onehornedbeast @artbygem

@chloekistune @voidika @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @kaitaiga

@itsastronxmy @deeptrashwitch @theelderhazelnut @islandtarochips @caelums-fate

@kikiharinezumi @hookhearted and anyone else who'd like to try!

True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree

A willow dancing on air before covering me

Under cotton and calicoes

Over canopy dapple long ago

—

Thinking about how Doe and Ghost decide to take a vacation to Rome some time after they retire from the military and Ghost wanted to try out a new hobby of photography (he sucks at it, but he’s fine with that; plus it’s his excuse to use his wife as his muse)

Reference under the cut

OH MY FUCKING GODDDDD THIS VERSION OF GHOST??? HELLO?!

The first time it happens wasn't on purpose, but Ghost spills over your pumping fist with a low desperate groan that makes you pulse between your legs. "Good boy." You file it away, make a mental note that he came without his usual warning.

The second time it happens is on purpose. You're riding him, grinding your hips down against his lap, feeling the rough curls of his hair against your clit. You press your hands against his chest, stare at him with a smile as he hits all the sweetest parts of you and coo out, "Such a good boy for me." Ghost swallows thickly, tips his head back with a shaky breath, and groans out a swear. He doesn't come, but you can feel his cock twitch, can see the way blush blooms down his neck and over his chest. "Does my good boy want to come?" You ask, succor sweet. The hitch in his breath is the only warning you get before he fills you, spills his warm come into you with a low groan and a mumbled apology. You've never heard Ghost mumble before.

You ask him about it, apologize quietly in the morning when he's got an arm slung over his eyes to shield them from the sun streaming in through the windows. "S'fine," He'd grumbled, still half asleep, "liked it. Got my tail waggin'."

The next time you say it is when you wrap his leash tighter around your hand, just to tug the thick leather around his neck as he fucks you like a dog. "Fuck," you drool against the bed, "my good boy." He fucks you so deliriously hard, too hard for the desperation in his voice when he leans over and tells you, "I am. 'M yours."

Crying in the club with this series

Man-Sized

9/9 Peace in a Lifetime of War

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

Her gaze swept the audience before she grabbed the pole. Just in case. There were hungry eyes, but none belonged to the man with a winter-over stare, sleeve tattoo, and voice burnt from scotch, smoking, and sleepless nights.

The room spun, and her heart hurt, and she wondered if Simon had found another sweet girl or if he was bleeding in the blur too. Perhaps he was taking his pleasure with the women on his team, no strings attached. Fucking those tough army girls who were everything she was not. Making them moan with slow, heavy torture.

She wanted him to hurt. And then again, she did not. She wanted him to be safe, and for the first time in her life, she prayed even though she had never believed in God.

That forgotten, oversized hoodie was her temple, and she wasn't sure who she was even praying to before falling asleep inside that black cotton. But she asked for Simon to stay safe, to not do anything stupid. She even prayed for his happiness, but then the prayers turned more selfish, and she asked that he would come back to her.

Just come back to her.

---

He didn't call, didn't text, didn't explain himself.

She wrote dozens of texts, mostly with one sentence, Where'd you go?, Could we talk this through?, I'm sorry, would you please come back, but never sent them.

Pride got in the way. He didn't deserve her begging after leaving her like that without even an explanation as to why. He cared about his job more than her, and she would no longer beg for leftovers. She would not be the girl he could come and fuck in the dark when he had the time for it.

But she was also being ripped apart by the feeling that this simply couldn't be happening. It couldn't end like this. There was something real here. There had to be.

Let's make this work.

That's the sentence she wrote the most, to reverse the last words she had said. A nervous voice inside her told her that she had driven him away. That Simon was somewhere out there thinking she didn't want him in her life. After all, she had shouted that he should go and do his job… Practically, get out of her life.

But how could a few words spoken in anger drive him away? How could he just cut her off after everything? Player or not, she had thought him a better man than this.

He still had the key. He hadn't left it on the table or mailed it to her. He might still walk through that door when she least expected it.

But days turned into weeks, and somewhere in her heart, she knew a decision had been made. Simon never half-assed anything. If he had left, he had left. End of fucking story.

After three weeks, she threw away the shower gel. It reminded her of the time she had come from the shower to a dark room filled with him. When she had teased him, and he had sent her to heaven, when they had confessed their love to each other. It stared at her from the bin until she went and took out the trash with not much else but that single men's shower gel bottle in it.

He had left one of his hoodies in her apartment, and she almost threw it into the bin too. Then she crawled inside it like a child who had lost her parents.

