Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was clear, the black sky stretching endlessly and cold above him, and moonlight bathed the decrepit buildings that lined the empty streets below. Soap’s breath formed pale, fleeting clouds as he crouched behind a crumbling wall. Every nerve in his body was taut, eyes scanning the ruins for movement. The enemy was never far, especially now. The task force had completed its objective: capturing a high-value target, a terrorist responsible for untold destruction. Now, the real challenge loomed of getting out alive.

His earpiece crackled with the voices of his teammates, Price, Gaz, and Iva, coordinating as they moved toward the extraction point with their captured prisoner. Soap tightened his grip on his weapon. Shouts of the enemy soldiers soon began to echo through the abandoned streets. They were desperate. Hunting them.

“Soap, status?” Price’s commanding voice came through the comms.

“Makin’ a distraction, sir,” Soap replied, keeping his tone steady despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. He reached into his pack, pulling out pieces for a makeshift explosive.

“There’s no time,” Price argued, “get to the helo.”

“Multiple enemy vehicles heading your way, Captain,” Ghost’s voice broke in, low and urgent. Soap worked quickly, rigging the cluster of explosives.

“This’ll take them off your tails, sir. Lightin’ it now,” he said, striking a match and touching it to the fuse. The fire hissed to life, and he bolted from the building, diving behind the outer wall just as the bomb detonated.

The deafening roar of the explosion tore through the night, shaking the ground. Dust and debris erupted into the air, and the remnants of the building collapsed. Soap braced against the vibrations, and a grin flickering across his face as he watched his handiwork.

“Worked like a charm. You should be clear now, Captain,” Ghost’s voice crackled in his ear, “move your arse, Soap—company’s coming your way.”

“Copy that,” Soap muttered, already on the move. He darted through the rubble, sticking to the shadows as enemy forces swarmed. Shouts grew louder, boots thudding against the ground as soldiers spread out, searching for their lost leader.

He was almost clear when a sharp command in a foreign tongue rang out behind him. Soap froze for a heartbeat before spinning.

Three soldiers stepped out from the gloom, rifles raised and trained on him. They demanded answers; the gesturing of guns and faces flushed with anger made that clear, but even if Soap knew the language, there was no talking his way out of this.

“Shite,” he hissed, moving first. He dropped the closest man with a quick burst from his weapon. The second hesitated just long enough for Soap to whip a knife from his belt and send it flying into the man’s throat. Blood sprayed as the soldier fell, gurgling. He’d have to thank Ghost for the training tips later. Soap turned just in time to meet the third, who charged at him like a bull.

The impact nearly sent Soap sprawling, but he held his ground, grappling and exchanging blows. The soldier was strong, and his training was evident in every precise movement and jab. But Soap had fought tougher.

Another of Soap’s knives was knocked from his grasp, and a sharp kick to his knee sent him crashing to the ground, his knife just out of reach as his knees dug into the sand. Above him, the soldier wrestled a sidearm free, the muzzle of the cold pistol pressing against Soap’s head.

He froze, raising his steady hands that didn’t feel very steady. His world shrank to the sound of his sharp breaths and the thud of his heart pounding in his chest, bile and panic rising in his throat. The soldier yelled again, furious, shoving the barrel harder against his skull.

The soldier’s voice echoed in Soap’s ears, a low hum beneath the ringing in his head. His body felt like it was trembling violently, uncontrollably. His hands… his hands weren’t his own anymore. His fingers twitched, caught in the familiar trap of fight-or-flight, frozen between instinct and the realisation that there was nowhere to run.

Soap’s vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening as his pulse thundered in his ears. The harsh press of the pistol against his head wasn’t just the soldier’s weapon; it was the weight of a past moment like this. The noise of the train tunnel, the searing pain from the gunshot, the world closing in on him in sudden, crushing blackness.

His chest tightened, and a desperate gasp escaped as he struggled to fill his lungs. His breath sounded too loud and frantic, drowning out the present. He could almost hear the ghostly echoes of Makarov’s threats to Price, the ghostly feel his arm snap and break as he fought, desperate to save his Captain.

The soldier pulled back the hammer, and Soap knew he had to do something.

A deafening crack split the air as the weapon discharged. The bullet missed by inches, heat grazing Soaps forehead as he jerked his head back. Both men blinked at each other; the soldier momentarily stunned that Soap had dodged the shot.

Adrenaline surged through Soap, and he lunged at the soldier. He grabbed the soldier’s hand, twisting it and slamming the man down, wrenching the gun free. With a swift motion, he drove his elbow into the soldier’s throat, ending the fight. The soldier slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Soap staggered back, his chest heaving. His hand brushed along his face where the bullet had flown past.

He was fine.

He was fine.

I’m fine.

He pressed his earpiece back firmly into place.

“Johnny! Respond!” Ghost’s voice cut through, sharp with concern.

Soap took a shaky breath, his fingers grazing the scar on his left temple. There was no time to waste; soldiers were closing in, and Soap no longer wanted to fight.

“Copy,” he managed, his voice steadying, “movin’ to exfil now.”

The helicopter’s rotors thundered overhead as the team climbed aboard. Price gave Soap a concerned glance, but Soap avoided his gaze, staring out at the dark landscape as it blurred beneath them. The others were talking and debriefing, but Soap heard none of it. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the fight, the near-death moment when he’d felt the heat of that bullet.

He touched the scar on his temple again, which Makarov had left him with. He’d survived that shot, but tonight had shaken him. The fragility of his life felt heavier since that day. Would he have been happy with the life he’d led if he’d died? He had been given a second chance of life, but had he done anything with it? The question gnawed at him.

When they landed back at base, Soap lingered in his seat, letting the others disembark first. He needed to clear his head, needed to speak with Price or Ghost, someone who’d understand. But as he eventually made his way toward the command centre, the sound of another helicopter filled the air. He turned, watching as it touched down on the tarmac. The doors slid open, and men in clean, neat suits stepped out.

The team gathered, curiosity mingling with wariness. Iva leaned toward Ghost. “You know who they are?”

“Idiots in suits,” Ghost muttered, “can’t be anything good.”

The men approached Price, their expressions indifferent and purposeful.

“Laswell suggested we get in touch,” one of them began, “we need someone for a covert mission. It’s urgent. We need to leave now. They will be briefed on the way.”

“Introductions are generally considered polite,” Price was gruff, folding his arms and squaring his shoulders to intimidate the visitors.

“Need to know, Captain. Laswell can fill you in at a suitable time. Right now, all you need to know is that one of your team needs to come with us. Now.” From the building, Laswell stepped out, her face tight and arms crossed as she nodded, which made Price drop his head.

Price’s sharp gaze flicked to his team. Soap could see the wheels turning in his Captain’s head. Gaz wasn’t seasoned enough for something like this. Iva was too close to Price, and Ghost’s focus was elsewhere as he waited for Chloe to return from her mission. That left only one choice.

Soap stepped forward before Price could decide. “I’ll do it,” he said, steady and confident, masking the churn in his gut. “You know I’m good for it.”

Price’s eyes narrowed, his lips tight beneath his beard as he thought. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse, might order someone else to step up or deny Laswell and the visitors altogether. But Soap didn’t wait for the answer he knew was coming, should be coming. He pulled the dog tags from around his neck, the familiar weight cool in his palm, and placed them in Price’s hand.

Price’s jaw clenched as he closed his fist around them. “Get in the chopper,” he said.

Soap nodded quickly and turned away. His team watched from across the short distance, their eyes fixed on him. There was no opportunity for goodbyes. He raised a hand for a brief salute before boarding the helicopter waiting for him.

The cabin vibrated with the steady thrum of the engines. Soap settled into a seat, his gaze fixed on the floor as he adjusted his harness. Across from him, the two agents sat, their postures rigid, their faces blank except for the scrutinising gaze as they assessed Soap.

He broke the silence, his voice cutting through the drone of the rotors. “So, what am I allowed to know?”

The agent on his left, a sharp-looking man, leaned forward. “You’re going undercover,” he said, monotone and serious. “Your role is to infiltrate the de Montevi family, one of the five ruling crime families in Montevia. You’ll be their bodyguard, muscle for hire.”

Soap’s brow furrowed. “Montevia?” The name was vaguely familiar, a small nation nestled in the shadow of Europe’s giants, often spoken about in the same breath as corruption and secrecy.

“Montevia’s government is a facade,” the other man explained. “The real power lies with these crime families. The de Montevi family is the most powerful, tracing their roots back to a breakaway faction from Italy centuries ago. They’re entrenched in everything—politics, business, and black markets from art to organs.”

A folder was dropped in Soap’s lap, the leather-bound dossier thick with documents. He flipped it open, eyes scanning the pages. Photographs of lavish estates, armoured convoys, and key figures in the family filled the pages. His gaze lingered on a particular image—a striking woman with dark eyes that seemed to pierce through the photograph.

“That’s Ilaria de Montevi,” the agent said, noting his focus. “She’s the daughter of the family’s matriarch, Lucrezia de Montevi. You’ll more than likely be working directly with her frequently. Your cover will position you as her personal bodyguard. Your task is twofold: protect her and gather intelligence on their activities.”

Soap’s eyes flicked back to the image. Ilaria’s face was a mask of composure. Still, there was a tension in her posture, a subtle tell of someone who had grown up under constant scrutiny, someone accustomed to hiding their true self.

“What’s the story?” Soap asked, flipping through the remaining pages.

“We’ll craft a background for you,” the agent replied. “But you will be a former soldier turned mercenary. You’ll have a fabricated history of working with high-profile clients across Europe. It’s credible enough to pass initial scrutiny.”

“And contact?” Soap asked.

“You’ll have one handler. They’ll be your lifeline, the only person you can contact for extraction or passing on critical intel. They’ll be posing as a local journalist; this gives them an excuse to move in and out of social circles and events without drawing attention.”

Soap nodded. He understood the stakes. The Montevi family wasn’t just any criminal organisation; they were a dynasty with loyalties and rivalries spanning generations. Navigating that world would be like walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

“And the daughter?” he asked, closing the folder.

“Ilaria is the key,” the agent said. “She’s respected but not untouchable. Some in the families see her as a vulnerability. Your proximity to her will give you access to their operations. But it’s a delicate balance. Gain her trust without drawing suspicion from the others.”

“What happened to your last guy inside?” Soap asked, curious. It didn’t make sense that they needed someone so urgently. An operation like this wouldn’t have been thrown together overnight. The dossier in his lap, thick with years of intelligence, was proof of that.

The two agents exchanged a glance, a brief but telling hesitation. The agent on the left, who had been doing most of the talking, cleared his throat before answering. “He was killed,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Officially, it was an accident. A car crash late at night on one of the coastal roads.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially,” the agent continued, “we believe he was targeted. There was tension between the de Montevi family and one of their rivals, the Varettis. Our operative had been embedded for almost a year, gathering intel. He was close to uncovering a weapons trafficking route used by the Varettis when the accident happened.”

Soap’s fingers tightened around the edge of the folder. “You think they found out?”

“It’s a possibility,” the agent admitted. “The timing was too convenient to be a coincidence. The Varettis and de Montevis have a history of conflict, and our man could have been caught in the crossfire. Or worse, he might have been exposed.”

The family was on high alert if the last operative had been compromised. His role wouldn’t just be dangerous—it would be a delicate dance of earning trust while staying vigilant for any sign of suspicion.

“What made you choose our task force? Surely you had someone trained and ready for this?” Soap asked.

The agent met his gaze steadily. “We need someone from outside who can handle themselves; adaptable, quick on their feet. But more importantly, we need someone who can think like them, understand loyalty, and sell it convincingly.”

“Basically, the CIA had no available agents, and Captain Price’s team came highly recommended by Laswell,” the agent added with a wry smile.

Soap nodded, the gravity of the mission sinking in. He had volunteered, but the actual weight of his role was now settling in. He wasn’t just stepping into a dangerous assignment; dangerous was what he was used to; he was entering a world where trust was a weapon, and betrayal could come from any direction and at any moment.

“I’ll get it done,” he said.

The agent’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of respect crossing his face. “We’re counting on it.”

Chapter Text

The antique mahogany desk was barely visible beneath the scattered papers, an organised chaos Ilaria tried to convince herself was intentional. In truth, she was simply too exhausted to care. Most of her night had been spent tied to the desk, reviewing endless requests for funding and managing events.If she had to read one more demand from a stuffy old investor insisting that white truffle be served instead of caviar or that not a hint of the colour green appears in the decor, well, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

Her leather chair creaked as she leaned back, rolling her aching shoulders and gazing up at the ceiling. The hand-painted patterns above swirled and blurred until she could no longer bear to look. It was the best office she could choose, with old-world charm blended with modern efficiency. It was a space that allowed her to work effectively while reminding her of the least of home.

As soon as the thought crept into her mind, she sighed and returned to the computer screen. She supposed she could distract herself by looking through potential investments. Real estate in Montevia’s bustling capital, a promising tech startup in the neighbouring country, and a shipping venture that could expand the family’s influence along the coast. Each opportunity was vetted, promising lucrative returns, but she knew her role wasn’t just about growing the family’s wealth.

Her gaze paused over the screen as her thoughts wandered. She wasn’t like her mother, who wielded power with an iron fist, orchestrating the more illicit activities of the family with ruthless precision. Ilaria’s domain was different, cleaner, and safer. She handled the legitimate side of their empire: investments and public relations, only dirtying her hands with the delicate art of money laundering that kept the family’s darker dealings hidden beneath a veneer of respectability.

Despite her distance from the criminal operations, Ilaria knew she was still a Montevi, bound by blood and expectation. Her position afforded her power and privilege but came at the cost of freedom and genuine trust. People didn’t see Ilaria—they saw the family name, the weight it carried, and the doors it could open for someone or close forever.

Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. She picked it up and read the message from her mother. Speak of the devil.

New personnel arriving. Bodyguard. Be here at nine.

Ilaria groaned. At least that gave her some time to—her thoughts of a shower and sleep were cut short when she glanced at the time. How was it already four in the morning?

She locked the computer with harsh taps on the keyboard. The weight of expectations, the constant maneuvering within the family, and now the arrival of a new bodyguard—all of it pressed down on her, a suffocating reminder of the life she couldn’t escape. She pushed herself up from the chair, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she gathered her coat and bag. The thought of returning to the flawless, elegant manor that felt more like a gilded cage than home was unbearable. She needed to breathe, to be free of overbearing bodyguards and demanding parents, if only for a few more hours.

The building was dimly lit, just enough for security to navigate their patrols and the early morning cleaners to begin their work. Ilaria knew the routine, slipping out quickly and quietly, sliding into her car without seeing a single soul. Behind the wheel, she opened her phone and sent a text, pausing for a response. There would be—there always was when it came to him. Sure enough, her phone buzzed, and she allowed herself a small smile as she pulled away from the building.

Early morning in the city was quite beautiful, the stars still glittering above in the clear sky despite the city lights casting their persistent glow. Down familiar, narrow streets, she arrived at a familiar house and followed well-worn paths to the front door. She barely had to knock before it opened for her.

Stefan stood there, humour gleaming in his brown eyes as he scanned Ilaria head to toe.

“Bit early, even for you, no? I could have already had company over.”

Ilaria wasn’t in the mood for teasing. She pushed him back into the room, dropping her bag to the floor as he swung the door closed, meeting her in a desperate kiss. He wouldn’t question her arrival, wouldn’t ask for explanations. That was part of their understanding—no strings, no expectations, just a brief respite from the complexities of their respective worlds.

While Ilaria struggled under the weight of her family’s legacy, Stefano Ettore seemed to thrive in his, and she hated him for it. But he was the only one brave enough to touch her, to not care that their families might despise each other, and to understand that while they shared these moments, it was safer to keep it to themselves. He was lucky to be decent enough to look at—lithe, toned, with sandy blonde hair.

It was easy enough to fall into the familiar routine, stripping off jackets and clothes, stumbling half-entangled toward the bedroom. Yet, as Ilaria lay there, the comfort and sparks of desire felt hollow. She knew this rhythm between them and had done this countless times, but the spark she sought, the escape she craved, remained out of reach.

He moved above her, hands braced on the bed beside her, eyes closed in bliss as he thrust into her quickly and harshly, his focus entirely on chasing his own release. Ilaria knew she could reach out, trace the lines of his chest, pull him closer, but she simply didn’t want to.

“Fuck!” Stefan groaned, hips slowing as he came. He collapsed onto the bed beside her, and Ilaria rolled on top of him, her hand seeking out his cock, but he stopped her.

“What are you doing?”

Ilaria frowned, confused by his question. “I haven’t come yet.”

Stefan sighed, tapping her thigh softly before lifting her off him and rolling out of bed.

“You take too long, especially since you insist on condoms.”

Ilaria rolled her eyes, “I don’t think your family would appreciate another bastard Ettore running around.”

“Look, I have to be out of here soon; you can finish yourself, yeah?” he said, leaning over to stroke the side of her face almost tenderly. “Or if you’re free tonight, I might have time.”

Ilaria watched him through strands of her dark hair as he pulled on his boxers, still talking about the importance of houses like his in Montevia and how early meetings were such a hassle.

There was nothing she could say or do, and there was no point in arguing. Besides, she doubted he would be able to get her to orgasm, and the thought of smelling his cologne for a minute longer was actually nauseating. Quietly, she slipped back into her clothes, disappointment heavy in her chest. Her blouse’s soft, silken fabric felt too clean against her, too perfect against such dirty skin.

As she walked to her car, the sense of emptiness gnawed deeper. Nothing seemed enough to satisfy the growing void inside her. It ached, it demanded, but for what, she had no idea.

It was still early, but she had nowhere else to turn but home.

Ilaria ascended the stone steps of the Montevi estate, her thoughts preoccupied with the meeting with her mother ahead. A new bodyguard. Another spy to keep tabs on her, making sure she remained the perfect daughter her mother demanded.

The early morning sunlight trickled through the windows as she approached the main hall, promising another warm day. Sweat had already began to bead at her forehead and she as she paused to wipe her brow, she noticed a man standing by the entrance, speaking quietly with another. He didn’t fit the usual mould of her mother’s hires—there was something different about him, something she couldn’t quite place.

Then, she heard something that made her pause. The well-dressed man she recognised as a journalist addressed him as “Soap.”

Soap? The name rolled in her mind, odd and out of place in this world of formal titles and coded threats. Her curiosity piqued, and she altered her course slightly, heading directly toward him.

“Soap?” she repeated, stopping a few steps away from him. Her tone was inquisitive, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

The young man turned to face her, his eyes widening for a brief moment before settling into the indifferent blankness all guards seemed to wear.

“It’s a nickname,” he spoke smoothly, if he was intimidated by her he did not show it. “I’m good at cleaning up messes.”

Ilaria’s brow arched, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small, intrigued smile. Interesting. She could appreciate a man who handled problems efficiently.

“Cleaning up messes,” she echoed in English, “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities for that here.”

“That’s the plan,” he replied, his tone light, though his blue eyes remained watchful. He wasn’t giving anything away.

She nodded, taking a moment to assess him further. His build was solid, and he held himself with refreshing confidence, not overbearing or arrogant like most men that graced the estate. She could also sense a sharpness, a readiness that hinted at the kind of experience someone didn’t gain by simply looking tough.

“And you are?” she prompted, even though she already knew his role. She wanted to hear how he presented himself.

“I’m here to meet your mother,” he said simply, sidestepping the question.

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. He was careful, guarded. Or perhaps just a simple idiot.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you,” she said, a hint of warning in her voice. “This place isn’t as simple as it seems.”

“I wouldn’t hope it to be,” he replied, his gaze meeting hers without flinching.

They stood in silence for a moment, and Ilaria felt a spark of something—curiosity, perhaps? Maybe it was just the novelty of having someone so foreign within these old walls, both in sound and appearance.

“Good luck,” she said, stepping aside to let him pass. “You’ll need it.”

He nodded, moving past her toward the entrance, but Ilaria’s eyes lingered on his back for a moment longer. There was more to this man than met the eye, and she suddenly wanted to find out what.

As Ilaria continued down the hall, she glanced back, her mind turning over the brief exchange. Soap. A curious nickname and an even more curious man.

Was that accent Scottish? British? She wasn’t entirely sure. Truth be told, she had never been to those places, and the only people she ever seemed to deal with were from neighbouring countries—Italy, France, Switzerland—all soft and elegant. Soap did not seem the smooth and sleek type at all.

Weariness began to tug at her limbs as she showered, the hot water offering little relief as she scrubbed at her skin. It didn’t fade even as she made herself presentable. Makeup concealed the dark rings under her hazel eyes, but she knew her eyes were dull, and no smile she painted on her face would hide that hollow exhaustion. She doubted her mother would even notice. Or care.