It smelled of him, and it was so big that half of her disappeared inside it, and she felt warm, and safe, and devastated. That hoodie and her bedroom walls twisted the knife by whispering the words Marry me, laced with an echo of his laughter. Every day she decided to throw it away and start a new life, and every night she curled inside it to cry herself to sleep.

Bolognese was ruined for her. Motörhead was ruined, bourbon was ruined; the smell of tobacco brought tears to her eyes. She walked past springtime tulips like they carried the plague itself. Even Dürer was ruined.

How could a heartless, cocky 21st-century soldier ruin the genius of a Renaissance master?

Luckily, she hadn't told anyone who she had been dating for months now. She had never asked Simon to meet her parents. She hadn't even told them she was seeing someone… Her mother had made a remark on how nice it was to see her happy when she was visiting on holidays, and she had told her she had gotten good grades this semester. In her heart, she had perhaps always known that things with Simon wouldn't last. It all seemed like a dream. A beautiful, heated, fucked up pipe dream.

It was like the very oxygen from her life was gone. She didn't have the will to masturbate; the toy she had only reminded her of the embarrassing incident where she had forgotten it on the bedside table, and he had seen it and made her blush with a laugh and a comment; "That's the competition?" Such a small, pink thing compared to Simon, and even that reminded her of him.

Her workplace was a smoking rubble after a war. The pole choreographies had the atmosphere of Swan Lake rather than anything sultry and sexy — she flicked the pole to spin mode more often, started to do leg hangs and suicide spins and unicorn splits and chose music with lyrics about betrayal and other heartbroken, forlorn wailing.

Her gaze swept the audience before she grabbed the pole. Just in case. There were hungry eyes, but none belonged to the man with a winter-over stare, sleeve tattoo, and voice burnt from scotch, smoking, and sleepless nights.

The room spun, and her heart hurt, and she wondered if Simon had found another sweet girl or if he was bleeding in the blur too. Perhaps he was taking his pleasure with the women on his team, no strings attached. Fucking those tough army girls who were everything she was not. Making them moan with slow, heavy torture.

She wanted him to hurt. And then again, she did not. She wanted him to be safe, and for the first time in her life, she prayed even though she had never believed in God.

That forgotten oversized hoodie was her temple, and she wasn't sure who she was even praying to before falling asleep inside that black cotton. But she asked for Simon to stay safe, to not do anything stupid. She even prayed for his happiness, but then the prayers turned more selfish, and she asked that he would come back to her.

Just come back to her.

Her prayers were answered sooner than she would've thought. It was a frightening invocation, because when she finally caught him as a black, massive shadow against the darkness of the club, it was clear that he was in an even worse shape than she was.

He was still big, still menacing, a powerhouse of a man, but she saw that he had lost weight, the shade under his eyes was even darker than when they had first met. He was looking at her dance like he was attending a funeral: there was no smile, no hunger, only suffering in his eyes that followed her from inside a black hood.

She wanted to jump from the stage in the middle of her show, climb onto his lap, cry all the tears still uncried, although she had done nothing but bawled every night since he had left. Sweat made the pole slick, and she closed her eyes as she spun, hoping to be somewhere else entirely so he wouldn't see the hurt in her eyes. But the lights were pointing at the stage, and her face must've been a pale mask of fear and longing, and the dance turned into the ending act of her own personal Swan Lake.

It had been almost a month, and he barged back into her life like he would barge through a door into a room full of prisoners. The game was on again, and he was the fucking worst, and the relief and longing turned into red, blazing rage.

How dare he show up here? Still without warning, without a single message, when he knew how much it meant to her. Especially after what had gone down.

When she was done, she didn't go to him; she left the stage before the applause had even died, rushed to get her things, and stormed out the back door, half fearing that she would bump into him. He wasn't there, but when she walked past the entrance to get home, there was a man smoking outside. She wouldn't shed a look his way but knew from the aura of darkness and hellfire and silent leadership that it was him. There was no sound of footsteps, but she knew he was walking behind her, could almost smell the smoke, could feel his stare on her back as she rushed down the street like she was being hunted by a ravager.

And hadn't he, in a way, promised to haunt her, dead or alive?

She cried the whole way home while being followed by his ghost – silent tears of anger and relief and sorrow, jaw trembling and hiccups tickling her throat.

When she reached her apartment, she opened the door as quickly as possible, then slammed it shut behind her.

Would he use the key and force himself in? Would he take the closed door as a sign not to trespass? She almost went to open it to let him know that this area was actually a No Man's Land, not a threshold to her personal space, much less a fortress he needed to conquer.

But he had decided to pursue her, and a clear-cut knock sent her heart up her throat.