But still, she dressed in her finest clothes, the style her mother favoured, and neatly styled her fringe across her eyebrows. With a quick glance at the time, she sighed and made her way toward her mother’s office.

Chapter Text

As soon as Soap stepped into the office, he knew he did not belong.

His boots barely made a sound on the plush woven rug, and the rich smell of aged leather and wood smelt better than anything that could be replicated in a bottle. The ceilings were high and adorned with an elaborate fresco, and it took a lot of effort for Soap not to simply stare at it. He kept his gaze on the elegant woman behind a grand desk, stopping before her as the door clicked shut behind him.

Lucrezia de Montevi was much more intimidating in person than her photo prepared him for. Brown hair was slicked back, keeping her sharp facial features uninhibited. The coldness in her eyes was what he had imagined a woman of her reputation would be.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing with a long, slender finger to the chair in front of her desk. Soap obliged, lowering himself into the plush chair. Everything he did from here on out, every detail of what he said or how he even moved, would be a matter of life or death. He kept his posture straight and tight, hoping that despite the way she studied him, she could not see the anxiety tremble his fingertips or breath ever so slightly.

Lucrezia briefly sifted through paper in a dossier before settling back comfortably in her leather chair.

“John Ellice, do you speak Montevese?”

“No, ma’am.”

She clicked her tongue, obviously disappointed, but that didn’t seem to be a deal breaker. “You will learn.” She scanned the paper before flicking back to his face.

“You have come highly recommended, Mr. Ellice, but I am concerned about one thing. A soldier turned mercenary.”

Soap inclined his head slightly, playing along with the carefully constructed narrative created for him.

“Yes, ma’am. Military life wasn’t for me after a while. I found other opportunities more...rewarding.”

Lucrezia’s eyes narrowed, but Soap held her unyielding gaze.

“Why the change? Most soldiers remain loyal to the uniform, to the country they bleed for. What made you turn your back on that?”

“I realised bleeding doesn’t always pay the bills; doesn’t mean the sacrifice is valued. Sometimes, you have to look out for yourself. The private sector offers me the freedom to do that.”

Real Soap would bristle at the idea of turning away from his country; John MacTavish had bled and sacrificed for what his team represented and would do so until there was nothing left to give. John Ellice was the opposite, and that was who he had to channel.

Lucrezia’s lips curled into a smile.

“Pragmatic. I like that. Loyalty is imperative, but survival? That is paramount. Here, loyalty is to the family. I will do everything right by you so long as you do the same by me. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, ma’am. Your family’s interests are mine for as long as I am here.”

This seemed to satisfy her, and her harsh expression softened.

“While here, you are loyal to me and this family. Any deviation will be dealt with harshly. Our business remains ours; you are to speak of it to no one outside of these walls,” she spoke fast and Soap could only nod, “Your primary role is to protect my daughter and ensure her safety at all costs. It should be no surprise to you that many jump at any opportunity to undermine me and exploit her weakness to do it. You will report directly to me, no intermediaries, particularly when it comes to my daughter’s affairs,” there was a knock at the door behind Soap. Still, he kept his attention on Lucrezia, who waved her hand, thick gold bangles jingling on her wrists.

“Remember, you are her bodyguard. Nothing more.”

Ilaria stepped into Soap’s view, her composure regal, her expression unreadable. She leaned in for a brief, almost unthinking embrace with her mother—a brush of cheeks in a cold greeting.

“Ah, Ilaria, darling,” Lucrezia began smoothly, her tone as sharp as the edges of her tailored suit. She gestured toward Soap with a wave of her hand. “This is Mr. Ellice. He’ll be ensuring your safety since the last one… well.” She sighed heavily, her polished nails drumming against the desk. “Let’s just say you’d do well to be less of a liability this time. I can’t keep replacing them at the rate you lose them—it’s infuriating.”

Ilaria’s lips curved into a thin, humourless smile. Her back straightened, her posture every bit the image of control, though Soap didn’t miss the subtle twitch of her fingers at her side. “Of course, Mother,” she said coolly. “He will be the perfect shadow, and I the perfect daughter. Isn’t that what you always expect of me?”

The air in the room shifted, growing heavier. Lucrezia’s mouth pressed into a hard line as she studied her daughter, her expression carefully blank. However, the flicker of irritation in her eyes betrayed her.

Ilaria narrowed her eyes just a fraction, but it was enough to convey the silent challenge. The tension between mother and daughter was clear, like two blades drawn but not yet crossing. Soap shifted his weight slightly, feeling the thick undercurrent of discord that no carefully curated family portrait could ever disguise.

“You’re dismissed,” Lucrezia said abruptly, waving her hand as if to shoo Ilaria from her office.

Without another word, Ilaria turned, her heels sharp on the tile as she strode across the room. Soap risked a glance in her direction, catching the set of her jaw and the way her gaze flicked momentarily toward him. For a moment, he thought she might say something, but she merely held his eye for a fleeting moment before disappearing through the doorway.

Lucrezia, ever poised, leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepling as she regarded Soap with a practiced smile.

“You’ll forgive my daughter,” she said, her voice calm but carrying the faintest trace of sharpness. “She can be difficult.” Her lips curled into what might have been a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “But if you can tolerate her little quirks, Mr. Ellice, I assure you, I’ll make it worthwhile.”

Soap studied her for a moment, her words rolling in his head. Weakness. Difficult. Quirks. He wasn’t sure whether to interpret them as dismissive, manipulative, or both.

“I’m here to do my job,” Soap said evenly. “Protecting her is part of it, quirks or not.”

Lucrezia’s sharp eyes fixed on him, the faintest twitch of approval crossing her expression. “Good, because I’m not in the habit of hiring men who fail to understand the importance of their role. My daughter will learn. Loyalty, Mr. Ellice. Discretion. Competence. I assume you possess all three.”

“Of course.”

“Good.” She leaned forward, “because if you fail, and if you put my daughter or the interests of this family in jeopardy, no amount of recommendations or experience will save you from what will come next. Do I make myself clear?”

Crystal clear. Soap nodded again, his face impassive. He’d worked with people like her before, powerful, used to being obeyed without question. But Lucrezia carried an edge, something colder and more calculating than most.

“Good. Now, go and do what I’m paying you for.”

Soap stood and gave a curt nod, his jaw tight. As he made his way out of the room, her words echoed in his mind. Whatever the Montevi house claimed to be, it was clear that a fracture lay beneath all the wealth and power. This job was going to be far more complicated than he’d imagined.

Soap stepped out of Lucrezia’s office, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. Halfway down the hall, he saw Ilaria leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, her foot tapping faintly against the polished floor as if counting down the seconds he was wasting.

“You took your time,” she remarked, calm but edged with amusement. She straightened, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve of her blouse. “We’ve got places to be, Soap. Meetings. Appointments. Whatever you had in mind for your first day, forget it. There’s no time for you to settle in.”

Soap raised an eyebrow but said nothing, falling into step as she began walking down the corridor at an almost punishing pace. He tried to hide the wince from his face when she spoke his call sign. “Soap” wasn’t meant to be part of his new identity, but the agent’s slip earlier had left no room to backtrack. At least there would be some sort of reminder of who he was while here.

“I’m busy, generally every day, all day,” Ilaria continued without looking at him. “You’re here to work, not to stand around looking stoic. If you can’t keep up, you’re better off walking back into that office and begging my mother for a reassignment.”

Soap didn’t rise to her bait, his expression calm. “I’m here to do the job, miss,” he said evenly.

She glanced at him sideways, her eyes narrowing slightly as though sizing him up. “Good. Then don’t slow me down.”

They stepped into the foyer, where two other bodyguards were already waiting. Ilaria motioned for them to follow without breaking stride.

“My schedule today is packed,” she announced as she glanced at her phone. “We’re meeting with one of our investment partners in twenty minutes, then visiting a development site, followed by a lunch meeting with some associates who think they’re smarter than they actually are.” She slid the phone into her pocket and turned to Soap. “You’ll be in the background. Silent. Observant. If you have to do anything more than that, it means something has gone very, very wrong.”

Soap nodded, doing his best the channel a man who had been doing this for years.

They left the building and stepped into the glaring sun, the heat bouncing off the pavement in shimmering waves. Soap adjusted his stance, scanning the driveway as if this had been his job countless times before. He wasn’t used to standing still this long in the open, exposed. His instincts itched to move, to act, to be ready.

Ilaria led the group toward a sleek black car waiting by the curb, her heels clicking against the stone like a steady metronome. She moved with the kind of deliberate grace that made her impossible to ignore. Yet, Soap forced himself to focus on everything but her.

As the other bodyguards opened the doors and swept the area, Soap slid into the car after Ilaria. The leather seats creaked softly under his weight as he adjusted to sit slightly forward, his body still on alert despite the calm interior.

As the vehicle pulled away, Ilaria glanced at him, her gaze assessing. It wasn’t just a glance—it was an examination, the kind that made lesser men sweat. Soap didn’t flinch, holding her stare with a blank, professional mask. Internally, he braced himself, half-expecting her to say something sharp. Still, when she leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs and turning to her phone, he felt an odd mix of relief and tension.

“I will forgive today,” she said, her voice smooth and precise, the kind of tone that demanded obedience. “But in the future, make sure you wear something more presentable. You represent the family now; we cannot have people think we are anything less than perfect.”

Soap’s jaw tightened. His hand brushed over the fabric of his shirt, and he resisted the urge to glance down at himself.

“Understood.” Soap caught the edge of mockery in her voice, though it didn’t seem aimed at him. He wondered if those words were something Lucrezia had once drilled into her instead.

“And the mohawk,” she continued, glancing up from her phone, her sharp gaze flicking to his hair. “It might have been fine in whatever army you crawled out of, but...” Her lips quirked into a faint smirk, and she shook her head slightly as though the thought wasn’t even worth finishing. Without another word, she turned her attention back to her phone, dismissing him entirely.

“Noted, Miss Montevi.” Soap resisted the urge to run a hand over his hair. Instead, he stared out the window and the passing scenery. The landscape was a patchwork of grand stone buildings with wrought-iron balconies, crowded markets, and sleek luxury cars navigating narrow streets. But the sight tugged at something deeper, a feeling he hadn’t expected to surface so soon. Despite the years he’d spent in England, where ancient cathedrals and bustling streets were similar to Montevia, his thoughts drifted home. The rolling hills and quiet lochs of Scotland, the unmistakable scent of salt in the air back in the Highlands.

But homesickness wasn’t a luxury he could afford. He pushed it down, focusing instead on the task ahead. The Montevi world was as foreign to him as the city’s streets, and the only way to survive was to adapt and adapt quickly.

Chapter Text

Ilaria de Montevi was used to people constantly watching her. She had grown up with eyes on her every move—judging, measuring, waiting for her to stumble. Whether it was her mother’s cold scrutiny, the grovelling stares of allies, or the lingering gazes of enemies, it no longer fazed her.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

She felt an itch between her shoulder blades as she walked through the grand halls of the Montevi estate with her new shadow in tow. It wasn’t the usual suffocating presence of her mother’s spies or the fawning attention of staff or admirers. No, this was different.

She didn’t need to look back to know he was there. John, or Soap, was a steady presence, just a few steps behind her, his boots barely making a sound. He was quiet, but not in the way her mother’s guards were. They slinked around like rats, trying to stay invisible. Soap, on the other hand, was deliberate. Solid.

And maddeningly constant.

She had barely spoken to him the last few days, intentionally keeping her words clipped and impersonal. He was just another pawn in Lucrezia’s game, another spy sent to monitor her under the guise of protection.

At first, it had been surprisingly easy to lose him. A crowded building or a quick detour down a side street, Ilaria thought she had the upper hand. Soap might have been trained for combat, but this was her territory, her world, and she knew every twist and turn. For a brief moment, she relished the idea of leaving him scrambling in her wake, reporting back to her mother with excuses and failure.

But Soap adapted.

No matter what she did, he was always there. She would sweep her gaze around a room during a meeting, confident she had lost him, only to feel the weight of his presence again. When the meeting concluded and she turned to leave, there he was, just a step behind her.

It wasn’t just infuriating; it was unsettling. Ilaria prided herself on being able to keep people at a distance and control the space around her. But Soap refused to be shaken.

By midday on the ninth day, her annoyance had begun to bubble to the surface. As she finished her third meeting, she deliberately slowed her pace, letting the rest of her entourage move ahead. She waited until they were alone in the hallway before turning her heel to face him.

“Do you make a habit of stalking the people you’re supposed to protect, or am I just special?” she asked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

Soap raised an eyebrow, unfazed by her tone. “Just doing my job, Miss Montevi.”

“Your job,” she repeated, crossing her arms. “Tell me, does your job require you to be this… omnipresent?”

He didn’t respond immediately; his expression was calm and unreadable.

“You’d be surprised how often trouble finds people who think they don’t need protection,” he said after a moment.

The nerve.

She narrowed her eyes at him, the corners of her mouth tightening. “Let me be clear, Soap,” she said, her tone dropping into something biting. “I don’t need you. You’re here because my mother insists on meddling in things that don’t concern her. So don’t think for a second that your presence is anything more than an inconvenience to me.”

Soap didn’t flinch. If anything, his calm demeanour seemed to deepen. “Noted, Miss Montevi.”

She expected him to look away, to fidget or retreat, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, meeting her glare without a hint of discomfort.

It was maddening.

With a frustrated huff, she turned on her heels and continued down the hallway. She didn’t bother looking back. She didn’t need to. She knew Soap was still there.

By late afternoon, she couldn’t stop herself. They were nearing her office, and again, she slowed her pace just enough to force Soap to step closer, then turned abruptly on her heel. He stopped immediately, his face calm, though she caught the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes.

They were so blue.

“Must you follow me everywhere?”

“Just doing my job, Miss Montevi.”

”Tu e il tuo dannato lavoro.”(You and your damned job) she tried to hide her annoyance. Her eyes flicked over Soap, taking in his dark shirt and black pants. It was still far too casual, but she could trace the lines of his chest under the tight material with her eyes, and she suddenly minded a little less. “Tell me, do you always follow orders so obediently?”

His lips twitched barely, and she thought she saw the ghost of a smile. “When the orders make sense.”

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. Most of her mother’s men wouldn’t dare respond like that, too afraid of her wrath. But Soap didn’t flinch under her gaze.

“Interesting,” she murmured, brushing past him and continuing into her office.

He positioned himself by the door, standing as still as a statue. Ilaria could feel his eyes scanning the room and watching her every move.

She hated it.

Not because he was intrusive, but because… she liked it?

It was ridiculous. Ilaria didn’t want to like anything about him. The bodyguards before him had been easy to dismiss—fawning, bumbling idiots who were more interested in impressing her than doing their job or so terrified of her mother that they didn’t even bother pretending they weren’t just paid to intimidate her. She’d learned to tune them out, their presence so predictable it was as if they weren’t there at all.

But him? No, Soap was different.

Even after just one day, she knew there was something infuriating about him. He wasn’t trying to impress her and certainly didn’t seem afraid of her. If anything, it was like he was someone who had seen worse things than what the Montevi family could throw at him.

It made ignoring him impossible.

She told herself it was nothing. A trained soldier doing his job, nothing more. But the way his gaze followed her, sharp and unrelenting, made her feel… exposed.

She busied herself with paperwork, flipping through contracts and investment portfolios, the familiar routine calming her frayed nerves. Yet even as she worked, she was hyperaware of Soap, the faint scratch of his pencil in his notebook, and the quiet rustle of fabric when he adjusted his position.

“You can call it a night. No need for you to stay,” she said finally, not looking up from her desk.

“Not until we are back at the estate, miss.”

She rolled her eyes. “I work long hours.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You’ll get tired.”

“So will you, miss.”

She exhaled sharply, annoyance clear in her tone. “Testardo come una mula.” (Stubborn as a mule.)

Soap tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his lips. “Sono un apprendista lento, perdonam.” (I’m a slow learner, forgive me.)

Her eyes snapped to his, the surprise flickering across her face impossible to hide. He shouldn’t know Montevese. He said he didn’t speak it. Did he lie? Or had he really picked up on the language that quickly?

Bright blue eyes met hers, and though she wanted to hold onto her annoyance, she felt her lips twitch against her will. A reluctant smirk crept through before she could stop it.

“Not bad,” she admitted. “But I’ll keep speaking your simple English for you. Your accent butchers the tones.”

“Give me a month,” he replied, his grin widening, “you’d never be able to tell. Slow learner, maybe, but an excellent student.”

She gave him an exasperated look, though her words had no real bite. “You’re impossible, you know that? Montevese isn’t for everyone, especially for a Scotsman. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Soap laughed, the sound warm, and she tried to bite her tongue to stop her from asking him to do it again. “Impossible’s my specialty.”

True to his word, Soap had not left her side until she was back on the estate. It was late now, the day’s heat replaced by a cool, moonless night. But the faint breeze from the open bedroom window didn’t bring her peace. Ilaria was still restless; she always was after a day like this. Despite the temperature relief, her body ached, and her mind refused to settle. Thoughts churned relentlessly, tangling with each other until she couldn’t tell where one thought ended and another began.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. But her limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, a leaden weight that only made her frustration grow. Minutes ticked by in the silence of her bedroom until, with an irritated sigh, she sat up and kicked the sheets off.

Her phone lay on the nightstand, its faint charging glow beckoning her as though it held the solution to her restlessness. Once upon a time, it had. She snatched it up, her fingers scrolling through the unread messages. Stefano had been persistent this week, leaving her a string of texts suggesting drinks, a quiet dinner, and a night at his place.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, halfway through typing a reply to his latest invitation. I can be there in thirty.

She paused, staring at the words, and then her jaw tightened. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the phone onto the bed, leaving the message unsent.

Stefano was a mistake she wasn’t about to make again. There was no relief with him, no satisfaction, not any more. They were empty moments that left her feeling worse than when she started. He was just like the others. Self-serving, manipulative. Another man trying to take what he could while pretending he cared.

Her head fell back against the pillows, and she let out a slow breath, one hand toying absentmindedly with the waistband of her pyjama shorts. The fabric was soft and worn in. She hated this feeling, the vulnerability that crept in during the silence of the night. She’d spent years building walls, sharpening herself into someone fiercely independent, yet nights like these chipped away at the edges.

Her hand slipped beneath the waistband, and she dropped her knees to the mattress. Her fingers followed down her hip bone and towards her clit, gently running her finger tips through her lips. Her breath hitched as the tingles began to spread, her body arching slightly off the mattress. The faceless lover in her mind was perfect—mysterious, unattached, a fleeting moment of passion she could lose herself in without consequence. She bit her lip, her hand moving in slow, steady circles, her body responding instinctively to the fantasy.

The imagined lover whispered her name, the sound warm and deep, sending a shiver down her spine. Her fingers pressed harder, her hips rolling to meet the rhythm. Her mind filled with a hazy vision, broad hands gripping her hips, roughened fingers brushing her skin with just the right amount of pressure, the weight of a body covering hers. She could almost feel it, the sensation of being embraced, of being seen, until the image sharpened, and bright blue eyes watched as she chased her pleasure.

Her eyes flew open, her breath catching in her throat. Soap’s face had flickered through her mind as clear as if he had been there, hovering over her, those piercing eyes watching her every movement, accented voice low and rumbling against her ear.

Her hand retreated instantly from between her thights as she tried to steady her breathing, mortified. She pressed her palms to her face, her cheeks burning as the remnants of the imagined intimacy lingered in her body.

Soap? Of all people? She couldn’t fathom it. He wasn’t like the smooth-talking men she was used to. He was rugged, unpolished, and brutish. And yet, at the thought of him, she still felt warmth spreading at the apex of her thighs. Maybe that was why. That curiosity she had about him bleeding into something more.

“No,” she said firmly, dropping her hands and staring at the ceiling. “Absolutely not.”

But even as she lay there in the silence, trying to shake the thought, her traitorous mind circled back to those blue eyes. Her gaze drifted to the door, and for the briefest moment, she wondered if Soap was still awake. She cursed herself for even entertaining the thought. He’s just another bodyguard, a pawn of my mother. But he hadn’t tried to ingratiate himself with her like the others had, nor had he cowered under her sharp words or her mother’s impossible demands. He just… was. Present. A silent shadow like he promised he would be no matter how much she tried to dismiss him.

Shaking her head, Ilaria rolled onto her side, her back to the door. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about him, wouldn’t allow him to worm his way into her already cluttered mind. He was basically a servant, nothing more.

And yet, she couldn’t deny the small comfort in knowing that somewhere, just beyond that door, Soap was there.

Chapter Text

“If you’re going to be lurking all day, at least make yourself useful,” Ilaria snapped, grabbing her bag from the counter and shoving it into Soap’s chest a little harder than necessary.

Soap caught it effortlessly. “Where to?” he asked, his voice steady and calm as if her irritation didn’t faze him in the slightest.

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “The city. I have meetings,” she turned on her heel, avoiding his gaze as she strode toward the door. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

Sleep had been unachievable last night, and the ache of exhaustion tugged at her. Worse still, her body felt like a taut wire, denied both rest and relief. Her mind wandered to the absurdity of it all—how Soap, of all people, had crept into her thoughts and left her restless. It was infuriating.

“Busy day ahead? If you share your schedule with me, I could plan-” he started, polite and in that deep accented tone damn him, as he fell into step beside her.

“Don’t talk to me,” she said sharply, though the words came out weaker than she wanted. She clenched her jaw, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint colour rising to her cheeks.

“Of course, Miss Montevi,” Soap replied, his voice carrying a faint trace of amusement that made her bristle.

Obedient as ever, Soap did not speak to her as she carried out her morning. The sleek black car glided to a stop outside a modern glass building, its reflective facade catching the morning light. Ilaria took a breath before approaching the entrance, stealing her features and painting on a smile, one perfectly curated for the occasion.

She tried not to be keenly aware of the eyes on her.

A receptionist greeted them, leading them to a private conference room, where two men were waiting. Both rose as Ilaria entered, their movements stiff and unsure, and she could tell in that instant the type of meeting this would be.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them smoothly, offering a polite smile as she extended her hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Of course,” the older man, Mr. Davella, said as he shook her hand. “Always a pleasure. We’re grateful for your continued confidence in our capabilities.”“Let’s hope that confidence is well-placed,” she replied. She took a seat, setting her bag on the floor beside her and gestured for them to begin.

The younger man seated beside Davella handed her a folder. “As promised, here are the updated reports.”

Ilaria opened the folder, scanning the pages with a sharp eye. Her features remained calm, but her eyes narrowed as she took in the details. She closed the folder and placed it on the table with a deliberate slap.

“These numbers don’t reflect what we agreed upon,” she said, her tone pleasant but firm. “The project needs a significantly larger amount of time than initially planned. That wasn’t the deal, gentlemen.”

Davella’s smile tightened. “It’s a temporary setback, ma’am. We’ve had complications.”

Ilaria tilted her head slightly. “More complications?” she repeated. “I was under the impression that we were working with professionals. Was I mistaken?”

The younger man beside Davella visibly flinched under her scrutiny, but Davella’s jaw tightened, his forced smile faltering. “We’ll resolve the issue soon. There’s no need to overreact. If we could just extend the—”

Ilaria could not stop her face from turning into something less pleasant, more impatient. “This isn’t overreaction, Mr. Davella. It’s business. We’ve already granted you multiple extensions and have been far too lenient. If you can’t deliver on your end of the deal, I have no choice but to take my business elsewhere.”

The tension in the room thickened, the implications of her words pressing down on the men. Ilaria allowed her soft facade to drop entirely as Davella’s face darkened, his polite veneer slipping away. He leaned forward, hands braced on the table, his voice falling into a low growl.

“You can’t just walk away. Or do you not know how this works?”

Ilaria met his glare without flinching, her calm, unbothered expression only stoking his anger, which made her almost smirk. “Oh, I know exactly how this works,” she replied smoothly. “You had your chance and even your second one. You failed. I’m not in the business of chances, Mr. Davella.”

Davella’s fist slammed onto the table with a sharp crack that bounced through the room. The younger man flinched violently, his face pale, but Ilaria remained perfectly still, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It wasn’t the first time she had been on the receiving end of an angry man’s outburst, and she doubted it would be her last.

“You think you can intimidate me?” Davella snarled, his voice rising. His face reddened, and he leaned forward, his gaze hard and dangerous. “You’re just a girl, playing at running a family’s business. I should be dealing with your mother. She has the real experience, not some naive little thing like you.”

Ilaria’s lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she met his glare with cold, unblinking intensity. “I’m not here to argue about who I am,” she said, her voice smooth but laced with venom. “I’m here because you can’t keep your end of the deal. And now, if you do not watch your tone with me, I will be the one to make sure you’ll lose everything.”

Davella’s eyes flicked to her, furious. His hand shot out, slamming into the table again, with a force rattling the neatly laid out glasses. “I don’t take kindly to being talked down to by a little girl who doesn’t know the first thing about business,” he spat. “You’re out of your depth, and I’m the one who will make you learn that.”

She knew what kind of man Davella was, and she knew how to handle men like him. She raised her chin slightly in defiance.

Before she could respond, a shadow loomed over the table. Soap stepped forward from his position by the door, his broad frame filling the space between Ilaria and Davella like an approaching storm. The violence in Davella’s gaze faltered for just a moment. Soap’s silence spoke volumes, and his steady, unflinching gaze locked on Davella, sending a silent message: this was no longer a business negotiation.

Davella’s lips curled into a sneer as he straightened and stepped back. “You’re a fool if you think you can pull this off, sweetheart.”

Ilaria’s eyes never left his, her gaze sharp. “I’m not the one who should be scared.” Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, but the cold bite in her words was unmistakable. “It is not just my mother who can be ruthless. I’ll make sure you regret ever thinking you could intimidate me.”

The younger man beside Davella shrank back, his face still pale, but Davella stood his ground. His fury was tempered as his gaze flicked again to Soap.

The room hung in silence for a moment, the weight of their stares pressing down on each other. Ilaria let the quiet linger, letting the tension build before she finally leaned back in her chair, a soft, calm smile playing on her lips. “Now, if you want this to end peacefully, I will take my leave. No one here wants to escalate this. I don’t think you do, either.”

The words were a warning, and she slowly rose from her seat. Soap’s hands remained poised by his side, fingers flexing as though eager to seek out Davella’s throat.

Davella’s fists clenched in return, and for a second, it looked like he might rise to the challenge. But in the end, he let out a sharp breath, sitting back in his chair with a heavy thud. “Fine,” he muttered, “But mark my words, you’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” Ilaria replied as she gestured to Soap. “My team will be in touch to formalise the termination of our arrangement. Good day, gentlemen.”

Without looking back, she walked out, forcing her steps to be even and her shoulders straight. Soap fell into step beside her, close enough that she could brush her arm against his. It was reassuring.

Once they were back in the safety of the car, Ilaria sank into her seat, her polished exterior finally giving way to the weight of the encounter. She exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing briefly to her temple before she glanced at Soap, who settled beside her.

“You didn’t have to step in,” she murmured, her voice softer now, tired.

“Yes, I did,” Soap replied simply, leaving no room for argument.

Ilaria turned her head slightly, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of his profile. She let the silence stretch between them before speaking again. “Davella wouldn’t have dared do anything. He may be a desperate businessman, but he isn’t foolish enough to disrespect my mother.”

Soap’s gaze shifted to hers, his blue eyes unwavering. “He shouldn’t disrespect you, regardless.”

For a moment, Ilaria couldn’t find anything to say. Her gaze lingered on him, a fleeting warmth curling in her chest, before she quickly tore her eyes away, resting her head back against the seat as the car began to pull away from the building.

“Suppose this will be something my mother hears about.” She said, her voice quieter now, almost resigned.

“Will she want to know of his outburst?” Soap asked, his gaze still fixed forward.

Ilaria glanced at him, a hint of confusion flashing in her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be reporting back to her? Listing my daily failings and disappointments?”

Soap shrugged, his expression plain as he leaned against the window. “I’m here to keep you safe, Miss Montevi. That’s all.”

She studied him for a moment, trying to pry away to some layer beneath his calm exterior. But there was nothing. No nervous fidgeting, no crack in his demeanour. Just a quiet, unshakable presence.

It unnerved her because she couldn’t tell if it was a facade or real. And, though she would never admit it out loud to him, it intrigued her. And, if she were being honest with herself, it was impressive.

“Well then, she’s paying you for nothing,” Ilaria scoffed, trying to push away the discomfort suddenly settling in her chest. “I don’t need a guard. That was probably the most excitement I’ve had in months. No one dares touch me, and I’m not about to run off like my mother imagines I would.”

It wasn’t an entire lie. She would never run away and abandon her family, but the thought crossed her mind more than she’d care to admit.

“That’s not the point,” Soap replied, his gaze turning to face the window, his own voice a little quieter now.She turned slightly, trying to sneak a glance at him, but her eyes met his through the reflection. There was something unreadable in his expression, and it made it hard for her to look away.

“Then what is the point?” she asked.

Soap didn’t answer right away. He looked out the window for a moment, his expression thoughtful, before his gaze flicked back to hers in the reflection.

“The point is,” he said finally, “I’m here for the moments you don’t see coming. The ones that catch you when you least expect them. And if they never come, that’s a good thing. But I’ll still be here, ready. That’s my job.”

Ilaria studied his reflection for a moment longer, her mind racing to piece together what he meant. A strange, nagging feeling stirred in her chest, something she couldn’t quite name. It unsettled her, but at the same time, it felt... familiar. A sensation she hadn’t realised she missed feeling.

She shifted in her seat, brushing the thought aside. “Just don’t hover too close,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, as she crossed her arms. “I’m not used to sharing my space.”

“Understood.”

She didn’t speak to him again for the rest of the day. But as she worked, she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that his presence wasn’t as unwelcome as she had wanted it to be. It lingered at the edges of her mind, that quiet, almost invisible tension that made it impossible for her to ignore him for long.

And maybe, she didn’t want to.

Chapter Text

It had been nice to wake up without an alarm, Soap’s body stirring naturally instead of being jolted into consciousness at the crack of dawn. Ilaria worked hard, and days that didn’t start before sunrise were a rarity. Her not needing him today was a small mercy he wasn’t about to take for granted. He stretched in bed, muscles stiff, and allowed himself a few extra minutes of stillness.

When he finally rolled out of bed, his body groaned in protest. Shuffling toward the bathroom, he let out a small sigh of gratitude. At least he had a room to himself. It wasn’t anything special—a bed, a set of drawers—but it was far more spacious and private than the barracks back on base. The bonus? A bathroom all to himself. That, at least, felt like a luxury.

The mirror greeted him with the sight of a dishevelled man. Stubble shadowed his jawline, and his hair was uneven and growing. He ruffled the sides absentmindedly, the strands longer than they’d been in years. The once-sharp mohawk was slowly becoming a distant memory, leaving him with something that felt too civilian.

For a moment, his mind wandered to his team. He wondered what the task force were up to. They were probably in some unknown corner of the world, knee-deep in chaos and gunfire and doing everthing they could as they normally did to solve a problem. A flicker of longing tightened his chest. He missed it. Not just the work but his mates, his friends. The unspoken connection that didn’t require words. The banter that made even the worst days bearable.

Here, it was different. The men around him, the guards and security on Lucrezia’s payroll, were exactly what he’d expected: brutish, dangerous, and trained but self-serving. Greedy. They weren’t teammates; they were liabilities in a fight. Soap’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t here to make friends, though. He had a job to do, and like it or not, this was where he’d chosen to be.

Splashing cold water on his face, he cleared the haze of sleep and leaned on the sink for a moment. No, this assignment hadn’t been easy. Working with the Montevi family, especially with Ilaria and her mother, was its own battlefield. There were no bullets to dodge, but the words and glances they threw could cut just as deep. He couldn’t let his guard down for a second, and that alone was exhausting.

Pulling on a plain black shirt and jeans, Soap glanced at his watch. Lucrezia would expect him soon. That woman was as sharp as a blade, and every interaction with her felt like walking a tightrope. After surviving that, he had a meeting with his handler.

That thought brought a strange sense of relief. A proper task. Something concrete. A mission he could sink his teeth into instead of wading through the murky waters of family politics. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, readying himself for whatever the day would bring.

Soap knew he enjoyed it more when it involved Ilaria. Something about watching her work, seeing her mind in motion, left him… captivated. She was smart and so much sharper than most people he’d ever met. Granted most people he had met were soldiers or products of war. The way she carried herself with such precision and control, balancing her responsibilities like a finely tuned machine, was nothing short of admirable.

But then there was the other side of it, the side that kept reminding him. Ilaria was a Montevi, tied to one of the most dangerous criminal organisations, and Soap was here to help take them down. That was his mission, his purpose. And yet, watching her, learning who she was beneath the surface, he couldn’t shake the feeling that much of what she did wasn’t out of greed or ambition. No, even he could tell most of it was survival. It was the same look he’d seen in people stuck in places they didn’t choose, doing what they had to in order to stay afloat.

It was dangerous to think of her like that, to humanise her too much. But the more time he spent around her, the harder it was not to.

And then there was her. Ilaria herself. She was stunning, undeniably so. Her long, rich brown hair always seemed perfect, cascading in waves, and Soap found himself wanting to touch it, to feel the softness he was sure it held. Her eyes, brown and bright when they were not exhausted, seemed to see right through him, and her smile, when it came, was so genuine that it caught him off guard every time.

But it wasn’t just her looks. She was authentic in a way he hadn’t expected. There were no pretences with her, no sugar-coating or mask to hide behind. What you saw was what you got, and even when she was guarded, there was a vulnerability there that made her… real. That, more than anything, made it hard to keep his distance.

The summer heat clung to the air, the kind that promised the season wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. He adjusted his pace, walking briskly through the quieter “servant’s” wing of the estate, heading toward the main house. The path cut through a stretch of gardens, the manicured greenery lined with limestone paving.

As he rounded a corner, the shimmering blue of the estate’s pool came into view. He hadn’t expected anyone to be out this early, but there she was.

Ilaria.

Her long, sleek strokes cut cleanly through the water as she swam, her body moving with effortless grace. Soap’s instinct was to keep walking, head down, and get to his meeting with Lucrezia without interruption. But she must have spotted him because before he could leave, Ilaria climbed up the steps of the pool.

Soap’s breath caught for a moment as he properly layed eyes on her. She ran a hand through her dripping hair, her rich brown locks plastered to her back and shoulders, water tracing glimmering rivulets down her skin. Her swimsuit was modest but left little to the imagination, clinging to her form as she stepped onto the sun-warmed tiles.

He forced himself to look away, fixing his gaze on the pathway ahead. If he didn’t stop, maybe—

“Rude to not stop and say good morning,” she said softly, light and teasing.

He clenched his jaw and slowed his steps, turning his head just enough to acknowledge her. “Miss Montevi,” he replied with a nod, his voice as neutral as he could make it.

“Running off so quickly?” she asked, amusement lacing her tone as she reached for a towel draped over a nearby chair. She wrapped it around herself, though not before wringing out her hair, the movement drawing Soap’s traitorous gaze despite his best efforts.

“I’ve got a meeting,” he said, standing rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in an effort to hide his fidgeting.

“With my mother, I presume,” she guessed, smirking as she stepped closer. “She does enjoy keeping you busy when I’m not.”

“It’s my job,” he said simply, his eyes locked on the path beside her now, watching the water pool around her feet.

“And you do it so well,” she teased, tilting her head as if studying him. “But you’re so serious all the time. Does it ever get tiring?”

Soap huffed a quiet laugh, finally risking a glance at her. Big mistake. The sunlight framed her like a portrait, catching the faint sheen of water still clinging to her skin and the playful spark in her eyes.

“I didn’t think you would want me slacking off,” he quipped, trying desperately to keep his focus on her face.

“Of course not,” she said, her lips curving into a sly smile. “But a little fun wouldn’t hurt you.”

Soap cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Montevi.”

“Good. Enjoy your day off,” she replied, still smiling as she stepped past him, brushing by just close enough for the faint scent of her perfume to linger.

Soap exhaled sharply once she was out of earshot, running a hand down his face. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the summer or the effect she had on him, but his pulse was racing either way.

Ilaria de Montevi was dangerous in more ways than one. And despite knowing better, he was finding it easier and easier to ignore that.

Her mother on the other hand, was danger incarnate.

Immaculate, sharp and deadly.

She sat at her desk, a faint plume of cigarette smoke curling above her. She didn’t glance up as Soap stood before her, her focus fixed on the papers spread before her.

“Speak,” she said.

Soap shifted slightly on his feet, trying not to let the intimidation claim him. He had done this for weeks now and managed each time. Today would be no different. Today he would definitely not feel awkward talking about his boss’s daughter while the image of that daughters damp, tanned skin glistening in the sunlight filled his mind.

“Miss Montevi has been keeping busy, as usual,” he began. “Yesterday, she finalised the contracts with the art gallery; shipments will soon be able to be diverted there. After that, she spent the evening in her study reviewing accounts. She’s planning to visit the estate vineyard later this week to oversee—”

Lucrezia’s hand lifted slightly, silencing him mid-sentence. She finally looked up, her sharp gaze pinning him in place. “And? No meetings? No correspondence?”

“No meetings planned, ma’am,” Soap replied, keeping his tone respectful. “She hasn’t mentioned anything unusual.”

Lucrezia leaned back in her chair, the cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers as she studied him. Her dark eyes narrowed on him as if she could see any lie he could make up. “What about the other houses?” she asked, her voice calm. “Any contact from them? Invitations, perhaps?”

Soap shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. She hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Hmm,” Lucrezia gaze drifted past him for a moment as she seemed to consider a thought. “Keep a close eye on her,” she said, her tone sharper now. “Things are stirring. The other families grow restless, and I don’t trust them.”

Soap frowned slightly, though he quickly masked it. “You think they’ll target her?”

Lucrezia exhaled a steady stream of smoke as her lips curled into a faint smile. “I think it’s wise not to underestimate the desperate actions of greedy men. Ilaria, bless her heart, has a knack for getting herself involved in things she shouldn’t. I’d rather not see her caught in the crossfire.”

Soap wasn’t sure if Lucrezia’s concern for her daughter was genuine or if it was simply a play to protect her own interests. Either way, he wasn’t about to question her. “Understood, ma’am. I’ll keep her safe.”

“See that you do,” Lucrezia said, leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping into a warning tone. “And if she does make any… unwise connections, I expect to know about it immediately.”

“Of course.”

Lucrezia’s lips twitched, though whether it was a smile or a smirk, he couldn’t quite tell. “That will be all, Mr. Ellice.”

With that cue to leave, Soap gave her a curt nod before leaving the office. As he walked back down the corridor, the weight of her words lingered in his mind. Things are stirring.

During his whole trip into the city after the meeting, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to Lucrezia’s scrutiny of Ilaria. Was it genuine care and concern, or did Lucrezia think her daughter was causing said unrest?

Soap made his way to a quieter park tucked between the concrete and glass, a pocket of greenery away from bustling streets.

As he walked, his sharp eyes scanned the area. A man sitting on a nearby bench stood as Soap approached, his movements calm and normal to anyone else. Soap didn’t pause, didn’t even look at him. The man fell into step a few feet away, close enough to speak quietly but far enough not to draw attention.

“Oleander,” the man murmured.

Soap gave no outward reaction, keeping his pace casual. The code word was what he’d needed. His handler had finally passed along a lead, something specific to focus his search on. However, it would likely come with a hundred more questions than answers. As the man veered off in another direction, Soap didn’t look back.

He kept walking through the park, debating how to spend the rest of his day. It would be suspicious if he spent all his time cooped up at the Montevi estate, and this was his first proper stretch of free time in weeks. Maybe he’d buy some new clothes. His salary from this job was generous, though the money felt tainted. Who knew if it came from smuggled weapons, drugs, or people?

Still, the idea of having something nicer to wear had a certain appeal. It wasn’t for Soap, though, he realised as he thought more. It was for her. He had come to realise that Ilaria liked little touches, the small details that showed effort, that he was listening to her.

Lost in thought, Soap nearly walked past a small fruit stand when a figure caught his eye. Beautiful brown hair was tied in a high ponytail, framing a slender neck, and a white linen dress sat slightly off elegant, tanned shoulders. He slowed his steps, his focus narrowing on the woman.

It was Ilaria.

She was unescorted and unassuming, blending almost seamlessly into the crowd. She stood by the stall, holding a small bag of plums as she chatted with the stall owner. There was something disarmingly natural about her here, a softness that conflicted severely with the revered image of a Montevi. Her light and genuine laughter danced with the elderly man’s chuckle as he handed her change, which she refused to accept. She paused before leaving, petting a ginger cat that was perched on the edge of the stall. Ilaria grinned as it stood, demanding more attention. She hooked her bag onto her elbow, and both hands were now free to give the cat an affectionate chin scratch.