She had a choice not to open that door. Return to her old life without this fuckery. He wouldn't use the key she had given him, he was gentleman enough not to. Or perhaps not a gentleman: he simply knew when he was not welcome and would be too proud to force a connection.

But the decision had really been made a long time ago. It was made when she asked for that drink, when she accepted his flowers, when he pushed inside her the first time. Perhaps even on the moment she first laid eyes on him.

So, without having a grain of rational thought behind it, her heart walked her to that door and opened it.

He was leaning on the frame with one hand, and the hooded head rose from a heavy hang. He looked defeated for a moment, and she realized she had taken a while to come to the door… But then he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, bounced away from the frame, and the tiniest little smile played on his lips.

A look of I win.

It was something so Simon that it burned her heart, and the love returned – as if it had ever gone anywhere – and she was so angry that she slapped him to wipe off that stupid look that told her he could drop her like a toy and then come back and pick her up again.

Her palm met his chin, and it hurt her too: to hear that slap and know he allowed it to happen.

He allowed her to slap him. Again.

He reduced her to someone who hit people, like this was some trailer park romance where physical abuse was ok.

It was his fault, not hers.

It was his fault. It was.

His head was turned to the side from the force of her palm, the eyebrows rose in muted surprise. Then he slowly turned to look at her, and couldn't hide his smile anymore. He fucking got off on this.

Which was why she slapped him again – only, this time he caught her hand and finally forced himself inside, like it was an invitation that she tried to hit him. Her other hand shot out, rather impassively, and he caught that, too.

"That's quite enough."

That gruff, dark voice was probably what she had missed the most. Or those big, brown eyes full of promise. Or all that muscle wrapping around her in a crushing hug, those lips that smashed against hers in a starved kiss.

The door slammed shut behind him as he devoured her. The moment his hands let go of hers and enveloped her into that secure embrace, she dissolved and let him crush her mouth, her ribs, her everything — her hands reached for the hood and tore it down, clutched his back, his jacket, threatening to tear the clothes apart from how much she had missed him.

Tears gathered up her throat, and her eyes burned and squeezed shut, she held the black fabric in her fists and pulled, trying to get closer even when there was not a breath of air between them. His scent brought back so many memories that she threatened to drown in the flood.

The kiss left them both breathless and huffing when he drew her against him. She felt like a hostage when he closed one heavy palm around her head and simply forced her cheek to meet his chest. He had never closed her in a hug quite like this — like he was afraid that she would disappear into thin air if he didn't hold on tightly enough.

"Sweetheart." It was a rumble in her hair, a deep vibration in the solid wall she was smashed against.

"Don't you dare," she whispered through tears, but her hands told a different story as she clung to him like a drowning person.

"Sarah…" He only squeezed her harder, so hard that she feared he would soon break bones. "Love. I'm sorry that it took so long."

Her fingers flexed, then wrapped around that jet-black cotton again. The tears disappeared in his shirt, and she was glad he always wore black; otherwise, the mascara would've made a visible mess.

He smelled so good. She inhaled him like a drug — even after the desertion, his scent meant safety and home to her.

"What the fuck happened?" She sniffed, trying not to wail like a child against that firm wall of chest. "I thought you only went for a smoke."

He stroked her hair so gently that the shirt was soon soaked from her tears.

"I thought it would be best if I left you in peace," he muttered, sounding almost guilty. Her hand twitched in the folds of the hood from the utter folly of it all. She thanked the heavens that he hadn't. She had never exactly found peace with him, but being without him was even worse.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she retorted.

"Yeah. I used to be a better man. But if ya think I'm cocky… Hah, you should've seen me back then. Feared nothing."

She had expected him to share a reason for leaving her like that, but she hadn't envisioned it to start with those words. The world was quaking again in her hallway, lit by a single, lone lamp.

"It didn't work. It got people killed. Even my brother's little kid." He was still talking to the crown of her head as if exposing the darkest of secrets, fearing that the walls were wired.

"I'm not really… alive, you know? Died with them about ten years ago."

From any other man's mouth, that trace of information, an explanation for his handicaps, would've felt melodramatic. When it came from Simon, it felt like a void was yawning before her.

"Swore that day I would never let it happen again."

How could she always forget that her judgment concerning Simon was flawed – no – distorted as hell? She knew he had lost everybody but didn't know how exactly. Of course there had been violence. She had never really understood just how important it was for him to protect people from getting too close.

I didn't mean for things to go this far suddenly stood for something completely different.

He wasn't playing or toying with her. He was being absolutely, vehemently, utterly serious.

Even… intimidated.

She felt even worse about not being there for him when he had been thin with his skin. She had made it all about her when he tried to share a deep fear.