Soap hung back, careful to stay out of sight as he followed her movements. He watched her drift away from the fruit stand and towards a nearby flower stall, where she bent to examine a cluster of coloured flowers he didn’t know the names of. The scent of fresh petals mingled with the aroma of ripened fruit, and to anyone who didn’t look closely at the scene before them, she was an ordinary girl, a city resident enjoying a lazy afternoon. But he knew better. Ilaria de Montevi was not simply another face in the crowd—she was the reluctant heiress to an empire built on crime and control.

As she wandered through the market, Soap’s mind raced. He could remember all the briefings, the missions and training he’d mastered over the years, all of them encouraging stealth and precision. Yet, when it came to following Ilaria in this innocent moment, he found himself caught off guard by a tenderness. Every laugh that left her lips, every gentle smile at a passing stranger in the crowds, all of it wanted to be carved into his memory and replace everything else.

At one point she paused by a stall draped in vibrantly patterned scarves, her gaze drifting over the colourful fabrics. Soap lingered behind a pillar, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of her profile, the way the afternoon light played upon her features.

Then, as if she could sense his presence, she turned her head. Her eyes scanned the crowd and Soap’s heart lurched. He thought of ducking further into the shadows of the building, or blending into the crowd until he was nothing more than another blurry figure. But his hesitation betrayed him. His eyes met hers. Recognition and perhaps a hint of amusement softened her gaze.

Not what he had been expecting to see at all.

Ilaria turned to look at him fully, the faintest of smiles tugging at her lips as she began to walk towards him. In that silent invitation, Soap feared the worst, feared that he was caught red-handed and would now be facing the consequences of interrupting her when she clearly did not want to be followed. Yet as she neared, his anxieties ebbed away, replaced by a soft warmth that spread through him because a slow smile spread across her face.

Chapter Text

Ilaria loved her city.

It was a place that felt woven from history, from stone and salt and sun-warmed streets that were like ancient spiderwebs.

Narrow, cobbled alleyways twisted through the heart of the city like veins, paths worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Buildings that had stood longer than most dynasties loomed overhead, their facades weathered but proud, balconies spilling over with flowering vines in bursts of colors; scarlet, violet, deep green leaves tangled like they belonged to the bones of the city itself.

Every corner held a secret. A fresco, half-faded but clinging stubbornly to the crumbling walls of an old church. A wrought-iron streetlamp, a hidden courtyard tucked behind heavy wooden doors, filled with the scent of lemon trees and aged stone, a world within a world.

And always, the air was full of life. The bitter kiss of fresh espresso, the buttery warmth of pastries pulled straight from the oven, and the faint tang of salt carried inland by the sea breeze, curling through the streets like an old promise.

Cafes spilled into the piazzas, their tables and chairs inviting people to sit and linger because this place was something worth savouring.

Laughter mixed with the murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low hum of music drifting from a nearby street performer.

Her city was alive, breathing, eternal. And no matter how much had changed, no matter how much power shifted hands behind closed doors, this part of it always remained.

But for all its charm, the city had its shadows and Ilaria knew this too well.

Beyond the sun-drenched piazzas and polished storefronts, past the narrow streets where tourists wandered with cameras slung around their necks, the city darkened.

In the alleys where sunlight rarely found its way, there were places where the past wasn’t a romantic story carved into old stone, it was a sentence. In the poorer districts the buildings stood taller but crumbled from neglect, stacked like forgotten relics. The walls weren’t adorned with frescoes, but with peeling paint and broken shutters. Where the people, the real people, the ones this city belonged to long before the Montevi name was worth anything, fought to survive in the underbelly of a grand city that had long forgotten them.

The rich history, the beauty, the timelessness of it all, it couldn’t disguise the poverty that lingered like a stain, seeping into the cracks, spreading in the corners, its presence impossible to ignore.

Yet somehow it was.

And that? That pained Ilaria more than anything. Because she was part of the problem.

Her family, the Montevi house, was one of the ones responsible for all of this. The power they held, the deals they made behind closed doors, the quiet ways they shaped the city to benefit themselves at the cost of others.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. God, she cared.It wasn’t that she didn’t want to change things, but what could she do? She was trapped, held tight in the noose of her mother’s influence, every action limited, every choice controlled. A gilded cage was still a cage, and Ilaria had spent her whole life realising just how tight the bars could close around her.

So what did that leave her? Small acts. Meaningless gestures. Paying too much for a bag of fruit in the market, slipping extra coins to a beggar on the steps of an old church. Tiny offerings to a city that needed so much more.

But what was a handful of coins against the broader rot?

Nothing.

It was nothing and yet… it was all she had.

It wasn’t entirely true that she was powerless, whenever she could, she fought in any way she could. She arranged charity events, directing the funds to legitimate organisations, not the shell foundations her family used to launder money, but the real ones, the ones that actually helped. She worked quietly, threading through the cracks of her mother’s control to slip donations where she could, trying to ease the weight for at least a few.

But it was never enough, never the change she longed to see. No matter how hard she pushed, Lucrezia was always there. Watching. Waiting. Tightening her grip.

Ilaria’s efforts were sometimes undermined before they could take root. Donations were redirected, contributions conveniently lost and her good deeds were erased or absorbed into the family’s corruption before they could leave a mark.

Everything she did had to be kept so utterly silent. Hidden under a veil of secrecy, as if helping people was something shameful.

It was suffocating.

Even on bright, beautiful days, when the sun bathed the city in gold and the air was filled with laughter, she felt like she was drowning and no one could see it. The sunlight might kiss her skin, but the shadows never left her. Always creeping. Always waiting. Lurking at the edges of her mind, slithering through every moment of peace like a whispered warning.

A familiar tingle spread across her back and Ilaria paused mid-step, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. Her breath hitched, something instinctive after years of being watched and she slowly, she glanced over her shoulder.

Was that…Soap?

A cold knot of dread tightened in her stomach. She hadn’t expected him to be out here, hadn’t planned for encountering anyone. The last time she’d been caught wandering the city without permission, her mother hadn’t let her forget about her “little misadventure” for weeks. The lectures, the suffocating surveillance, the quiet reminders that her freedom was a privilege, not a right. The memory made her skin prickle, unease settling in her bones.

But—Soap wasn’t moving.

He just stood there, watching her. His gaze lingered a second too long, like he was caught off guard but trying to hide it. Even from a distance, she could see the faint flush creeping up his neck. The heat, maybe, and she let herself smile softly. She never would’ve guessed that Soap, of all people, would find himself in the same predicament as her. Trapped under someone else’s expectations. Pulled between orders and instinct.

With a soft laugh, she closed the distance between them, stopping in front of him.

“Following me, are you?” Ilaria teased, tilting her head slightly.

Soap straightened like she’d caught him, like he was stalking her.

“Just taking a walk, Miss,” he replied, voice too even, too casual. “Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Ilaria raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“Mm-hmm.” Her gaze dragged over him, sharp, amused. “And yet, here you are,” she mused, arms folding loosely over her chest. “Looking guilty as sin.”

His mouth opened, ready to defend himself, then shut again. Ilaria let out a soft, knowing laugh, shaking her head. He was terrible at lying to her.

“Well,” she said and lifted the bag of fruit in her hands, “since you’re here, you can carry these for me.”

Soap hesitated for half a second and then, he reached for the bag, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as he took it.

“Aye, guess I’m at your service even on my day off.”

“Shouldn’t have followed me then,” she shot back smoothly. She turned before he could respond, trying to will her smile away. She didn’t mind the company, that was the problem.

She liked it. She liked him. More than she should.

“This will be our little secret, yes?” she said as they neared a bookstore, her fingers grazing the door handle. She glanced at him over her shoulder, watching the way he followed, no hesitation now. “Just a small excursion,” she continued, voice light, teasing. “Away from duties and meetings.”

Soap adjusted the bag in his grip, glancing around. “I’ll keep my distance,” he said, eyes flicking toward the shelves. “You won’t even notice me, like usual.”

Ilaria stopped and turned to him fully, letting her gaze linger just a second too long.

“No,” she said quickly, and something about the way she said it made his grip on the bag tighten.

“You’re new to Montevia, Soap,” she continued, softer now, but still insistent. “I can show you around.” She stepped inside the bookstore, looking back at him just once before disappearing into the shelves. “I would actually welcome your company today.”

The words caught him off guard, she could see it in the way his eyebrow twitched, like he almost wanted to respond and his lips nearly tugged into a grin before he caught himself.

Interesting.

Ilaria hummed softly to herself and turned away, letting her fingers drift lightly over the spines of books as she moved down the aisle. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Maybe something for him, a book to keep him occupied during her endless meetings, something to help him sharpen his Montevese, not that he’d admit to needing the help.

But despite her best efforts to focus, her awareness of him sharpened.

She could feel him.

Not in the way she usually did, not in that constant, impassive presence of a bodyguard standing nearby, watching over her because it was his job, this was different.

Soap was watching her.

Not the room. Not the exits. Her.

And not like a man on duty, not like a soldier scanning for threats, it was with something else and a small flutter sparked in her chest.

Was he really looking at her like that? Or was she just imagining it?

She caught herself smiling, biting it back before it could grow, focusing on the shelves in front of her like the worn pages could distract her from the weight of his gaze. They couldn’t though, because when she glanced up, just once, just for a moment, she found his eyes already on her. Soft. Fixed. Like he wasn’t just seeing her, he was studying her.

“What do you think?” Ilaria asked, holding up two books; a historical novel in one hand, a poetry collection in the other. “Something to help you with your Montevese?” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “I think you’d like the poetry one.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, his grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “You want me to practice my language skills by reading poetry?” He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. It felt… normal, the most normal interaction they’d ever had.

And God, she liked it more than she should.

The giddy warmth fluttering in her stomach caught her off guard, but she didn’t try to smother it. Not this time. Instead she turned slightly, angling herself toward him, lifting the poetry book to her face as though inspecting it seriously. She wasn’t though.

“Why not?” she mused, tilting her head. “Maybe it’ll teach you how to flatter a lady.”

She held the book toward him, using it as an excuse to lean in just a little closer and see if he’d pull away.

He didn’t.

Soap’s smirk softened, something flickering behind his eyes and in that moment she was sure he felt it too, that small spark, that thing between them that neither of them should want.

He cleared his throat, stepping just a fraction closer. “Flatter a lady, huh?” His voice was lower now, not quite teasing, not quite serious. “I’ll admit, I’m not exactly sure how that’s done here,” he said, watching her carefully. “But I’ll give it a try.”

Ilaria’s lips curled into a slow, teasing smile. “Oh, you’re in for a treat,” she said, arching a brow. “The ‘lassies’ here aren’t easily wooed.”

Soap laughed, a rich sound that made her stomach flip. His eyes lingered on her, dark with something that didn’t quite match the gentle way he took the book from her hand.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

She felt that warmth bloom again, curling in her chest. Something weightless. Something reckless. And for just one second, an impossible, fleeting second, she allowed herself to pretend that this was simple, as simple as it should be, that she was just a girl in a bookstore, flirting with a stranger, free from the weight of her name.

But reality settled in like a weight on her shoulders as she turned away, her fingers ghosting over the spine of another book, tracing the smooth paper beneath her fingertips. Of course, it couldn’t be as simple as she wanted it to be in this universe.

Her heart had picked up speed, her pulse betraying her, and she bit her bottom lip to silence the thoughts swirling in her mind.

She couldn’t look at him now, couldn’t let him see the mess of emotions he had stirred within her. But Soap, perceptive as ever, must have noticed something, or maybe he just understood without needing to. Because after a moment, he took a small, barely noticeable step back.

She was grateful for it. The space between them let her breathe a little easier.

Time passed pleasantly, better than Ilaria had thought it would. Soap walked beside her as they drifted through the city, browsing shops and market stalls, ducking into galleries, winding down streets older than her memory of it.

And the whole time he made her smile, and she caught herself realising it over and over again.

It wasn’t just the dry humor or the way he delivered his observations with that signature smirk, it was his eagerness. The way he absorbed everything around him, the way he took in not just the sights, but the people, the energy of the city itself. His attempts at full Montevese were clumsy, but genuine. He tested out new words under his breath, rolling the syllables like he was trying to map them into his tongue. He wasn’t just here to do his job. He was trying to understand.

And that… impressed her.

Normally, she didn’t like feeling like a guide, didn’t like being shadowed on her days meant for solitude. She was used to that kind of company feeling like an obligation, like she had to entertain or be entertained.

But with Soap? It didn’t feel burdensome.

His presence was comfortable.

Even when they were quiet, his silence was easy to share. No prodding questions about her family, her life, her future. None of the things everyone else always seemed to want to pry out of her.

She found herself laughing at one of his attempts to pronounce a food dish. “Not quite,” she teased and she formed the word slowly and he watched her lips intently. He smiled, the kind of smile that was rare for him, one that softened the usually hard edges of his face.

Eventually they stopped at a small cafe tucked into a quiet corner of the city where the world didn’t feel so intrusive. It was the kind of place where the air smelled like fresh espresso and sugar, where the low hum of conversation was just enough to fade into the background.

They settled at a table near the window, and Ilaria let herself exhale, her shoulders dropping as the tension eased out of her muscles. For the first time in a while, she wasn’t thinking about what came next. Her gaze drifted across the man sitting across from her. Maybe it was the comfortable silence between them, maybe it was the rare peace of the moment, but… she wanted to know more. She leaned back slightly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

“So, what’s your story, Soap?” She kept her tone casual, like the question wasn’t loaded, like she wasn’t aware that his past was likely as complicated as hers. She didn’t expect much, she knew how to be vague herself. After all, what was there to say about being the Daughter of Montevia?

Soap took a slow sip of his drink, meeting her gaze for a second longer than usual.

“Not much to tell.” The words were easy, controlled. Rehearsed. “Grew up, joined the army, left the army, had a few odd jobs, then got assigned to be your guard.”

Clean. Simple. Empty.

Ilaria raised an eyebrow, her lips curving. “I’m sure you’ve had more of a life than just that.”

Soap leaned back in his chair, shifting slightly, his deflection as effortless as her own had been. “What about you, Miss Montevi?” he asked.

And there it was. The title, reestablishing the distance. It felt strange now, sitting between them like that, after everything. Still, she chuckled softly. “My story is plastered on every book and newspaper in the country,” she said simply, shrugging one shoulder.

And that was the truth. Her name wasn’t hers alone. It belonged to her family, her mother, Montevia itself. Her story was already written, whether she liked it or not.

For a moment, the silence between them stretched, still comfortable despite the shift. The soft clink of their glasses as they both took a sip, the muted hum of the cafe around them, Ilaria hadn’t felt this kind of ease in a long time. Not with someone who wasn’t family. Not with someone who wasn’t business.

It felt normal. It felt easy.

And then Stefano walked in.

The moment shattered the second she saw him. He strode into the cafe like he owned it because in his mind, he probably did. That ever-present air of confidence wrapped around him like armor. Confidence? No. It was arrogance.

His eyes swept the room, scanning, hunting, until they landed on her.

Shit.

A slow smile crept onto his lips, a predator spotting something interesting. Before she could react, he was in front of her, leaning in too close, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Familiar. Too familiar. The scent of his cologne, the casual way he gripped the back of her chair, the assumption that he was welcome in her space… it made her stomach churn.

Why did it always feel like a performance with him?

“Ilaria, how I have missed you,” Stefano crooned, his voice all silk and charm that had once worked on her, bit not anymore. His fingers tightened around the chair, the smile still plastered across his face as he added, “I’ve missed your late-night visits. You don’t have to sneak in, you know. I don’t mind.”

Bastard.

Ilaria froze, forcing a polite, controlled smile. “Stefano,” she greeted, detached., and not hiding that it was not welcoming. “I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore.”

For a brief second, his mask cracked.

“Shame,” His voice was light, but there was an edge beneath it, “what’s changed?”

Ilaria gestured to Soap, hoping Stefano would take the hint. “I’ve been busy,” she said, her tone dismissive, “as you can see, I have a new guard dog from mother.” She turned her gaze toward Soap, pleading that Stefano would move on.

He didn’t.

Instead, Stefano’s attention snapped to Soap, dissecting him in a single glance. The smirk on his lips remained, but his eyes weren’t smiling anymore.

“Who’s this?” he asked, his tone suddenly much less friendly. “I didn’t realise you’d started spoiling pets, Ilaria.”

Asshole.

Ilaria inhaled slowly, forcing herself to keep her sigh silent. She couldn’t cause a scene, or give him the right to cause one, not here and now.

Soap, to his credit, remained unreadable. But he was listening. Even if he didn’t understand the words, he understood the tone, the threat that Stefano could be.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she said flatly, eyes meeting Stefano’s with calculated indifference. “His job is to be with me wherever I am, so if I want a coffee in the city, he has a coffee in the city.” Stefano’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t like that. He assessed Soap for a moment longer, and something sharp and unreadable flickered in his expression.

Jealousy? A challenge?

“I see,” he murmured, his voice shifting into something low. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your little chat,” he said smoothly, stepping back, but not before lowering his voice just enough for only Ilaria to hear. “But don’t forget, bella. I’m still around, if you need real company.” His fingers ghosted over the back of her chair as he turned and then, without waiting for a response, he strode out but not before throwing one last, lingering look at Soap.

Ilaria leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, her eyes catching Soap’s. She wasn’t sure how much he’d picked up from Stefano’s little comments, but something told her he’d understood more than she wanted him to. “I would say he is not normally that rude, but—”

“I got that impression.” Soap’s voice was calm but his fingers tapped idly against the side of his glass, his gaze flicking to the door Stefano had exited through. Ilaria huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head, a faint smile playing at her lips in an attempt to lighten the tension.

“I promise, not everyone you meet will be like that.”

Soap didn’t reply right away. The silence that stretched between them should have felt awkward. But it didn’t, it was easy ans still so comfortable.

She let herself study him for the first time, really study him.

The sharpness of his jawline. The scars on his chin and temple, remnants of things she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s surface, as if resisting the urge to reach out, to trace the lines of those old wounds.

And then her thoughts driffted to Stefano. The memories crept in unwelcome. The lingering press of his touch, the way his lips would trail down her neck, his hands always confident, always taking.

Once, it had been thrilling, until it wasn’t. Until she realised that with Stefano, it had always been a game. Power. Possession. Control.

She was never herself with him. Never Ilaria, just a piece to be moved on whatever chessboard he thought he was playing. But with Soap she didn’t feel like a game. She didn’t feel like a pawn, or a prize, or an expectation.

And that?

That was dangerous.

Her eyes lingered on him and on the way he sat there, so calmly, like the whole world could fall apart around him, and he’d still know exactly what to do. To be that steady, that unshaken? To be someone who could be counted on not because of duty, but because they chose to stay? She would love to know what that felt like.

She wanted to know what he felt like. What it would be like to kiss him, to have his hands on her skin, not because he wanted something from her, but because he wanted her. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, her pulse quickening. She knew exactly what crossing that line would mean for him, for her, for both of them. Her mother’s wrath would be unmatched. Soap might not even want to risk it. He was professional to a fault, always respectful, always careful. What if she tried, and he pulled away? What if he looked at her with pity? Or worse—regret?

But… what if he didn’t?

The thought twisted in her stomach, anticipation warring with fear. She could already feel the warmth creeping up her neck, the vulnerability of letting herself want. Ilaria wasn’t used to being vulnerable, she wasn’t used to wanting someone in this way, in a way so deeply it scared her.

She leaned forward slightly, her fingers curling around the edge of the table.

“Soap.”

Her voice was quieter now. His blue eyes lifted to meet hers, round and curious.

“Aye?”

Her lips parted, the words forming in her mind, but her confidence wavered. She needed to choose her moment carefully, so instead she swallowed down the reckless urge and said something else.

“Thank you, for staying with me today. I know you didn’t have to.”

Soap tilted his head slightly and his lips formed a small, almost shy smile. It shouldn’t have made her chest tighten but it did.

“I should be thanking you,” he said, “You made a boring day quite memorable.”

Her heart skipped because there it was, the reason she wanted him, the reason she needed him. Not because he was assigned to her. Not because he was bound to her by duty.

But because he chose to be here.

Even in moments like this when anyone else in his position would have dragged her back to the estate for praise, for favor, for survival, he stayed and he was still here.

As they finished their drinks and stood to leave, Ilaria knew one thing for certain.

She couldn’t let this fear stop her.

Because if she didn’t try, she would never know and she was so very tired of wondering.

Chapter Text

Soap leaned against the cool stone wall of the estate’s corridor, exhaling slowly as he tried to collect himself. He’d spent the better half of the evening trying to convince himself that the afternoon with Ilaria had been nothing more than a distraction. A pleasant one, yes, but one he couldn’t afford.