"I tried to keep my hands off you as long as I could." He hummed, a sound of a distant, pleasant memory. "You were so… fuckin' graceful. Felt like you were dancing just for me."

The tears kept flowing, the world kept quaking.

"I was," she whispered. "Even when you weren't there."

"Thought you was just teasin' me. Seemed such a tough girl." He gave her one of those short laughs, a cynical scoff that said he wasn't easily caught off balance. "'N then you turned out to be sweet as a pie. So bloody sweet. Swept me right off my feet."

She pulled back a little and saw that his eyes were liquid too, the pale lashes fluttered over bloodshot, melted chocolate, but no tears came out. It was like he didn't quite know how to cry, like that skill had been tortured out of him, never to return.

"Nothing lasts. Especially if it's something good and pure." He ran a thumb over her cheek, catching a tear, like he was soothed by seeing someone crying the tears he could not. "Really wanted this to last."

Her lower lip trembled at that, and she had to fight back a whole bawl that threatened to erupt. He was stupidly eloquent when he wanted to. But he was also blind if he couldn't see that no one else but him had tried to end things this time. How could a man so mature and smart be so stupid?

"You're the one who walked out the door, Simon."

He blinked a few times. Yeah… He was that stupid, even if he was sharp and trained and brave. But it was also stupid of her to think there wouldn't be problems. He had built a wall, five-foot thick, since childhood. She had tried to penetrate it with a needle and had had a fit when it wouldn't budge.

"Look... You can't just come into my life and fuck around and fuck with my head — and fuck me… and then leave and say Darling, it's dangerous."

He huffed a laugh at her imitation of him. "You make me sound like a jerk."

"That's because you are."

A sigh. "Right."

She had expected him to return the quip, make some clever comeback, but their love had been on ice for weeks and weeks. Even if the warmth was there, and he was close, so close… Something was still wrong.

She pulled herself back to the solace of his chest. There were broken things inside, and she was a brittle vase herself, barely able to hold all the sorrow in.

"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"

"Comes with the job."

"I hate your job," she mumbled in his shirt, and he chuckled humourlessly.

"Me too."

"No you don't. You love it." She sent another accusation in the air, and the penalty was an open prison, a slackening muscle around her.

"Guilty as charged."

"Why are you here, Simon?"

There was a pause, one, two breaths…

"Can't fuckin' live without you."

He had no doubt tried, tried to veritably leave her from fear of setting her in danger. Only Simon could leave a woman for fear of losing them…

"Even if I only get scraps and slaps. Phone's full of look at me's but you never call."

Her eyes flared wide open, her lungs ceased working for a second. Five months flashed backward, then forward, their shared moments twisting and turning, words finding new meanings.

Scraps…

You never call.

Jesus Christ.

It was bitter, and it was true. She had guarded her heart like a prisoner of war during a time of peace. Sent him thirsty selfies like they were the only thing he wanted from her, refused to call in fear of losing some game.

He wasn't the only one who was proud and dramatic. She had had a whole month in her hands. She could've called him, sent him those texts. She could've made it known that she hadn't meant her last words as a command for him to get out. But she had done none of those things. Instead, she slammed the door in his face and slapped him when he finally came back with his tail between his legs.

It was never about his job. She could deal with that. It was about the game.

They were both boneheaded, proud little creatures, and she realized she was the one who had been playing, playing for far too long…

"You said you'd rather call me," she whimpered, voice barely even a whisper.

He pulled her away by the shoulders and took a quick scan. There was patronization and pity, and she wondered whether he would take the blame for her failings too. But the pain was more profound than that.

"Sarah. Do ya even like me?"

Of all the things said that night, said ever, that was probably what hurt her the most.

"Yes," was all she managed to say to the man who was, in truth, the love of her life.

"Alright. Then I don't see what the problem is."

He was being reasonable, but there seemed to be a whole other problem she had never acknowledged. Had never even known existed.

And it was a rare, rare thing, that he chose to break first.

"Sarah, bloody fucking-... It kills me to imagine you with someone else."

As if she could ever find a man like him. As if she could even see other men. They had ceased to exist five months ago. Just say it.

All in.

"I don't want someone else," she said, knowing that games like these should be illegal. But she was not playing anymore. "I only want you. Remember?"

The wall cracked, crumbled a little, exposed some softness in those chocolate eyes.

"Now that's what I like to hear."

Annoying, lovable, cocky bastard. This time, it was her turn to pull him in for a kiss.

He let her take some of his clothes off but then seized the reins from her again by hauling her to the bedroom like a doll. Everything happened right according to a script: she was undressed, tossed on the bed, and he was climbing on top of her before she could even say his name.

He just wouldn't allow her to touch him. She had given him one and a half blowjobs, one handjob, and slapped him two times. They cuddled every now and then. That was basically it.

He was always on top, had fucked her against this and that wall, fucked her with his clothes on half the time. He initiated everything, made her feel good, and so, so subtly prevented her from touching him. Did he even know he was doing it, or was it subconscious?

This would have to change.

Past torture or not, it would change now.

"Simon," she placed a hand on his chest when he was already inserting himself inside her.

"Hm?"

"Can I be on top?"

Something akin to worry flickered in his eyes, but it was only a brief glitch that soon changed into an intrigued look.

"Why not," he tried to hide the remnants of his bafflement, then crashed to the bed beside her. She flicked the table light on as if making it clear that this was the dawn of a new era. He gave it a hasty side eye, then turned his attention back to her.

"Have you ever heard of Adam's first wife?" She asked when she climbed on top of him. God, but he was wide, even though men were supposed to have narrower hips. Simon was a man in his prime, threatening, even when lying under her in a seemingly vulnerable position.

"You givin' me a history lesson too?"

"She was banished from Eden because she wanted to be on top during sex." She tried to seek support from his chest, knowing it would be of minimal help. If he would get too enthusiastic, she might be bucked off.

"I won't be so cruel," he said with a soft smile as he ran hands over her thighs, then up to her waist, hesitantly. Simon never hesitated.

From what she understood, he was far from a footsoldier. The people he killed never even heard he was coming for them with a thick, ugly blade. Perhaps he preferred to fuck like that, too: stealthy and intimate, in the darkness, keep his victim in a sturdy embrace so he could feel how they bled to death.

That light was a threat. Her stare was piercing awareness: also, a threat.

And it was only now, from this position, that she finally caught the wounds. Fresh, ugly holes that should've probably been under bandage still.

"What's this?"

There were not one, but two cavities surrounded by discolored skin, bruised dark purple, virtually black — gunshot wounds that had barely missed his liver. Had the bullets reached the internals, they would've likely been the end of him.

"That's the reason why it took so long."

Shallow breathing was a stupid response from a body already feeling faint. But the next few breaths were just that: an attempt to sustain the flow of oxygen and allow reality to sink in.

The last time Simon had gotten hit was years and years ago: a bullet to the arm, not nearly as severe as an abdominal wound. She thought they used bullet vests at work. Unless he had chosen not to wear it. Her brain was a horrid thing, pushing a clinical sentence out of a psychology journal to her mind.

"The root cause of self-destructive behavior can stem from a mental health condition such as depression: overwhelming sadness and loss of interest."

She had drowned herself in self-pity in her cozy little apartment and taken revenge on a shower gel bottle while Simon had gotten himself wounded, nearly killed. Probably spent the last few weeks in a hospital after the operation in whatever medical facility he had been brought to from the field. Without telling her, stubborn and proud as he was. Lying there, with no visitors, thinking it was better to leave her alone…

She knew he had a death wish, but this… This crushed her soul.

"Soap said I should ask you to marry me instead of trying to prove something by killin' myself."

Shit…

More edgy, dark humour — but her insides shuddered.

The axis of melancholia turned and turned. She hadn't told anyone about them, but Simon had. So that someone could deliver the message if need be. Even the thought of a Scottish jarhead appearing at her door and telling her how Lieutenant Simon Riley had been killed in action made her eyes sting.

Soap was a clever man. Much more intelligent than the one between her thighs.

"What am I to do with you," she whispered while placing the lightest, faintest touch on the stretched skin around the injury. The muscles rippled underneath her fingertips, and a soft hiss drew her attention back to his face, but the discomfort was hidden from view before she could decide whether it was caused by her words or her touch.

"A few ideas come to mind," he spoke with his everlasting cheek, even when healing from both gunshot wounds and a broken heart. "Wanna hear?"

"How about you shut your mouth for a change," she offered, gently enough to make it clear that some things should be fixed with another kind of communication.

When she reached to guide him inside her, he was uncommonly solemn. The dry spell had ended at the door already, but that drowsy, flaming rust of a stare caused the cup to overflow. She was slippery as hell, but he was patient, mostly having a ball watching how she went through trial and error to get him in. The intimacy made her flustered, and that stern expression soon turned into a smug one as she fucked up guiding him in smoothly and with finesse.

And it was wishful thinking that Simon would keep his mouth shut.

"Ya need help with that?"

"Shush," she said, knowing it was futile, a laugh bubbling in her chest as she tried to sound convincing with the command. As if she could order someone like Simon around.

He broke again when the thick of him finally pushed in, slow and steady like a reverie.