He wasn’t here for Ilaria. Sure, he had to befriend her and have some sort of professional relationship in order to remain embedded in the family to spy on. Still, he wasn’t here to enjoy her company. Or enjoy her laugh. Or the way she looked at him like he was something more than just another bodyguard in her endless parade of them.

No, he was here to do a job. To be a spy, not a friend. Definitely not… whatever it was, he’d caught himself thinking about her lately.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath. He needed to get his head back in the game and focus on what he came here to do. That meant staying sharp, distant, and, most importantly, out of her orbit. At least her private one, anyway.

He straightened, glancing up and down the hallway before slipping into the central security office. The room hummed, the faint buzz of the computers filling the air. The wall was lined top to bottom with screens, showing live camera feeds from around the estate: the manicured gardens, the perimeter fences, the hallways, even the kitchen. He stared at it, amazed, but also tried to commit to memory the camera angles, trying to picture where that particular spot was on the property so he could make sure to avoid it.

But right now, he wasn’t here for the cameras. Soap moved quickly, his boots soft against the floor as he scanned the room. He belonged here, sure, but night watchman was not on his roster, and he didn’t need anyone to be suspicious of him. On the far wall were filing cabinets, a key dangling from the lock on them. He opened the draw quietly and sifted through them, careful not to leave anything out of place.

Oleander, Oleander… where are you hiding?

Nothing. Not a single tag in the files. They were surprisingly well organised, all categorised and labelled, but nothing at this point that was what he wanted. He had nothing to go on and groaned as he rolled the draw shut. Was Oleander a person? A company? A drug? He would have to find a way to narrow it down more; he didn’t have time to read through each individual file. His jaw tightened as he glanced towards the desk with a computer. Maybe he could find something digital.

He began typing, his fingers quick and precise as he searched through the database—all that he had access to, at least. The name or word ‘Oleander’ yielded no immediate results; it was just a list of unrelated files. Frustrated, he tried to change his search parameters, scanning for any encrypted files or suspicious logs.

While sifting through folders, a particular file caught his eye—it wasn’t labelled with ‘Oleander,’ but ‘Ilaria Ciandra de Montevi’ overrode his initial search.

Soap clicked it open, and immediately, his heart clenched as he scanned the documents. It wasn’t just a record of Ilaria’s day-to-day activities; it detailed known places she frequented, her routines, and even some of her spontaneous outings. But what chilled him most were the reports of previous attempts on her life—incidents that had been meticulously logged but never mentioned to him.

One report described a car tampering incident that had gone unnoticed because Ilaria had decided to use a different vehicle at the last minute. Another detailed a planned abduction at one of her favourite cafes, foiled only because the kidnappers were stopped by passing police officers. A third mentioned a break-in at the estate while she was away on a business trip, a trip that had been scheduled on short notice. Each attempt seemed to escalate in severity, but she had been saved each time.

Soap had been at this estate for a while now and had studied the routines of the guards and the security posted on every corner; there was no way that someone without intimate knowledge of the place would be able to even get close enough to breaking in or tampering with her car. Was it all different groups targeting her? How had they not got to the bottom of it yet? A powerful woman like Lucrezia, who practically owned the country, Soap imagined that she would have immediately erased the enemy without a second thought. Perhaps she had, and it was safer not to leave that information lying around in case it ever came back to her.

Soap leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face. As such a valuable member of the family, the only child of the most prominent crime family, it made sense that she would be targeted, but he felt his protective instincts surge.

He saved the files to a hidden drive, his mind racing with questions. Was Ilaria aware of all of this? If she was, why keep it from him?

The ‘Oleander’ lead was still cold, but now there was a growing unease in his gut about Ilaria’s safety.

The sound of footsteps caught his attention.

Soap quickly stood, moving away from the desk just as two men walked in, their laughter echoing through the room.

“What’re you doing in here, Scottsman?” one of them asked, his brow furrowing as he took in Soap’s presence.

Soap forced a casual shrug. “Just curious, thought I’d see how else I could help out around here.” As busy as Ilaria kept him, he needed to expand his duties; there was only so much that she was involved in, and the details he needed were the more criminal side of the family’s activities, which Ilaria had said numerous times she wanted no part of. He was never going to get the information he needed without getting better access, without running the risk of getting his hands dirty.

The other older man snorted. “What, Princess Ilaria got you running circles already? She’s a handful, isn’t she?”

Soap didn’t reply, keeping his expression neutral as they laughed.

“She’s a stubborn one, that’s for sure,” the first man said, shaking his head. “Always thinking she’s better than everyone else, that she can handle everything on her own. She’s a right brat.”

Soap’s fingers flexed at his sides, the urge to correct them sitting heavy on his tongue. He swallowed it down, keeping his breathing steady.

“You know, she could use someone to knock her down a peg,” the second man added with a lewd grin. “Bet she’d be a lot more tolerable after someone pins her down and gives her a good—”

Soap’s gaze snapped to him, his blood running cold. It was not the first time he had heard such things. He had been around soldiers most of his life, men who thought they knew how the world should work and how they would shape it to their view. But it was never something he could get used to hearing, never something he should ever get used to hearing, and so he let the cold in his veins turn hot with anger.

“Nah,” the first man cut in before Soap could react, his hand curled tight into a fist. “Rich girls like her are never as fun as they look. All that money, all those fancy manners, and they’re dull as dirt.”

Soap clenched his jaw so tightly it ached like he had cracked a tooth, his knuckles white as he resisted the urge to deck them both right there in the security office. They weren’t worth it. He couldn’t blow his cover over this. But the things they were saying, the way they spoke about Ilaria like she was nothing more than some object to ridicule or conquer…

He forced out a chuckle, though it felt like poison on his tongue. “You two have a lot of thoughts about her, don’t you?” he said, his tone cutting.

The man blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his voice.

“What can I say?” the second man said, smirking. “A girl like that’s hard to ignore.”

Soap didn’t respond, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make them uncomfortable. Finally, he tipped his head toward the door. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve got important things to do.”

“Hey, if you want the extra cash, speak to Guilio. He’ll set you up; he can make something work for you after you’ve babysat the brat.”

With a nod of thanks, Soap left the room, his chest tight and his anger barely restrained. His hands shook, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to calm himself.

He marched toward his room; the task he’d gone there to do now seemed distant and unimportant. The words they’d said about Ilaria replayed in his mind, echoing louder with every step, each one stoking a fire he wasn’t sure he could put out.

She wasn’t a brat. Sure, she was spoiled, but she wasn’t some little girl who needed to be ‘put in her place,’ as they’d so crudely put it. She was strong, stronger than anyone in this godforsaken estate gave her credit for. She was brilliant, sharp as a blade honed to perfection, and compassionate in ways most people couldn’t see past her last name. She wasn’t just another heiress clinging to her privilege; she was fighting to carve her own space in a world trying to stifle her.

And she deserved better than the sneering comments behind her back. Better than a mother who wanted nothing more than to control her. Better than Stefano, with his smug charm and careless arrogance. Better than Soap.

Soap exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair, forcing himself to focus. He didn’t have time to get distracted—not by his anger, not by her, not by the memory of how her voice softened when she spoke to him today or how her lips curved into a smile that felt like it was just for him.

He had a job to do, dammit. He was here for answers, not for daydreams about a woman he couldn’t have. Oleander, whatever the hell it was, that was his mission. The whole reason he was in this gilded cage. Yet, no matter how much he tried to wrestle his thoughts back on track, he couldn’t shake the image of Ilaria’s smile from his mind. Or how her fingertips had lingered just a second too long on his when she handed him that book.

It was dangerous. This whole thing was dangerous. Letting himself care about her even as a passing thought was a mistake, and he knew it. Yet the fire in his chest refused to die down, fueling something he hadn’t felt in a long time: the raw, gut-wrenching need to protect someone, not out of obligation but because he wanted to.

Soap clenched his jaw again, his fingers flexing at his side. He couldn’t afford to want that. Couldn’t afford to want her.

With a sharp breath, he stopped before his door, gripping the handle tightly before stepping inside. He had to focus. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let emotions cloud his judgment, not here. Not now. But the battle inside him raged on as he shut the door behind him, leaning back against the cold wood.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure which side would win.

Chapter Text

“Is there a difference?”

The way Ilaria and the seamstress looked up at Soap made him want to shrink back and vanish into the clothing rack behind him. He wanted to shrug, but he had a feeling it would not be the safest choice to make.

“They both look the same.” It was a weak defence, and he knew it right away. The little seamstress snatched up both swaths of fabric from Ilaria’s hands and raised them to Soap’s face.

“Champagne! This beige gold, not the same! Pove retto, gli occhi o due sasta nel cranio?” (Poor boy, does he have eyes or two rocks in his head?)

She sighed disappointedly before returning to present more colours, ones that were now obviously not the same to Soap, to Ilaria, who looked up at him with a pleased grin on her face.

“I think she likes me,” Soap joked, stepping aside when the seamstress shuffled him a little more out of the way in the cramped space.

“You flatterer, you.”

The shop was tiny compared to the more illustrious fashion centres and boutiques around. Soap imagined the walls were only standing upright because of the countless rolls of fabric propping them up. One side of the shop was entirely covered with shelves stacked with thread spools in every shade imaginable, while another had neatly arranged ribbons and lace. The air was warm, a shakey metal fan in the corner moving the scent of fabric softener and the faintest trace of lavender, something Soap assumed was the seamstress’s perfume. He had to admit, this wasn’t the kind of place he imagined Ilaria shopping for a gown, but he wasn’t surprised either. It was comfortable, real, far from the stiff opulence of the Montevi estate.

“She always wanted to be a designer,” Ilaria told him as the seamstress mumbled to herself, inspecting a jar of beads and matching it to a thread. “But never had the chance. She spends most of her time fixing clothes for those who can’t afford anything new.”

Soap watched the seamstress carefully sorting through the beads, her hands steady and practised and her old eyes still sharp. Ilaria smiled and spoke with the older woman in Montevese, much too fast for Soap to understand. He caught snippets of the conversation, enough to know at least she was not asking if he had rocks in his head. The seamstress laughed, shaking her head as she threaded a needle, and Ilaria responded with an easy, genuine laugh of her own—a sound deeper than the polite one she gave at social gatherings. The crinkle in her nose, the way her shoulders relaxed, the familiarity between them, this was Ilaria as she really was.

The seamstress approached Soap, and he straightened his back, fearing he had been caught watching Ilaria, but the old woman merely held up a piece of cloth against his face.

“She wants to check your skin tone against the champagne.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, and Ilaria lounged back in her chair, her brown eyes gleaming as she looked him up and down.

“Your vest has to match my dress for the charity ball.”

Soap shook his head. “I don’t remember the last time I even wore a tie, let alone a whole three-piece suit.”

“Maybe she could fashion you a kilt,” she teased, eyes locking onto his. There was a weight to her gaze, something playful as if willing him to read her mind. Soap felt his face grow warm, and he glanced away just as the seamstress let out a knowing hum.

With a firm hand, the older woman turned sharply and ushered Ilaria toward the fitting room. “Va bene, va bene.”

Ilaria shot Soap one last amused glance before disappearing behind a curtain. Soap let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat on the small wooden bench near the window, probably one of the only spots safe away from pins and scissors. He shifted, exhaling as he turned his attention outside, watching cars drive past. The streets were still busy despite the heat, and at least the warmth in the shop gave him an excuse for his red-tinted cheeks.

A man dawdled across the road, hands stuffed into his pockets, his pace too slow for someone with a real destination. Soap’s instincts prickled at the sight, but he forced himself to relax. Not everything had to be a mission. Not everything had to be a threat.

And then Ilaria stepped out from behind the curtain.

He had seen her in expensive clothing, dress suits tailored to perfection, designed to impress. But this was different. Even unfinished, the pale gold fabric draped over her was truly made for her and her alone. The caped sleeves cascaded to the floor in delicate champagne lace, shifting with her every movement. And now, looking at her, he could see the difference in the colours. He understood.

Soap swallowed, hard. Words didn’t come quickly to him in moments like this. Hell, words didn’t come at all.

Ilaria tilted her head, waiting for his reaction as she turned and twirled slightly in front of the mirror. “Well?”

He cleared his throat, standing slowly. “Aye,” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “You’ll turn some heads.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t look away when he met her gaze in the mirror, and he wished she did because he didn’t have the strength to. “Good enough to turn yours?”

Soap let out a quiet chuckle but couldn’t quite mask how his chest tightened. “Already have.”

A blush crept up Ilaria’s cheeks, and she quickly turned away, a soft laugh escaping her as she adjusted her posture. Soap squeezed his eyes shut, his brain stuttering to catch up with his words. Fuck, what was he doing? He was meant to be a professional. When he opened his eyes again, the seamstress was watching him with a glint in her eye, clearly amused by the awkward tension that clung to the air.

“I’ll wait outside,” he announced, feeling the heat crawl up his neck. He forced a tight smile, his hand brushing against the doorframe as he exited. The last thing he needed was more attention. He could feel her eyes on him as he stepped into the hot air, the weight of his embarrassment just as thick.

Outside, he scowled at himself. Focus, MacTavish. You’ve got a job to do. He took his stance by the door and cleared his thoughts, and did a quick sweep of the area, scanning the street and the people passing by. The man who had been lurking earlier had moved to a different corner. He was puffing on a cigarette, talking to someone new, but Soap kept his guard up. It was a subtle shift, but he didn’t like how the man’s eyes flicked over the crowd.

Soap leaned against the brick wall, waiting, keeping an eye on the scene as the minutes dragged on. His fingers twitched at his sides. He tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling of being out of his element, but it wasn’t easy. He wasn’t the type for waiting around. At least, not like this.

More minutes passed, but he exhaled in relief when the shop door opened. Ilaria stepped out, not in an elegant gown, but still impeccable. She turned to kiss the older seamstress on both cheeks, their conversation quick but pleasant snippets Soap couldn’t quite piece together, but he caught the key phrases—something about the dress being ready and a heartfelt thank you.

Soap inclined his head politely to the seamstress, who met his gesture with an appraising look. She seemed to study him for a moment, her eyes scanning him in a way that made him uneasy.

“Torna presto, mi piace rebbe adattare un corpo come il abito.” (Come back soon, I’d love to fit a body like yours for a suit.)

Soap blinked, unsure how to respond to the unfamiliar words. Ilaria, who had noticed his confused expression, shook her head with an amused grin.

Soap was grateful when they began to walk down the street. They fell into step, and as they walked, Ilaria scrolled through her phone, updating him on the remainder of their plans. A quick stop by the office to pick up some documents, then a brief detour to the art gallery to inspect the new deliveries. But as the words rolled off her tongue, Soap’s thoughts were elsewhere. His gut was tight with an unease that he couldn’t shake. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a warning that something wasn’t right.

Then it happened.

A sharp movement to their right caught Soap’s eye. Two men emerged from the alley, their strides quick as they rushed towards them. One of them reached out with a gloved hand, his fingers already grazing the sleeve of Ilaria’s shirt.

Soap’s instincts kicked in before he could think, pulling Ilaria behind him as he instinctively reached for his sidearm.

“Get back,” he snapped, his voice low and warning.

Ilaria kept close behind him, her hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, her breath quickening with fear. Soap’s eyes scanned the two men, one of them armed, the other taking a step too close for comfort.

Shit.

His hand hovered over his gun, but Ilaria’s sharp intake of breath forced him to release it. His heart beat hard in his chest; he couldn’t let his gun go off and put her in danger or any of the civilians nearby. No. This had to be done hand-to-hand.

His stance shifted, muscles tensing as he threw a quick, hard punch toward the man closest to him. It landed with a sickening thud against the man’s jaw, knocking him back a step, but the second man lunged, trying to tackle Soap to the ground. They hit the pavement, and Soap landed on top and began to hit the attacker with punishing force.

The sound of a car engine revving caught his ear, but he was too focused on subduing the attacker to notice it was stopping behind him until it was too late. Ilaria screamed, and Soap’s head whipped around, seeing a third man dragging Ilaria by her arm, pulling her into a car.

“No!” Soap bellowed, pushing off the man beneath him and springing towards the car.

His hand grasped Ilaria’s wrist just as the third man yanked her again, but Ilaria was not going without a fight. She scratched at the attacker’s masked face, swearing a string of curses at him. With a twist of his body, he managed to wrench her free and pull her into him, sheltering her. The attackers hesitated, just for a second. Still, it was enough for several civilians to rush forward, shouting at the men and blocking their path as they tried to escape. They managed, knocking the civilians out of their way as they clambered into the car, which tore off, leaving behind only a cloud of dust and confused shouts.

Soap spun around, his breath laboured, scanning for any other threats. When he was sure it was safe, he turned back to Ilaria, now kneeling on the ground, her wide eyes searching the chaos. He crouched beside her, his hands instinctively reaching out to check her over, but when he saw her trembling form, something in him clenched tightly.

“Are you alright?” His voice was rough, low with panic that he tried to hide.

She didn’t respond immediately, her breath still shallow as she stared at him, her hands pressed to the ground for balance. Soap’s heart thundered in his chest as he searched her face for any sign of injury. When she didn’t answer him, he lifted her chin, his fingers brushing her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“Ilaria,” he spoke her name, his voice softer and quiet.

Her eyes flickered to his, focused entirely on him and then, catching him completely off guard, she surged forward. Her lips crashed against his. The kiss was quick, desperate, Soap’s mind barely had the chance to process it. His pulse was still racing from the fight, from how very close he had just come to losing her.

She pulled back, her wide eyes still locked with his. The fear still hung in the air between them, but now there was something else too, and it took every bit of Soaps will power to regain his composure.

It was just the adrenaline and the fear; he knew it. But even in the aftermath, he couldn’t deny the desire that surged through him, wanting more than just that one quick, frantic kiss.

But now was not the time. Soap took a deep breath, reaching out to steady her as he helped her to her feet, the sounds of the city and concerned people murmuring around them. He forced himself to focus on her safety. Nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

Of all the things that she should have had stuck in her mind for the last few weeks, a haphazard kiss after a kidnap attempt was not one of them.

Ilaria should have been thinking about the men who tried to take her, about what their failure meant, whether this was just a warning or a test run for something bigger. She should have been worried about her mother’s reaction, increasing security and tightening that noose even more.

But no.

Instead, she kept replaying how Soap had looked at her in those frantic moments after he’d pulled her from danger. The sharp intensity in his eyes, the way his hands had lingered on her arms, fingers brushing along her jaw. And then, recklessly, stupidly, she had kissed him.

And now, it was as if it had never happened.

Soap was still by her side, ever professional, ever steady. But something had shifted. He no longer looked at her the way he had before, not for too long, at least. Their moments alone had dwindled to polite greetings, stiff goodnights, and the frustratingly formal Miss Montevi.

It was stupid to let it bother her.

The security measures were expected, a natural response from her mother. No more driving herself anywhere. No more slipping away to the gallery alone. Wherever Ilaria went, she was watched, flanked by guards. Soap was there, of course, but so were others, the men who answered to her mother first.

She would not cower.

She held her appointments at the galleries, and she attended her meetings. She was going to attend this charity ball. She went about her life with her head high, refusing to be controlled by fear.

And yet, the only thing that genuinely unsettled her was him. Soap.

Had he only ever been her employee and nothing more?

With a shake of her head, Ilaria forced herself to focus on the evening ahead.

The dress was breathtaking.

Ilaria ran her hands over the fabric, feeling the intricate beadwork beneath her fingertips. The weight of the silver and gold beads shimmered against the paler shades of gold. The sheer sleeves cascaded to the floor like spun gold, a delicate contrast to the bold statement of the gown itself. She would have to thank the seamstress in some way worthy of this; it was stunning.

Sitting before the vanity in her walk-in closet, she swept her hair back and fastened a pair of subtle earrings. She tilted her head, inspecting her reflection with a critical eye. She would have to wear her well-practised smile, and even more eyes would be watching her, judging her.

Her bedroom door opened without a knock, and she didn’t need to turn to find out who it was.

“Not coming?” Ilaria asked, keeping her voice even as she picked a soft red lipstick.

Lucrezia stepped inside, dressed as casually as she ever allowed herself to be—silk trousers, a fitted blouse, her hair sleek and severe. No jewellery. Nothing flashy. All business.

Her mother scoffed lightly. “To parade around like a pompous peacock with all the others? That’s your job, cara mia.”

Ilaria clenched her jaw, forcing a polite smile as she applied the lipstick. “A shame. It would have been nice to be seen together for once.”

Her mother merely hummed, stepping closer. Ilaria watched her in the mirror as Lucrezia studied her like a piece of artwork, assessing every detail, every imperfection.