"Always so fuckin' tight 'n wet for me…"

"You can't just shut it for one minute, can you," she breathed while gliding down the cock that spread her wide — and God, she had longed for that familiar invasion.

"Not with you, sweetheart."

She had barely even started when she saw how his throat worked, then felt him tighten the grip on her waist.

"Did ya have others while I was away?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The muscles on his jaw tensed, then unwound with a sigh, the heavy-lidded eyes making him look like a man about to pass out.

"Neither did I. Seat's already taken."

The jesting, his laugh, their togetherness — she had missed it so much that it physically hurt.

But at the same time, it felt like they were meeting for the first time. This time with more than just their clothes off. Everything was…amplified, and not just because the lights were on. This was not a lazy Sunday morning fuck under the sheets.

She had been squashed against his chest, but she had never traced the muscles with the tips of her fingers, watched how his nipples grew hard at the contact. She had never quite seen how his jaw clenched, how his abs pulled taut just from a slow roll of her hips. Her hands looked tiny, dainty, when they swept over him – a man made weapon – all corded muscle and uneven skin, tone changing with the map of old and new scars, fresh scratches here and there, ill-healed burn marks and whatnot coating a skin that had seen more than just rough weather. He didn't treat his body like a living, breathing thing; it was simply a tool.

Her past boyfriends had been just that. Boys compared to him. It wasn't just his size, that he was older than her. It wasn't even the map of scars spread over muscles built to withstand and wage war. It was just something so inherently him, a maturity, ripe survival, toughness that came from another age entirely.

She tried to be worthy of him, make love to him in return for all the favors he had so generously given her.

He appeared to enjoy it with the most laid-back attitude she had yet seen on him. She had prepared for intensity, as always, a bit of devilry, but not for that daydreamy stare. That absorbed, blissful look could only be compared to someone easing down on a divan, waiting to be served wine and grapes like they were some Roman deity. Or, in his case, on a lush sofa, waiting for his girl to bring him a scotch after a long day. Maybe take his boots off, and his pants too, kneel and take him in a warm, wet mouth…

God, she was fantasizing about blowing Simon while riding him. But she'd be damned if she didn't serve him that back rub with a happy ending as soon as she had ridden him to the finish line.

"Should do this more often," he noted evenly, echoing her thoughts – and trying to grasp some sliver of control by telling her he liked this. Liked being served.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Can't complain."

And she realized now that she wasn't the one in charge, no. He was looking at her much in the same way as he did when she was up on that stage. Only, he was now both the stage and the pole… and the audience.

Fuck.

Every time she tried to get in control, he did that rear choke on her. Even this turned out to be another counter technique. He was simply enjoying her take her pleasure.

The notion didn't cause fires anymore, other than a flare of licking heat down to where they were joined. Her inner walls had decided that he was a keeper too, gripping him so violently that the tendons on his neck became visible. The callous of his hands traveled upwards to her ribs, and she caught a thought of how he could easily crush her if he wanted to — but he only proceeded to hug her waist with an iron grip to join in the show.

"Keep doin' that and there's gonna be a real mess," he said, voice thick, sending more heat trickle down her spine.

"Isn't that always the case with you?" She was on the brink of laughter now, because it felt stupid that it had taken her so long to enjoy this man to the full.

"Yeah… But you love it. Admit it." He wasn't bulldozing now. Just enticing, eyes glimmering from seeing her so evidently happy.

And she did admit it. She didn't hold back at all. She allowed him to see exactly how much she wanted and admired him, how good he made her feel.

The account started as a steaming, almost pissed-off checklist, a confession rather than a declaration of love. It contained pent-up love and hate, from how he fucked her in the dark to how he drove knives to a wall she didn't even own. But then it turned into a hymn. Nevermind ego; she wanted to stroke his heart and soul. He fucking deserved it.

She told him he was a good man, the best man she had ever known. How she had never loved anyone like this. How she was his, had been from the moment he came to that club. She even told him how big he was and how she had trouble concentrating in class because of it. That she had trouble focusing pretty much anywhere.

How she had cried herself to sleep in his sweatshirt every night after he had left… How she wanted him to never leave again — how she wanted to solve every argument they would have from now on with a hatefuck instead.

At first, he looked at her curiously, probably thinking she was joking. Then his expression turned to a choked-up stun.

“Sarah– Fuckin’ hell…"

Every secret thought from the past five months was laid out before them; every little thing she admired about him from body to soul.

It seemed to be a shock treatment, a little too much all at once, but he was true to his word and didn't complain.

"You're gonna make a grown man cry 'ere."

He didn't cry, but if there was still some invisible wall between them, every last brick was blown apart at this point.

The poker game was finally over, the whole table was cleared of cards and chips and bets.

"Do you even like me… Unbelievable, Simon," she said as a final notion. There was a soft smile, but it wasn't arrogant or vain in her eyes anymore. Just proud, pleased.

God, had she been stupid.

She descended to celebrate, to seal it all with a kiss. He welcomed her with fast allegiance: arms went around her as soon as her breasts pressed against his chest. It was all hunger, but ten times more tender than the starvation at the door. Slow, deliberate, and it went straight to her cunt, gripping him — and of course he responded with a groan, straight into her mouth.

His hips jerked up to meet her, and had she not been in the safe custody of freakishly strong arms, she would've fallen off her ride. And it was high time to investigate whether he had a vulnerable spot in his neck as well.

A sluggish, flat-tongued lick up the column of his throat and some open-mouthed, sloppy kisses sent him contracting from the middle, pushing in, balls deep. She risked a nib, even a soft bite, and eventually, went a bit feral on that neck. It was another jackpot for the both of them.

"I need-.. need you on your back," he had never stuttered like that, out of breath, trying to be polite with a raspy throat. But he wasn't really asking, and it wasn't really mannerly. It was actually a demand.

"Wanna fuck you hard," his voice was so low that it was almost a growl.

Yes. 

Yes. Yes, please.

And she knew just the trick that would ensure that he did.

"Hmh. Denied," she said to his neck, and waited for the punishment that was brief and thorough.

"The hell it is."

He rolled over and switched their roles without even pulling out, and just like that, her feeble attempts to be the rebellious first woman turned to dust. But she didn't really mourn the loss. Her Eden resided right here.

"You're such an asshole," she was laughing from mirth and love and the joy of being pressed under that safe weight again.

"Would like to fuck that too someday."

Oh my God..-

She wasn't a blushing lady from Victorian times, but this was a little unexpected, even from him.

"Bet you're even tighter down there… I might just pass out."

Her jaw must've fallen an inch or two, her eyes no doubt shot full of shimmering glee because nothing, absolutely nothing escaped him, and her face was now more than that of a stupefied goldfish.

"I suggest you close that pretty mouth before I-"

She cut him short by sinking nails in his skin — more precisely, his ass. He arched his back with the following thrust, even exposed his throat with a satisfied grunt.

"Lil' wildcat… I could do this all night." It was a pleased chuckle, and her heart hurt — she was constantly calling him annoying, an asshole, a jerk, and he told her she was beautiful, sweet, his girl, or a little wildcat in return…

"Would ya like that?"

She could only nod, time and again, and the sex turned messy, noisy and unhinged, weeks and weeks of frustration and longing dissipating with fucking that spread her thighs wide and made the whole bed wail. Her head hit the frame once or twice before he moved her with an annoyed grunt while she was having a laugh about it, but then she remembered he was injured and that this was a bad idea.

"Your wounds-" she tried to stutter amidst a pounding that had certainly been held back for longer than five months, not to talk of a few weeks.

"I'll live."

She was close, but so was he, and it seemed it was the most difficult decision he had ever made: to choose whether to slow down and grit his teeth or just give into the temptation and spill. A split second, and he chose the latter, and she must've been gawking: all that muscle towering over her went tense, the halved slant between his pecs sheened with sweat.

He came with a long groan and a head rolled back, the tension leaving him in shivers before his head fell back down, chin to the chest. The stare behind those heavy lids was unfocused, heady, drugged.

"Fuck, you're a glorious sight," he said while sweeping a hand over her sternum and closing the giant palm around her throat — nothing brutal or rough, just a little bit of fun that probably shouldn't have made her tighten around him as furiously as it did. It felt like she was one of his victims, held in place by one hand only, as his gaze dropped down to marvel at how his cock disappeared in her and came out all wet. The thrusts were erratic and desperate, the ending throes of ecstasy — must've been a glorious sight indeed.

He wouldn't even pause to enjoy the trip back to earth to the full. He left her, eyes both determined and drunk, cock still half hard, so abruptly that a sad little whimper fled her. But he wasn't gone for long, just settled next to her and gathered her in his arms, wracked with purpose.

She gasped when not one, but two fingers dipped inside, then drove deep to the knuckle.

"Fuck…"

"Will do."

It was a scant substitute for his cock, even with two thick fingers. But he was good, so damn good that it didn't matter.

He did everything right, perfect, precise. Made a mess of the cum that joined the wreckage, played with it, slathered it all over her until she was sticky and wet and the noise was well-nigh filthy.

But even more unbearable was the intimacy, the way her hand found him, the bunching muscles on the forearm, the thumb brushing her clit, his fingers curling in a loose fist while two of them curled inside her…

She wanted to participate, feel the fierce connection that had gained a whole new level. There was a sense of belonging, merging — did he feel it too?