“I wish you would reconsider; it might not be safe,” she said in a voice as smooth as the silk she wore.

Ilaria stood from her chair, eyebrow arched. “This has been planned for months. People are expecting me. I can’t disappoint them because of some idiot’s attempt to kidnap me.”

To her surprise, her mother didn’t argue. She had braced herself for resistance, a command to stay put, and some form of control.

But instead, her mother only smiled.

Slowly, she reached out, cupping Ilaria’s face between her hands, her fingers cool against her skin. She gently brushed her thumb under Ilarias’s lip as though to neaten her lipstick.

“Go with a different pair of earrings,” she murmured before letting go and stepping back, leaving Ilaria to get ready without another word. It felt like even the tiniest breeze would knock Ilaria over. She had been so ready for a fight, and for her mother to simply walk away? She threw the thought from her mind; she had other things to worry about right now.

She left her earrings in.

The government building was alight with the warm glow of lights, its grand architecture a beautiful backdrop to the endless parade of vintage and modern cars and equally glamorous people. The night air carried a crispness that felt refreshing against Ilaria’s skin as she stepped out of the vehicle, and the moment she emerged, the cameras flashed.

It was like a practised dance to move through it effortlessly, head high, lips forming that perfect, practised smile. Reporters called her name, and she gave them just enough, turning slightly so they caught her best angle. She offered polite nods and murmured responses to predictable questions.

Inside, the ballroom was dazzling. Chandeliers cast warm light over the polished mosaic floors, and glasses chimed softly as servers wove through the crowd. The city’s elite was gathered in full force; politicians, actors, socialites draped in diamonds, and businessmen she knew had more to gain from networking here than from any genuine charity interest.

Ilaria knew how to play this game.

She moved from one conversation to another, exchanging pleasantries, securing future meetings, discussing upcoming gallery showings, dismissing any attempts to seek information about her attempted kidnap, nodding in just the right places, and laughing when necessary.

And through it all, she felt him.

Soap was there, a steady presence lingering at the edge of her awareness. She never had to look to know he was watching, tracking her movements, keeping his distance but never straying far. Even in the crush of people, in the swirl of conversation and the heavy scent of perfume and cologne, she could feel his attention like a tether.

But he didn’t look at her the way he had before.

Not like she wanted him to.

She tried to shake off the thoughts, turning and searching for another glass of champagne to settle the knot in her chest when a figure near the grand staircase caught her attention.

Don Massimo Varetti, Ilaria’s eyes met his across the room, and she couldn’t help but acknowledge his approach. A glass of deep red wine in his hand, Massimo’s tailored suit was immaculate, his silver-streaked dark hair the mark of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of power. His smile was smooth and predatory. Of all the heads of families, Massimo was the silver tongue.

“Signorina Montevi, a vision of elegance as always. Such a stunning jewel in the crown of Montevia.”

Ilaria returned his smile with one of her own, equally polished. “Massimo, flattery from you is rare—should I be suspicious?”

Massimo’s eyes gleamed with mischief, “Suspicion keeps you sharp. But sometimes, even I can’t resist stating the obvious.”

His gaze flickered past her to where Soap lingered a few paces away, ever vigilant. “Your new bodyguard seems diligent.”

“He’s very good at his job,” Ilaria replied, slowly glancing over her shoulder at him.

Massimo’s smile faltered momentarily before his attention snapped back to Ilaria. “Yes, I did hear of that dreadful attempt just the other day. With the way things are headed, you’ll need people like him.”

“Our ambitions can lead to others who seek to undermine them,”

Massimo let out a low chuckle. “Your mother’s ambitions are stirring more than just dust in these old halls. Some of us… well, we prefer our old, more stable arrangements.”

Ilaria arched her brow at his words, maintaining her composure, but inside, she felt a flicker of something else—fear? Anger? “Stability isn’t exactly a hallmark of this business, Massimo.”

He laughed again, though it was humourless. “True. But there’s ambition, and then there’s recklessness. Many of us believe you would bring a calmer influence, should the time ever come. You’re approachable, reasonable.” His gaze hardened, locking onto hers. “Unlike your mother.”

The implication hung in the air like a guillotine, heavy and threatening. Ilaria forced out a laugh, a mask she wore well. “My mother does what she believes is best for all our houses, for Montevia,” she said, her voice deceptively calm even as a sickening wave twisted in her gut. She hated lying, especially when it came to her mother. They had never seen eye to eye, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see her family falter.

“As would you, I’m sure,” Massimo mused, stepping closer, his voice lowering, “But remember, not everyone agrees on what ‘best’ means.” He drained his glass and set it on a passing tray before taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to it. “Just know, you have allies, should you ever need them.”

Ilaria’s thoughts churned, her heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the faint warmth of his touch. Allies? Of course, not all the families got along, but they were all allies with each other. When had that changed? The five families—Montevi, Varetti, Ettore, De Santis and Bartolo—had ruled Montevia for centuries, each holding power over different aspects and sections.

The Montevi family had always been at the forefront, but even their dominance was fragile. Each house controlled its own territory. The Ettores wielded immense power within the media, controlling the flow of information and shaping it to be whatever weapon they needed to achieve their goal. The Bartolo’s controlled law enforcement, practically the entire police force working under their thumb, ensuring that those who stepped out of line were dealt with swiftly, silently. The Varettis had long played the game of covert infiltration, influencing and blackmailing even the highest ranks within the government. The De Santis family also had their hands in the pockets of local businesses and banks. All of which funded and aided every dark misdeed that the families did to keep their cruel power, their bloodied money, and their puppet government.

Every election, every law, every policy was subtly rigged, with Montevi, Ilaria’s mother at the helm, trying to hold everything together in a world that was unraveling fast. But she supposed it was no secret that the power was slipping, that fractures were beginning to show. Her mother’s unyielding drive to maintain dominance had only worsened things.

Massimo’s offer suddenly felt like a heavy chain around her neck, as though they had all decided that the responsibility be thrust upon her as if she were just another pawn. And yet, it wasn’t an offer she could dismiss lightly. Not when her mother’s grip on Montevi weakened, and the houses circled, waiting for a chance to pounce.

As Massimo’s figure melted back into the crowd, Ilaria stood motionless, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and her muscles tightening with the need to escape.

She never wanted this. She never wanted to be part of this toxic legacy of power. She had always wanted to turn her back on it, to have a life free from the suffocating guilt of it all. But what if she didn’t? Would it be possible to change the families, slowly turn them away from their destructive path and towards something better?

The weight of her thoughts pressed down on her like a boulder, and she downed the glass in her hand and snatched up another.

The night stretched on in a blur of polite conversation and careful smiles. Ilaria continued to do what she did best in these scenes: entertain empty flattery from men who thought their wealth or status would interest her, men like Stefano. She played her part effortlessly, but all the while, she was aware of Soap.

Never too close, never too far. Watching.

She had expected him to be distant after what had happened, but not like this. Not with this careful restraint, this maddening refusal to meet her eyes for longer than a breath. If Ilaria hadn’t known better, she might have believed she had imagined that moment between them—the desperation, the heat, the reckless way she had kissed him.

But she knew she hadn’t.

So she pushed. She let her gaze linger a second too long whenever their eyes met as she drank her wine. She turned just enough so Soap could catch glimpses of bare skin at her back and thigh from the slit in her dress, letting her fingers brush against her own collarbone when she spoke to someone else. She let herself be seen by him in a way she had never allowed before.

And still, he did nothing. Not that he could in such a public place, but she wished he would.

It was infuriating. And intoxicating.

When the first half of the auction concluded, some old trinkets and artwork she had donated, she made her move. As she passed Soap near the entrance, she let her hand brush ever so lightly against his arm, her voice soft enough that only he would hear.

“I need some air.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a dare.

She didn’t look back. She knew he would follow, he had to. He was her bodyguard, after all, bound to her every step.

The terrace was quiet, and the surprisingly cool night air was a welcome relief against the lingering heat of the ballroom. The city stretched before her, glittering with distant lights, a stark contrast to the opulence behind her. She exhaled slowly, resting her hands against the stone railing, waiting.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Footsteps, deliberately loud, approached from behind, and Ilaria smiled.

“You didn’t have to follow me, you know,” she murmured, tilting her head just enough to catch him in her peripheral vision.

“I go where you go,” he replied, his tone flat.

“Such a professional.”

Ilaria turned to face him fully, leaning back against the railing. Her eyes travelled over him deliberately, taking in the sharp lines of his black suit—how it fit him, tailored to his broad frame. No tie, the top button undone. He looked good. Handsome in a way that wasn’t just effortless but unfair.

She let her lips curve, tilting her head as if in thought. “You clean up well, Soap.”

A ghost of a smirk flickered across his face before he caught himself, smoothing his expression back into one of blankness.

She pushed off the railing, closing the space between them, slow, deliberate, teasing the boundary of his restraint without breaking it. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Soap didn’t move, didn’t step back, but he didn’t meet her gaze either. His jaw clenched just slightly, the muscle twitching. “I’ve been doin’ my job.”

She hummed, lifting a hand to adjust the lapel of his suit. “Did I scare you off?”

That got a reaction. Soap’s eyes snapped to hers, flickering with something dark and conflicted before he shook it away.

“You don’t scare me.”

She smiled, brushing nonexistent dirt from his shoulder, her fingers barely touching him. “Is it my mother then? Scared of what she will do if she finds out you’re thinking of me in ways you shouldn’t be?”

“She definitely doesn’t scare me.”

“Then why are you acting like you’re afraid to look at me?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose and closed his eyes, and she could see his restraint hanging by a thread. She watched him, fascinated, and then she leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Quick, featherlight. Soap still did not open his eyes, his body rigid and impossibly still. Ilaria leaned up again, another kiss at the corner of his mouth. Barely there.

That was all it took.

A low, guttural sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a curse that she was sure must have been Scottish, and then his hands were on her. One gripped her hip with an urgency, pulling her flush against the hard lines of his body. The other slid up, rough and calloused, cradling her jaw, his thumb grazing the edge of her lips. Then his mouth crashed into hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was a desperate, pure want. Weeks of simmering tension ignited in a heartbeat, snapping like a taut wire. She met him with the same intensity, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, needing more. The heat of him seared into her skin, his taste sent her spiralling, and she would happily drown in everything that he was.

But there was a noise. The heavy thud of footsteps, followed by a shrill, drunken laugh, cut through Ilaria’s haze.

Soap tore his mouth from hers, his breathing ragged and uneven. He didn’t move far at first. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone like he couldn’t quite let her go. His eyes, dark blue, almost black in the dim light, stared at her.

A couple stumbled onto the terrace, too caught up in their drunken conversation to notice anyone else.

They didn’t see us.

“This is risky.”

Ilaria’s lips were swollen, her breath still coming in quick pants, but she managed a smile as she stepped back, just enough to put a respectable amount of space between them. “What’s life without a little risk?”

Soap raked a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, like he was trying to get his head on straight, but his gaze betrayed him. It flicked back to her lips, hungry, like he wasn’t nearly done with her. Then his eyes met hers again, and there was something electric in the way he looked at her, something that made Ilaria feel more alive than she had in years.

“Aye,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I think we’re both in trouble.”

She only smiled wider.

Good.

Chapter Text

The scent of espresso filled the room, mingling with the faint traces of Lucrezia’s crisp and sharp perfume, like the woman herself. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, filling the sunroom and offering a bright view of the surrounding gardens that rolled seemingly forever.

Ilaria sat across from her mother at the elegant glass-topped table, stirring her coffee slowly. Lucrezia, perched in her chair like a queen surveying her kingdom, flipped through a glossy magazine.

The media never wasted time.

“Well,” Lucrezia finally said, holding up a page. “They’ve certainly been busy, haven’t they?” She turned the magazine so Ilaria could see. A picture of her stepping out of the car at the charity gala, frozen in time beneath a headline:

Montevi Heiress Dazzles in Gold—But Still Alone?

Lucrezia sighed, shaking her head. “You’d think a beautiful young woman of your status wouldn’t make such a habit of arriving unaccompanied.” She flipped another page. “No date, no arm candy, no sign of even a hint of romance.” Her eyes flicked up with amusement. “How sad.”

Ilaria lifted her coffee cup to her lips. “It’s tragic, really.”

“Stefano would have looked lovely beside you.” she hummed.

Ilaria exhaled softly, setting her cup down and tried to hide her frustration. “Stefano bores me to tears.”

“And that other nice boy?” Lucrezia pressed, “The one who followed you around like a well-trained dog?”

Ilaria had to fight against her eyebrow and stop it from twitching in the way that made her mother angry. “That ‘nice boy’ happens to be part of a family that helps you traffic people. How nice could he really be?”

Lucrezia’s fingers stilled on the magazine for a split second, but Ilaria caught it. A flicker of irritation smoothed over as quickly as it had appeared.

“All I do, I do for this family,” Lucrezia murmured, closing the magazine and setting it aside. “For you.”

“I know.”

Lucrezia rose from her seat and moved behind Ilaria, slow. Deliberate. She placed her hands on Ilaria’s shoulders, fingers pressing just a fraction too hard to be comforting.

“It will soon be up to you,” she continued, voice smooth, “to carry this family forward. To carry on the Montevi line.”

Ilaria stiffened under the weight of her mother’s grip, and she was sure her mother felt it because Lucrezia leaned down, her lips just beside Ilaria’s ear. “You’ll have to get comfortable with a great many things, cara mia. Whether you like them or not.”

Ilaria forced herself to stay still, not letting her mother feel more tension in her shoulders, the silent resistance coiling beneath her skin.

She smiled instead. A small, tiny bit of resilience that she could manage.

“We’ll see.”

Lucrezia chuckled softly, finally releasing her. “Yes. We will.”

She left the room without another word, leaving Ilaria staring into the depths of her coffee.

The ride to the office was silent.

Ilaria sat in the back seat of the black SUV, staring blankly at the world outside. The streets of Montevia passed by in a blur as her new convoy moved in perfect precision, a well-rehearsed machine of blacked-out vehicles and trained men who existed solely to protect her.

Soap was one of them.

She could still feel his hands on her and how they gripped her like he couldn’t bear to let go. The heat of his mouth on hers, rough and needy, every ounce of restraint snapping between them on that balcony.

Between the ridiculous escort her mother insisted on, she had barely been able to steal another moment with him, and with so many eyes watching closely, Soap was careful with where his gaze lingered. That moment felt impossibly far away now.

Her mother’s words had wiped it from her mind, replacing it with something colder, heavier. Maybe Lucrezia was right. Perhaps it was time to stop fighting. Maybe she should just accept it and marry someone like Stefano, let herself be moulded into the perfect heir, pop out the next generation of Montevi royalty and learn to live with the suffocating reality of it all.

What else could she do?

Nothing.

Or…

The thought crept in as it always did, a whisper in the back of her mind. There is always an escape. It was the only certainty in life, the one door she could open that her mother couldn’t slam shut. Something not even her mother could prevent. It pressed at her chest, suffocating her, clawing at her as it tried to tear her from the inside out.

She inhaled sharply, pressing her nails into her palm as the car slowed in front of her office building.

The doors opened, her guards stepping out first, scanning the area before she followed. Soap moved ahead, taking the lead in her protection as he ordered the men.

He didn’t look at her.

She wasn’t sure she could handle it if he did.

It was uneventful walking into her office, as she knew it would be, and the new security loitered in the hall like the useless rodents they were.

Ilaria sat at her desk, hands poised over a stack of untouched documents. Still, her mind was somewhere else, lost in the tightness in her chest, the echo of her mother’s words, the dull, familiar ache of exhaustion.

Her head hurt. Probably from the coffee she had been living off of for years. That or the combination of too many thoughts and too many versions of her voices screaming in her mind.

She exhaled slowly, trying to push the weight down, trying to focus.

It didn’t work. She didn’t even notice the door opening until a plate was placed beside her.

Sliced fruit and fresh bread.

Ilaria blinked, her mind taking a moment to catch up before she looked up. Soap stood next to her desk, his expression unreadable.

“I know you saw your mother this morning,” he said quietly. “And coffee’s not enough to keep you going all day.”

For a second, she stared at the food, then turned to stare up at him. Something moved in her chest, yet it felt different to the constant squeeze. It felt more like a release, and her next breath seemed to be easier to take.

In the silence, Soap nodded and moved to step out of the office, and before she could think about it, Ilaria reached out, her fingers curling around his wrist.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Soap didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his fingers moved, slow and deliberate, tracing up the inside of her forearm before dragging over her fingers as he stepped back.

“Of course.”

Ilaria sat there, staring at the plate he had left behind, her skin still tingling where he had touched her.

It was a simple gesture, but it clung to her thoughts the entire day. Ilaria didn’t take care of herself. She never tried to hide it, never really denied it when asked. She didn’t know why, not really. She barely ate, barely slept, drove fast, and overworked. All of that she could chalk up to being too dedicated to her job, too busy, too focused on something outside herself. So, she called herself a workaholic and wore it like a badge of honour. She didn’t care; she didn’t want to care.

What was there to care about? Life felt like it was happening somewhere far away; she was just a bystander. Every day, she woke up only to find a little more had slipped away, like mist that kept losing shape. If she could just stop existing for a moment, would it even matter? Would anyone notice?

She dropped the book in her lap, a weak attempt to lose herself in a story or to wear her eyes out to the point of sleep. Her fingers ran over the book’s cover, but the words had long since stopped making sense. She hadn’t really been reading anyway. As the night stretched on, it was easy for her mind to wander, and it did—straight back to Soap. His presence, his attention, the way his lips had felt against hers…

She set the book aside and pushed herself off the chair. Without thinking too much about it, she grabbed some things from her drawer and left her room. Her footsteps were quiet on the tiles as she crept down the hallway, like a phantom in her own home. She passed the guards, who were stationed near the entrance and on every corner of the estate. Still, they barely spared her a glance, their attention focused elsewhere. Ilaria knew the routine by now; her mother’s control was well-engrained in the house, but she had learned to slip through unnoticed when needed.

It wasn’t hard to find Soap. She’d memorised his movements over the last few weeks, where Soap went when he wasn’t working, and the rooms he frequented when he needed a break. As she reached the corner of the hall, she caught sight of Soap standing by the window, his back to her, staring out into the night.

Ilaria hesitated momentarily, unsure what to say or how to break the silence.

She hesitated just long enough to meet his eyes in the reflection.

Then she turned and walked away.

She led him through the estate, past the grand hall, past the heavily monitored rooms filled with her mother’s influence, until she reached the eastern wing—an old part of the house barely used. Maybe once, there had been more family to fill its numerous rooms, but now it was nothing more than forgotten bricks and tiles.

But there were no cameras. No listening ears.

She stepped into a small, dimly lit study and let the heavy wooden door fall shut behind her.

Silence.

Then, a few heartbeats later, the door pushed open again, and Soap stepped inside.

He was tense, like all the controls and barriers that had been knocked down yesterday had been rebuilt already. Ilaria half expected him to tell her to go back to her room, to pretend nothing had ever happened.

“Ilaria—”

She took a step forward, closing the space between them. “You followed me.”

“You knew I would.”

With steady fingers, she brushed them against his wrist and down into his hand.

“We can pretend last night didn’t happen… if you want to. I won’t be mad,” she said softly, and though it was the truth, she didn’t want to say she would be utterly disappointed if he did. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away.”

He didn’t say anything.

She pressed closer, her hand resting against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath her palm. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

Soap’s restraint was cracking; she could feel it. His breath was heavier, hands clenched at his sides like he was physically holding himself back.

Ilaria stood on her toes, her lips barely brushing his ear. “Or just kiss me again.”

He kissed her.

His mouth found hers in a kiss that was nothing like the first. It was deeper, slower, and Soap’s hand found the back of her neck, his thumb stroking gently. He pulled her closer, their bodies pressing together, and Ilaria melted into him, letting him take, letting herself be taken.

They weren’t supposed to do this, but neither cared right now.

At first, he was tentative, testing the waters, but as he pulled away for a moment, Ilaria could feel the shift in him. The urgency he had buried beneath layers of professionalism and duty came rushing to the surface. His kiss turned more desperate, more demanding, but he would stop and pull himself back. It was as if he had moments of clarity and would try to hold it all back, afraid that giving in fully would break something between them.

Ilaria’s pulse quickened. She didn’t know what to do, what to be. She wanted this—wanted him—but was she supposed to take control? Let him? Was that why he hesitated?

The uncertainty flickered in her mind, a brief moment of hesitation. But then his hands traced up her sides, warm and steady, slipping beneath her robe. The fabric dropped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet as his fingers skimmed bare skin. Summer still lingered in the air, thick and heavy, but where Soap didn’t touch, she felt like she would freeze.

Her own hands roamed, hungry to explore and feel more than fleeting touches and stolen moments. She traced the hard planes of his chest, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, tugging them loose with a growing urgency.

His mouth found her neck, soft at first, then firmer, teeth grazing, then biting just enough to make her gasp. Heat coiled low in her belly, her breath stuttering as he pressed closer.

“I want this,” he murmured, voice rough, unsteady. “I want you.”

There was no hesitation when Ilaria seized Soaps hand, lacing her fingers through his, and pulled him toward one of the long-abandoned rooms. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything but their breaths.

The room was dark when they entered, but Ilaria didn’t need light to find her way. Soap’s breath was warm against her neck as he guided her toward the bed, the cool sheets dusty beneath her fingertips. Nothing else existed—only the next breath, the next touch, the next shiver as he tore his mouth from hers, trailing kisses down her jaw and lowering to the delicate curve of her collarbone.

And yet, there it was again, that damned hesitation. There was a flicker of uncertainty in how his gaze searched hers as if he needed permission. As if he wasn’t sure how far they could go.

She pressed against him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space between them. No room for doubt.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath, but the desperation in it was unhidden. “I need you.”

Soap exhaled sharply, his resolve breaking as he pressed his body over hers—solid and warm, so utterly present. And for the first time in what felt like forever, the noise in Ilaria’s mind fell silent.

His bright blue eyes locked onto hers as she dragged her hands down his back, fingers pressing into the taut muscle. He was solid, burning hot beneath her touch, and when he dipped his head to the crook of her neck again, his teeth scraping, biting just enough to sting she couldn’t stop her gasp, her body jolting against his.

Instinct took over. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him in, the hard length of him pressing against her, teasing, sending a fresh wave of excitement through her core.

A low, needy groan slipped from her throat. It wasn’t enough. She needed more. Needed him.

Like he could read her, his hands slipped beneath her shorts, fingers skimming over the curve of her hips, down her thighs, until the fabric was gone, torn away like it had never mattered in the first place.

Clothes were forgotten, lost in the haze, until there was nothing but skin against skin. Ilaria drank him in, hands roaming greedily, tracing every ridge, every sharp line of his body. He was all muscle and strength, warm and undeniably real beneath her touch.

Soap groaned as her nails raked over his skin, his own hands tightening around her thighs, spreading her open beneath him like he was starving, like he’d been waiting for this as long as she had. He rocked against her, the hard press of him sending sparks of pleasure licking up her spine, and fuck, she needed him inside her, now.

Soap kissed her hard like he needed to devour every breath she had to give. There was no stopping now, no space for second thoughts, no room for restraint.

She suddenly rolled them over, shifting above him, taking control. No more waiting. No more hesitation.

Soap let her, leaning back against the mattress, his brows lifting in surprise as she reached toward her clothes. His expression shifted, something uncertain flickering in his eyes.

“Ilaria, are you al—?”

The question died on his lips when she turned back to him, a condom between her fingers.

She waited for the hesitation, for doubt to creep in like it always did. Too many men had faltered at that moment. Had hesitated. Had second-guessed their own damn desires.

But Soap?

He only smirked.

“You planned this.”

“I hoped for this,” she admitted, breathless.

Soap plucked the foil from her grasp, ripping it open with a practised ease that sent heat curling low in her belly. Fuck, that shouldn’t be so attractive, but it was.

As he rolled it over his length, Ilaria reached for him, her fingers brushing against silken heat—hard, thick, ready. A slow stroke, a firm squeeze, and his breath hitched. That deep, broken sound he made shot straight through her, a thrill curling in her chest.

She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, dragging her lips across sweat-slick skin, tasting salt, teasing him with her hand.

Soap groaned, low and almost like he was in pain before he gripped her hips, flipping her beneath him once more, taking back control. Taking her.

Ilaria guided him between her thighs, her breath catching as he pressed against her entrance. Thick, unyielding, teasing the place where she needed him most. She held his gaze, unable to look away, drowning in the now simmering dark blue.

Slowly, he pushed forward.

A sharp sting stole the breath from her lungs, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her body tensed, resisting the stretch, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“Easy, Tesoro (treasure/darling)” he murmured against her jaw. God, that voice. The way the endearment rolled off his tongue sent a fresh shiver over her skin, heat prickling in its wake.

His hands slid down her thighs, massaging slow, soothing circles, coaxing her open. Letting her take him. Letting her adjust.

For a second, she swore her eyes rolled back at the sound of his voice, the way he touched her so firmly, patiently. And when she finally relaxed, when the uncomfortable pressure faded into something deeper, something molten, she exhaled shakily, her body melting beneath him.

Soap groaned, low and guttural, as he sank to the hilt.

Fuck.

The world outside that forgotten, dust-coated room ceased to exist. There was no duty, no betrayals, no danger lurking beyond the estate walls. It was just them, bodies entwined, breaths mingling, and heat rising until it was nearly unbearable.

Ilaria clung to him, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as he began to move. Slow at first, then faster. Deep, measured thrusts that sent electric pleasure racing up her spine.

Soap buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged, each roll of his hips dragging a fresh gasp from her lips. The pace shifted, a little harder, a little deeper, and when he angled just right, the pleasure ricocheted through her, leaving her trembling beneath him.

A moan spilled from her throat, loud in the quiet. Too loud, but she couldn’t hold it. They were far enough away from the main residence, but they still had to be careful. Still had to be quiet.

Soap reached for her chin, tilting her face up to his. Holding her there. Watching her before his lips crashed over hers, swallowing her gasps, stealing every sound, devouring her like she was the only thing that kept him breathing.

Ilaria could barely think, barely breathe.

This was everything she had hoped for. Everything she had ached for.

Pleasure rippled through her, sharp and consuming. Fuck, she’d missed this.

The heat of him, the way he stretched her, filled her, and the relentless drag of his body against hers sent shockwaves of bliss rolling through her, sparking along every nerve. This wasn’t slow. This wasn’t soft. This was need.

Every deep thrust sent another jolt of pleasure lancing through her, white-hot, electric. She welcomed it, chased it, let it take her under. It had been too damn long since she’d felt this, since she’d had something worth losing herself in.

And God, she wanted to be lost in it.

Soap moved with purpose, the push and pull of his body sending her higher, tension coiling tight inside her, heat pressing against her ribs, winding and winding until she knew she wouldn’t last.

She arched into him, nails digging into his back, pulling him deeper, harder…

Please, more.

Soap groaned, the sound rough, needy, wrecked as his body trembled, muscles tensing. A deep, broken moan spilled from his lips as he came, his body locking against hers, every inch of him pressing her into the mattress.

Ilaria wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as his heavy breaths fanned over her shoulder. His heat wrapped around her, through her, stifling in the still air, but she didn’t care. She could still feel him everywhere, the imprint of him inside her, on her skin, beneath her fingertips.

His heart pounded against her chest, erratic, matching the unsteady rhythm of her own. And then a soft, contented hum. Almost absentminded, almost too quiet that Ilaria didn’t notice, but it was there.

She smoothed a hand through his sweat-damp hair, fingertips brushing over the strands clinging to his forehead.

Ilaria remembered the first time she saw him, that sharp mohawk, making him look like he belonged on a battlefield rather than in the quiet of a bedroom. But like this: hair mussed, eyes half-lidded, body moulded to hers, this was better. So much better.

Her fingers brushed back the strands of hair clinging to his temple, and he lifted his head, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. But there was something else in his gaze, something hungry. Mischief.

Then he moved.

A sharp gasp tore from her throat as his hips rolled forward, a slow, deliberate thrust that sparked her fading pleasure to life again. Her hands pressed against his shoulders, laughing breathlessly, shaking her head.

She felt good. Really good. Even if she hadn’t quite gotten there, the heat in her limbs, the delicious ache in her muscles, it was enough.

“Soap, it’s okay, you just—”

Her words snapped into a sharp inhale as his hand slid down her side, fingers dragging lower, teasing, until they found the aching heat between her legs.

His touch was light at first, a teasing brush of his thumb over her swollen clit, barely there, but fuck, it was enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through her, her body jerking instinctively against him.

That smirk of his only grew. Cocky, knowing. Determined.

He did it again, watching her reaction, studying her, learning what made her gasp, what made her shiver, what had her thighs clenching tighter around him. Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched around his hips and a deep, desperate ache coiled low in her belly.

“Can’t have you thinkin’ I don’t know how to finish a job,” he murmured against her skin, lips grazing her jaw.

She barely had time to process, let alone protest, before he set a steady, deep rhythm, his hips grinding into her with ruthless precision. At the same time, his fingers worked her clit, circling, teasing, pressing just right.

Fucking hell.

Ilaria moaned, her head falling back against the pillow, fingers twisting in the sheets like she would disappear into the feeling if she let go.

The pressure built, fierce and merciless, tight and hot. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body trembling, tightening, coiling too fast—

Too much. Too good.

She wanted to hold on, to savour it, drag it out, but her body had other plans. That rising, liquid heat swelled, too strong, too intense, until it burst.

Her climax crashed into her and she cried out, arching against him, her hips jerking, grinding into him as wave after wave of pleasure wrecked her.

Soap groaned, his grip tightening around her thighs, holding her through it, watching, feeling every pulse of her release around him. He leaned down, his body flush against hers, soaking in the aftermath.

Ilaria couldn’t breathe. Her body was wrung out, trembling, spent, singing with pleasure. She blinked up at him, dazed and floating somewhere between reality and bliss. Her limbs felt boneless, her body thrumming with aftershocks.

Soap pulled back just enough to look at her with a lazy, satisfied grin curling his lips. And without breaking eye contact, he lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. His tongue flicked over his thumb, slow, unhurried, savouring her. Heat rippled through her at the sight, an aftershock of pleasure tightening low in her belly, unexpected but not unwanted.

She shuddered, breath catching, and Soap just smirked that knowing smirk and then, finally, he collapsed beside her, one arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her against his chest.

Ilaria melted into him, her mind blissfully blank, deliciously numb.

Soap exhaled slowly, a deep, satisfied sound vibrating through his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on her back. She thought she should say something but realised she didn’t need to.

The steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth of tangled limbs, the way he held her—this was enough. Her eyes drifted shut, her face tucking against his chest, sheltering in his quiet.

Soap pressed a soft kiss into her hair, and she reached up, brushing her fingertips along the rough edge of his jaw.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Didn’t care.

Because right now, wrapped in the arms of the one man who had finally made her feel something real, Ilaria was happy.

Chapter Text

The air was still thick with warmth, the remnants of their need clinging to his skin and the sheets. The scent of Ilaria, sweat, sex, and her sweet smell lingered in the close space between them. Soap laid on his back, one arm draped over his head, the other tracing slow, lazy patterns along Ilaria’s bare shoulder. Her breath was so soft over his chest, steady, calm. Awake, but neither of them spoke.

It should have been awkward—the silence, the weight of what they’d done. But it wasn’t; it was comfortable.

Steamin’ Jesus.

He’d been here before. Fast, desperate fucks with no strings, no complications, no aftermath. They were supposed to be easy; get in, get out, and move on before anything stuck. But this? This felt different. Not softer or sweeter, just real. Despite the urgency, the way they had crashed into each other like waves against a cliff, he felt… sated.

And satisfaction was dangerous. Complacency, even more so.

Soap exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. This was a mistake, a clear, undeniable, big mistske. Price would kill him. If anyone found out, he was fucked. Sleeping with a target... no, not a target, not exactly, but someone he was meant to be protecting, manipulating, infiltrating? That wasn’t just reckless, it was career-ending, life-ending shit.

But when his eyes looked down to Ilaria, her bare body outlined and pressed against him, and her skin covered by the soft glow filtering through the curtains, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not even a little.

“You’re thinking too much.” Her fingers brushed lightly over the hairs on his chest.

Soap huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head back against the pillow. Busted.

“That obvious, aye?”

Ilaria hummed, shifting onto one elbow as her gaze looked over him, slow, cataloguing every detail. He felt it, the way her eyes mapped over old wounds, faded bruises, the lines of his body. Her fingers soon began to follow, a delicate touch against his rough skin and up along a scar across his ribs, “How many of these have a story?”

Soap smirked, flexing his fingers against her back. “All of ’em.” He glanced down, “Some more interesting than others.”

Her hand drifted lower, fingertips skimming over a jagged scar near his side. “This one?”

“Knife fight,” he answered. “Didn’t go exactly to plan.”

She raised a brow, waiting, expecting more, but Soap didn’t give it to her. Some stories weren’t worth telling. Some memories were better left buried.

Ilaria didn’t press. But her fingers kept moving, learning him. She shifted, rolling onto him. Her skin was warm against his, so soft, so at odds with the brutal places his mind had just wandered to. Soap closed his eyes for a moment, sighing as her thumb ghosted over the scar along his chin.

“And this one?”

That particular scar ran deep. Beneath his lower lip, along his chin—it had nearly cost him his face, both physically and as a demolitions expert. He could still hear the beeping, the static-laced radio chatter, the split-second decision that nearly cost him everything.

“Defusing a bomb on a mission in the Bering Strait.” His voice was quieter now, rougher. “Almost ended badly.”

Her expression shifted into something softer, more thoughtful.

“It must be exhausting.”

Soap frowned. “What must be?”

“Being you.” Her palm pressed flat against his chest, fingers cool against heated skin. “Always having to fight,” she murmured. “Always having to move.”

Soap swallowed, his jaw tightening. He didn’t know how to answer that. This life—constant battles, endless missions, near-deaths stacked higher than he cared to count—it was just… what he knew. What he had always known.

He exhaled, bringing his hands to her arms, squeezing gently as she settled more comfortably atop him.

“Comes with the job.” His voice was quiet and quick, a neatly wrapped answer that he hoped wouldn’t invite more questions because she didn’t need to know.

Didn’t need to know what it felt like to carry the weight of every mission.

Didn’t need to know the faces of the dead that haunted him in his sleep.

Didn’t need to know that sometimes, in the rare quiet moments, he wondered why the hell he was still here when so many weren’t.

She sighed softly, shifting closer, her breath warm against his skin.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” she murmured. “See the world. Experience everything it has to offer.”

Soap chuckled, shaking his head slightly. He’d seen the world. “Not all of it’s good.”

She smiled, weak and knowing. “Has to still be better than being stuck here.”

She wasn’t wrong. The world was full of shit. Ugly, dangerous shit, but for every scar, every memory Soap wished he could forget, there were others he wouldn’t trade for anything. Sights that stole his breath, moments that made it worth it and people who became family and the things that reminded him why he fought in the first place.

“Yeah,” he admitted, “If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”

Ilaria didn’t answer right away. Her fingers still traced tiny patterns on his chest, light and absentminded. He wondered if she was thinking for an honest answer or maybe a lie that could convince herself as well as him.

“Somewhere quiet,” she said. “With an open view that stretches on forever. No people, no noise, you know?” She paused, and when her gaze met his, it was that quiet intensity he’d seen before. The kind that felt like it peeled back layers he wasn’t sure he wanted exposed. “Somewhere I can just...be.”

Soap nodded; he understood that and could almost taste the need for it. The longing for a place where the world wasn’t pulling at you from every direction, where you weren’t constantly on edge, waiting for the next fight.

“I think we all need something like that at some point.”

The silence stretched between them, then she tilted her head. “Where would you go?”

Soap pursed his lips, genuinely thinking about it. Careful. He had to be so careful in this moment, he couldn’t reveal too much, couldn’t let his cover slip. But at the same time, he didn’t want to lie to her.

“I reckon I’d go home,” he admitted softly. “Hills that rolls on forever, lochs so still they reflect the sky. Cold and quiet, and I don’t have to worry about a damn thing for a while.” He didn’t realise how true it was until he said it out loud.

“Maybe one day we’ll get to do that,” she murmured. Soap ran his fingers through her hair, brushing back the scruffy bangs falling into her eyes. “But for now,” she whispered, lips barely parted, “I like being here. With you.”

Fuck.

That shouldn’t sound as good as it did.

Reality was a bitter thing to face once they stepped beyond the walls of that dusty bedroom.

Soap adjusted his shirt, smoothing out the creases with the palm of his hand as if erasing any lingering trace of the stolen hours they had spent together. The world outside had not changed; the same tensions still simmered beneath the surface, the same dangers lurking in the shadows. But between them? Something had.

Ilaria, ever composed, had slipped effortlessly back into her usual self as if she could simply turn off the intimacy they had shared like flicking a switch. The woman who had let herself be bare before him, who had whispered his name breathlessly, now walked beside him with the same measured elegance, the same quiet control she always had, as though nothing had happened at all. Soap watched her, and told himself he had to be the same.

The night was still clinging to the sky, the morning just beginning to stretch into existence. There was no need for his protection today, and there were no scheduled errands or meetings to shadow. Ilaria did not need him, which meant he had work to do.

Soap spent the morning weaving through the estate’s routine patrols, shadowing the guards, keeping his ears open for anything useful. He had learned early on that people grew careless when they thought they were safe, and there was no better way to gather intelligence than to simply listen.

The kitchen staff gossiped freely, their voices carrying over the clatter of dishes and the scent of simmering sauces. The younger guards grumbled about their assignments, complaining about the monotony of patrols and chores, all boredom and arrogance. The more seasoned men, however, spoke in hushed tones, their words carefully chosen, as though wary of saying too much even in their own company.

Soap pieced together fragments of conversation, filing away names, places, and tensions that lingered beneath the surface. Language remained a barrier, but he understood enough to know that no one had answers regarding the previous attempts on Ilaria’s life. The most recent kidnapping attempt had left ripples of unease, but no one dared to acknowledge it. Either they didn’t know the whole truth or deliberately avoided it.

That silence, that unspoken understanding between them all, was almost worse than a blatant admission. Despite the routine of standing watch and following orders, his true purpose never wavered. He listened, observed, and waited.

And today, patience finally paid off.

Lucrezia was leaving the estate.

It was an event rare enough to mark on the calendar, an opportunity that might not present itself again. Her absence meant that, for the first time in weeks, her office would be empty, and that was something Soap could not ignore.

The Montevi estate was built like a fortress—high walls, armed security, and enough surveillance to rival a military compound. But no matter how impenetrable a fortress appeared, there were always weak points. The difference between success and failure often came down to recognising them.

Soap approached the office doors with the casual ease of someone who belonged there, his footsteps steady, his presence unremarkable. He listened, waiting as Lucrezia’s sharp heels echoed down the corridor, her clipped steps gradually fading into the distance. He counted the seconds, letting the silence settle before reaching for the handle.

The door turned easily beneath his grip. It was not locked.

Of course, it wasn’t. The Mother of Montevi didn’t believe anyone would be foolish enough to breach her sanctuary. That level of arrogance was something Soap had seen time and time again, and it never failed to be a weakness.

Slipping inside, he eased the door shut behind him. The scent of old paper, expensive leather, and faint traces of Lucrezia’s perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the stale undertone of cigarette smoke. The room itself was as meticulously arranged as he had expected, not a single document out of place, not a single personal effect left unattended. There would be no sloppily discarded notes, no conveniently placed evidence waiting to be found. If there were secrets to uncover, they would be well hidden.

The heavy mahogany desk was the obvious starting point. Still, Soap already knew that anything truly valuable wouldn’t be kept in paper form. Still, he checked because sometimes, even the most careful people made mistakes.

The drawers opened without resistance, revealing ledgers, correspondence, and financial reports tied to her more legitimate business dealings. There were documents outlining investments, legal contracts, and records of transactions that were already known to intelligence agencies. Soap flipped through them quickly, scanning for anomalies, anything that stood out.

Nothing.

Lucrezia was too bright for that. If she was hiding something, it wasn’t here. His gaze shifted to the sleek black monitor on the desk. If there was anything of value, it would be there. He powered it on without hesitation, watching as the screen flickered to life.

A login prompt appeared and he exhaled slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Lucrezia Montevi was meticulous and calculated, but even the most disciplined people had habits—patterns they fell into without realising.

He tried a few possibilities, names, dates, and phrases that might hold personal significance, but each attempt failed. He frowned, sitting back in the chair. If only Iva were here, a proper hacker would tear through these encryptions in seconds, but he wasn’t that lucky. He needed to think.

His mind flickered back to Ilaria, though not in the way it had earlier. He recalled a conversation, an idle remark, something said in passing. She had been seated on the edge of a chaise lounge, running her fingers over the embroidered crest of a golden sparrowhawk stitched into a cushion.