Yeah, he definitely did.

Their gazes were locked, but the depth in his eyes wasn't hunger or will to dominate or even meant for fishing cues, it was pure surrender, actually, it was… love.

"Please," she whispered while he made love to her with both his hand and those eyes, not knowing why she even said that. But he had told her he loved it when she begged, so that's what she did. She would give him every fucking thing he wanted.

The sweltering bronze of his eyes broke a little, his brow gave a minimal tug.

"Simon - Please," the words were a mouthed prayer rather than an audible whisper, and she knew her own gaze was fractured because the warmth in his eyes only spread.

"I got ya," he crushed her in a devout hug while spreading her open, breathed into her ear, all joking gone. It was a solemn pledge, a guarantee.

"Promise I got ya."

This wasn't affection anymore; it was bonding.

She came with a strained whimper in his neck, curled into the hug with thighs trembling and hands grabbing whatever she could: a sheet, a tight muscle. He was an absolute genius for not moving, just stayed inside as her muscles sucked him in with a long, hungry pull that turned into a shudder that went through her whole body.

"Uh, fuh-…" She was cursing, sobbing, coming apart by the seams, and he took it all in, breathing high and wide from witnessing what he was doing to her.

It was a slow and tense shattering but turned messier after: into sloppy writhing and moaning, and he moved gracefully to ride it out with her. An absolute ace at what he did.

He might've said something, cheering her on with That's it or Fuckin' beautiful or something like that. She couldn't hear it, and it didn't really matter anyway. The looting was sweet, and he was the perfect fit, so fulfilling, still inside her after the waves had passed. They were breathing into each other, holding the space, sustaining the present moment just by being entangled together, all limbs and breath and sweat on sweat. When he ultimately pulled out, the hand joined the one wrapped around her, holding her like the most precious thing in the universe.

Her depression was gone, the man supporting her being a better cure for her condition than any kind of antidepressant ever invented by Western medical professionals could ever be. There was no fear, only a terrible will to live, a hunger for love and life.

It felt too lame a thing to say: I love you, in that kind of a moment. But something needed to be said. It wanted to come out like a wild thing from a cage.

"You brought me back to life," she whispered to the pulse on his neck, tasting both their salt, feeling like crying again, but this time for a different reason. "When we met. And every day after."

He was calm and still, frozen in time, but she could feel his heart thundering underneath that chest. Fast and overwhelmed.

"You're good at so much more than just killing people. I hope you know that."

The world could use another flood, but he chose to be the floodgate, chose to fight back mass destruction and death and darkness while looking like it. A hero, if there ever was one.

Simon didn't just take lives. He saved them.

"You saved my life, Simon." She stirred a little to look at him, wholly stripped of all his masks.

"There.. Finally shut you up."

He swallowed, and a steady hand brushed the nape of her neck, dissolving the tension if there still was any left.

"Yeah."

The soft silence covered them like a blanket until he bore even deeper.

"I'm glad you could finally join us."

And she realized he was talking about the Game. Their game. The poker game.

She had been a player while he had been here all along with palms facing upwards, with no cards at all. Just waiting for her to catch on.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"'Atta girl."

The kiss was gentle and slow. He grunted in her mouth, and when she withdrew to look at what was wrong, he opened and closed his jaw, then rubbed the side of his chin that had begun to swell a little.

"You hit hard for a historian."

Oh God.

She felt bad, but not bad enough to suppress a chortle.

"Remarkably hard for a woman. Almost dislocated a jaw," he continued when he saw she was laughing at the whole situation.

"I hope it swells real bad," she chuckled. He cast her a look that said So much for sweetness.

"You're ruthless."

"Do you need ice?"

"A kiss'll do."

She didn't deny him that kiss. She wasn't that ruthless. But after that soft peck, she turned to whisper in his ear.

"You deserved it."

He scoffed lightly, gave her a squeeze. It was the middle of the night, but it felt like the midsummer sun was shining.

"You deserve the best."

"And you're the best?" She asked, while they both already knew he was.

"I try to be."

That was probably the most humble thing she had ever heard him say, but then again, when had his arrogance ever been ego? He had always delivered. He was a soldier, but he was not a killer. He was a protector.

But if he would protect her by leaving her in peace, she would start a war of her own.

"Then don't leave me."

"Never."

Her heart skipped a beat, then fluttered flush against her ribs like an overjoyed bird.

"Is that a promise?"

She caught a smile, cocky, but only because he knew he was the best man for the job. He was best at what he did, and it had nothing to do with games.

"It's a vow."