“My mother has always loved the insignia,” she had mused. “Said the sparrowhawk was meant to be a symbol of our Montevi strength. Small, but fierce.”

Soap straightened, and he typed in the word.

Nothing. He paused, thinking. Lucrezia was a proud Montevese.

Sparviero.

A beat of silence, and then the screen unlocked.

He worked quickly, scanning folders, browsing emails, and searching for anything of value. Most of the data was clean, and the files were curated to appear unremarkable. But buried among them was something that caught his attention: a single email.

Sender: Unknown

Subject: The Oleander is growing strong, soon to bloom.

Soap frowned, his gut twisting at the deliberate vagueness of the message. This wasn’t some poetic flourish—it was a coded signal meant for someone who already understood its meaning. He clicked on it. No attachments, no previous exchanges, no sender details. Just that single sentence.

It wasn’t enough.

He reached for the USB drive in his pocket, preloaded with extraction software. If he could copy the encrypted files, Laswell or the CIA could later break through the layers of security. But just as the transfer was halfway through the files, he heard footsteps approaching.

Too close.

His heart pounded as he moved fast, cancelling the extraction, pulling the drive, and shutting down the system. He wiped the keyboard with his sleeve just as the door handle turned.

There was no time to hide.

Exhaling slowly, hiding his hurried movements, he stepped out from behind the desk just as the door swung open. Two guards entered mid-conversation, their laughter cutting off when they saw him.

“The hell are you doing in here, Scotsman?” one of them asked, his tone sharp.

Soap forced a casual shrug. “Needed to speak to the boss,” he lied. “Guess I just missed her.”

They exchanged glances.

“She doesn’t like people snooping around her office.”

“Aye, well, she doesn’t like much of anything, does she?”

One of them snorted; the other smirked and shook his head. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”

Soap gave them a lazy salute and walked out, his pulse steady, his face unreadable. But in his mind, the words kept repeating.

The Oleander is growing strong, soon to bloom.

What the hell did it mean? And how long did he have before it did?

Chapter Text

Soap stood at the edge of the gathering, arms crossed over his chest, watching Ilaria as she spoke. She stood in front of a small collection of cameras, journalists gathered with poised pens and waiting voice recorders in the grand hall of the new gallery.

She looked effortless—poised, confident, and beautiful. Her voice carried that signature Montevi grace, practised without feeling rehearsed. She spoke about the gallery’s mission of giving local artists a platform and ensuring Montevia’s art scene had more than just old, inherited wealth to sustain it. Soap had no interest in the politics of the art world, but he couldn’t help but admire her.

She wasn’t just reading a script. She cared, and that was rare in a place like this.

His eyes flicked over the crowd, automatically tracking movements and searching for potential threats. He had to force himself to stay focused, which was hard when she was the most captivating thing in the room.

And when that bastard was there, too.

Stefano hovered at the edge of the gathering like a vulture waiting for the right moment to sink its claws into something, something that didn’t belong to him anymore. Soap watched how he looked at Ilaria as if she was still his. The way his gaze travelled down her body, slow and assessing. The way his smirk pulled at his lips was like he already knew how the night would end.

Soap’s hands curled into fists. He hated it. He hated how Stefano thought he belonged in her orbit, as if Soap wasn’t even there. But he was, he was the one at her side now. The one who touched her, who drew those soft, breathless gasps from her lips, who felt her tremble beneath him.

Stefano might have had her once, but that was over.

Yet, Soap still felt the weight of inadequacy pressing down on him. Stefano had the looks, the money, the effortless charisma of someone who had never fought for a damn thing in his life. Born into luxury, never had to earn his place. And then there was Soap, a soldier, a bodyguard, an outsider.

What did Ilaria see in Soap? What did he offer her that someone like Stefano—someone of her own world—couldn’t?

A flash of memory hit him, sudden and raw; Ilaria beneath him, arching into his touch, her voice breaking as she whispered his name.

Soap swallowed hard, jaw clenching.

He knew what he gave her. Pleasure. A moment of escape.

But was that all? Did he even want that to be all?

His grip tightened on the strap of his holster. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about this.

Stefano shifted in his peripheral vision the moment Ilaria finished her last statement; the moment she smiled for the cameras and offered a final thank you, Stefano was right there. Soap ushered the media out, making sure no threats lingered before he returned to Ilaria, close enough to hear them speak.

“Impressive, bella.”

Ilaria turned, somehow keeping the displeasure to a minimum as Stefano leaned in, lowering his voice just enough that Soap had to strain to hear. “Still making good on your promise to change the world?”

His tone was dripping with venomous amusement, like still saw her as that girl who used to visit him late at night, the one who would listen to his careless words and think they meant something.

Soap stepped forward, standing just behind Ilaria, close enough now that Stefano had no choice but to acknowledge him. Sure enough, Stefano’s gaze flicked to him, and his smirk curled at the edge. Smug bastard.

“You know, I still think about our nights together. I think about them a lot.”

“I do, too,” Ilaria said softly, reaching out to smooth a wrinkle from Stefano’s jacket. Then, her eyes narrowed. “Whenever I need to go to sleep quickly.”

Stefano’s smirk faltered, just slightly, just for a second, but Soap caught it.

And fuck, it was satisfying.

Stefano straightened, rolling his shoulderd and forced a casual laugh but he was lost for words. The crowd in the gallery had thinned, the hum of conversation now mellow, a blend of guests and waiters drifting between exhibits. Someone might have heard, damn Soap really hoped someone had.

Stefano’s gaze flicked around, subtly checking for eavesdroppers, the barest flicker of unease in his expression before he cleared his throat and gave a lazy half-bow.

“Enjoy your evening, bella.” Then he was gone, disappearing into the mingling crowd.

Ilaria exhaled softly. Soap caught the slightest shift in her shoulders, the way she let out a breath she had forced herself to hold.

He just glanced down at her, his voice quiet. “You alright?”

She turned her gaze to him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, finally, she smiled. A real one.

“Of course.” She reached out, briefly brushing her fingers lightly over his wrist. Soap nodded once, not pressing further, and watched as she strode into the room, into the waiting crowd hungry for her attention.

Soap remained near the edges of the room, arms relaxed at his sides as he watched the crowd, but his gaze never drifted far from Ilaria. She moved through the gathered guests with almost hypnotic ease, her smiles practised but not insincere. She laughed when expected, nodded thoughtfully at polite conversation, and entertained inquiries about the gallery’s future exhibits. Effortless.

She was safe, but he still watched. Not just her, but everyone else too.

Stefano hadn’t left yet. Soap’s eyes flicked to him every so often, tracking the way he loitered near a group of men dressed in expensive suits, drink in hand, posture relaxed but his gaze always following Ilaria. Waiting for an opportunity. Soap exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers to unclench at his sides. He wasn’t here to start a fight, no matter how much the bastard deserved it.

He didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust anyone here, really.

Ilaria continued her night, diplomacy in its purest form, the kind he could never hope to master. But she was born into this world, she knew how to play the game.

But then, without a word, she slipped away.

Soap caught the movement immediately, the way she excused herself, gliding out of the main hall and into the quieter, dimly lit corridors beyond. No one seemed to notice. Or perhaps they were too caught up in their own discussions to care.

But Soap noticed, and so he followed. It was his job, after all.

The muffled sounds of the event faded the further he went. He moved quickly, boots noisy on the polished floors, but Ilaria wasn’t running. She wasn’t hiding. She stood in the middle of the private exhibit that hadn’t been opened tonight.

The space was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers and carefully placed spotlights illuminating the pieces on display. Statues carved from flawless white marble surrounded her, silent figures of gods and warriors, and there, beneath the soft golden light, stood Ilaria. Her dress was as white as the marble around her, a formal dress that hugged her frame, stopping just above her knees. The colour made her look untouchable, almost otherworldly, like she belonged here like one of the statues, something timeless and elegant, standing in stark contrast to the rough edges of the world he knew.

Soap hesitated for a beat, watching her. She hadn’t turned to acknowledge him yet, but she knew he was there.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “Needed a break?”

She sighed, shoulders rising and falling with something almost like relief. “Something like that.”

Soap hesitated for a moment longer, watching her in the quiet glow of the exhibit. Then he stepped forward, his fingers ghosting over the exposed smooth skin of her back, warm beneath his touch. Ilaria inhaled sharply, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, her body shifting to invite him closer. She turned, dark eyes locking onto his before she closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his, soft and sure.

Soap stiffened, the risk flashing in his mind. They could be caught. This was reckless in a public place. Anyone could walk in and see them, he should stop this. But the way she kissed him, the way she pressed against him with such quiet, aching desperation, he couldn’t.

He deepened the kiss, his hands sliding to her waist, fingers gripping the delicate fabric of her dress. She responded instantly, arms winding around his neck, pulling him in closer, tilting her head to fit against him perfectly. It was intoxicating, the feel of her, the way she let herself go in his arms.

A quiet sound left her throat, barely more than a sigh, but it sent something sharp through him, something hungry.

Fuck.

His hands slid lower, gripping her thighs as he lifted her with ease. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as best they could in the dress. He carried her to the nearest surface, a sturdy workbench tucked into a shadowed corner away from the golden light of the chandeliers.

Setting her down, he slot his body between her knees, his mouth never leaving hers. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, hitching his breath. He groaned into her mouth, the heat between them growing with every second.

She was impossible to resist.

Soap barely registered the moment when Ilaria broke the kiss, her breath mingling with his as she pressed her forehead against his. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to grip her hair and pull her closer, but they were still in public. They’d have to leave this room looking respectable, no matter how much he wanted to forget the rest of the world existed.

She smiled up at him; a mischievous glint in her eyes sent a rush of heat straight through him. He was coming to like that look a little too much.

“I have a surprise for you,” she murmured, her breath like silk against his skin. Before he could respond, she lifted the hem of her dress to her waist, revealing delicate nude-coloured lingerie, sheer except for the intricate lace patterns that barely concealed her. The sight sent his thoughts scattering, his pulse spiking as he dragged his gaze over her body, taking in the details of exactly what she’d been hiding from him all night.

His hands flexed at her waist, thumbs brushing the exposed skin of her hips. “Christ, Ilaria,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You’ve been wearing this out here?”

She smirked, leaning forward to lick along the column of his throat, pleased with his reaction. “I got it just so you could rip it off me.”

His grip on her tightened, the words sending a deep, visceral need straight to his groin. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Why would I take it off you,” he murmured, dipping his head closer to her ear, “when it looks so damn good on you?”

Her smirk faltered, replaced by something close to confusion. “But I want you to fuck me,” she whined, rolling her hips against him.

He exhaled sharply, a quiet curse slipping from his lips as his fingers trailed down, finding the waistband of her panties and then moving lower. He hooked two fingers into the delicate fabric, pulling them to the side. The sheer material stretched against his grip, so fragile in his rough hands.

His breath was warm against her ear as he murmured, “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to.”

His fingers slipped between her thighs, teasing at her slick warmth. Fuck. She was already so ready for him, so soft and wet, and the moment his fingers brushed against her, she took a sharp breath, and her thighs tensed instinctively. He watched her reaction, drinking in how she parted her lips and her brows knitted together as she tried to stay composed.

He didn’t want her composed; he wanted her unravelling.

Soap stroked her again, a slow, deliberate glide over her sensitive skin, his fingers pressing just enough to make her hips jerk against his hand. A quiet, desperate sound slipped past her lips, and he felt his restraint pull taut. Christ, she sounded so sweet.

“That’s it,” he murmured, “let me hear you, just for me.”

Ilaria bit down on her lower lip, her head tipping back slightly as she tried to keep quiet. But when he slid one finger inside her, slow and deep, her body betrayed her. A soft, breathy moan escaped her throat, and fuck, he wanted more.

His free hand gripped her thigh, keeping her open to him, his body pressing between her legs as he pushed another finger inside, curling them the way he had already discovered she liked. The response was immediate; her back arching, her breath stuttering, her fingers gripping the edge of the workbench so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Soap…”

His name gasped in that breathless tone sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through him. He was getting hard, achingly so, but he ignored it. Right now, all he wanted was to watch her fall apart.

Soap worked her slowly, teasing, building her up with each precise stroke. His thumb brushed against her clit, barely there, just enough to make her shiver, to make her hips grind into his hand, chasing the pleasure he was giving her. Desperate for more.

“That’s it,” he whispered against her throat, pressing a kiss just below her jaw. “Look at you…”

Her thighs trembled as he found that spot inside her, the one that had her gasping, writhing against him, her body betraying her own attempts at silence.

She was beautiful like this.

He watched the way her lips parted, how she bit down on her knuckle to try to keep quiet, watched how she struggled against the sheer intensity of it.

It was intoxicating.

Soap didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop, not when Ilaria was like this, so undone beneath his hands, so utterly his in this moment.

“I want to hear you.” Soap groaned and Ilaria’s breath came in short, shallow pants, her body tensing around his fingers. She was close. He could feel it in the way her hips stuttered, the way she tried to press herself closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Soap—” Her voice broke as the pleasure crested, crashing over her like a tidal wave. Soap felt it, the way she clenched around his fingers, the way her body shuddered beneath him, consumed by the pleasure he’d drawn from her.

He’d never seen anything more perfect.

He held her through it, whispering something against her skin, something low that he barely registered himself. His fingers slowed, guiding her down from the high, his free hand stroking the soft skin of her thigh.

When he finally withdrew, Ilaria was still trembling, her breath uneven, her eyes heavy-lidded as she looked up at him. Soap exhaled, trying to ignore the insistent ache of his own arousal pressing against his pants. She noticed immediately, and her hand was already moving to the front of his pants, fingers brushing over his hardness.

He caught her wrist before she could go any further. “Not now; you need to get back out there.”

Ilaria’s lips parted, her dark eyes flicking between his face and where he still held her wrist. Then, a slow, knowing smirk curled at the corners of her mouth. She leaned in, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his jaw before her lips brushed against his ear, voice still thick with pleasure. “I still want you to fuck me before the night is over.”

Soap groaned, low and barely restrained, as she slipped off the workbench and adjusted her dress like nothing had happened at all. Then, with one last lingering look over her shoulder, she disappeared back into the glow of the gallery.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face.

He was so fucking doomed.

The rest of the night had been a slow, torturous game of control. They had played their roles, standing in the stark light of the gallery, behaving as if nothing had happened in that not-so-hidden room. Every time she passed him, she gave him a look subtle enough that no one else would notice. A knowing glance. A smirk that promised more, and when her fingers briefly grazed his arm in passing, it was deliberate, testing the limits of what she could get away with.

By the time they slid into the car, Soap let out a slow breath, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. The engine rumbled low, the streetlights casting flickering gold across her skin as she settled beside him. He needed to focus. Needed to get her back safely. Needed to not think about how she looked in that dress, how she had whispered promises into his ear hours ago.

But then her hand slid onto his thigh.

Soap inhaled sharply, keeping his gaze fixed on the road. “Behave, lass.”

Ilaria made a quiet hum, feigning innocence as her fingers traced slow, idle circles over his leg. “I have been behaving,” she murmured. “All night.”

Her hand inched higher, deliberate and teasing, and Soap clenched his jaw, shifting slightly. “Ilaria.”

“Mmm?” she dragged the sound out, her fingers brushing dangerously close to the heat straining against his pants.

Fucking hell.

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her before she could push him past his breaking point. “I’m drivin’.”

Ilaria only grinned, undeterred. “Then keep your hands on the wheel.”

Before he could respond, she shifted, her body turning toward him in the seat, and then her hand disappeared beneath the hem of her dress.

Soap didn’t need to look. He could hear it. The slow hitch of her breath, the soft rustle of fabric. The way her legs parted just slightly, her breath soft as she let out a quiet sigh.

His knuckles went white against the steering wheel. “Christ, Ilaria…”

“What?” she teased, velvety. “I can’t touch you. You won’t touch me, so I must do it myself.”

His breathing grew heavier, his control slipping as he risked a quick glance toward her. The sight of her, head tipped back, lips parted, fingers moving between her thighs, it nearly had him pulling the car over.

“You’re cruel, you know that?”

Ilaria let out a breathy laugh. “You love it.”

He did. Fuck, he did.

He forced his focus back onto the road, every inch of his body thrumming with frustrated, heated want. She was doing this on purpose, knowing exactly what it did to him. And the worst part? She was winning.

By the time they pulled into the estate, Soap was running purely on raw restraint, gripping the steering wheel because it would be her if it wasn’t that. He parked, shifting into park before finally turning to her.

The second he did, she was on him.

Ilaria kissed him hard, her fingers tangling in his shirt as she pulled him in, her body still warm. Soap groaned against her mouth, one hand cupping the side of her face, the other gripping her thigh as he deepened the kiss, taking back a sliver of control.

She pulled away just slightly, breathless, her lips grazing his jaw as she whispered, “I want you in my bed.”

Soap exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a beat. “Ilaria, we can’t. Too many eyes.”

She pouted just slightly, her hands sliding lower, gripping his belt like she was trying to keep him from leaving. “Please.”

Soap swore under his breath. He should say no. He should tell Ilaria to go inside and pretend that nothing was happening. But he couldn’t. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, looking around momentarily before murmuring, “Go. I’ll meet you there.”

Her eyes lit up in triumph. “How?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “I can turn the security cameras off.”

Ilaria’s smile was nothing short of wicked, and it made his skin prickle with need. She kissed him one last time, quick and excited before slipping out of the car and disappearing into the dark corridors of the estate.

Soap was quick, though his walk was slightly awkward with just how hard he was. His mind raced ahead, but he knew he had to handle things carefully. Focus. The next rotation was in a few minutes, meaning the security room would be empty.

He made his way there, the glow of the screens lighting up the dark space as he stepped inside. His fingers moved swiftly, scanning the monitors, pinpointing which cameras he needed to disable. Hopefully, it wouldn’t raise too much suspicion, and to make it less so, he also turned off the view of a few random ones around the estate. The next guard on would turn them on again, and he would have to just figure out a different way to leave her room later.

Then, something caught his eye; one of the feeds showed movement in the corridor.

Ilaria.

She was alone, moving gracefully through the hallway, the soft light casting hues along her bare skin. As if she knew Soap was watching, she tilted her head and looked directly at the camera, her lips curling into something playful, something meant for him.

Soap swallowed hard, his pulse a heavy thrum in his ears. Then, right there on the screen, she reached for the zipper of her dress. The silky fabric slid down her body, peeling away like temptation itself, pooling at her feet until she stood in nothing but that barely-there lingerie.

She didn’t stop.

With a slow, deliberate glance towards the camera, towards him, she ran her hands over her body, straightening her lingerie. There was no sound on the cameras, but as he watched her laugh, he was sure he could hear the teasing sound carrying through the estate. Then, without a care in the world, she turned and disappeared into her room, leaving Soap aching.

His grip tightened around the edge of the console, breathing heavily as he forced himself to move, shutting off the necessary cameras one by one. He had to get to her. Now.

Fucking doomed. He was absolutely fucking doomed.

Chapter Text

The sheets beneath her were soft, slightly rumpled from the night before. Ilaria stretched, feeling the pleasant ache deep in her muscles. It was the kind of satisfaction that came from being thoroughly taken apart, and a lazy smile curled the edges of her lips.

It was still early. The first hints of daylight barely peeked through the curtains, casting the room in cool morning shadows. Nothing was pressing today, so there was no immediate need to rush so she could take her time.

Turning onto her side, she reached for Soap, only to find the space beside her empty. Her fingers brushed against the sheets, still faintly warm but undeniably absent of him.

Ilaria let out a slow breath, her body sinking deeper into the mattress as she stared at the space where he should be. He must have known the right moment to slip out, found the best time to sneak out unnoticed, to disappear before the house fully stirred awake. She shouldn’t be surprised. This wasn’t his first time sneaking in and out of places he didn’t belong.

Still, she wished that he had stayed, or she had at least woken when he stirred. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face into the sheets. They smelled like him. Earthy, warm, a little like cedarwood and the lingering spice of whatever aftershave he used. Her fingers tightened in the fabric. Last night had been risky enough; having him here any longer would have been asking for trouble.

But still, she wished he could have stayed because no matter how much she tried to tell herself this was reckless, she craved him. He made her feel so damn good she couldn’t bring herself to deny it, or to deny him.

Even now, lying alone in the quiet of her bedroom, she ached for him. A frustrated sigh left her lips as she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She needed to be careful. She knew that. If anyone ever found out…

But wasn’t that what made it even more exhilarating?

She would find a way to have him again and again. Consequences be damned.

Ilaria eventually got ready for the day, prying herself out of her comfortable bed. As much as she would love to linger in the feeling of her humming body, linger on the memories of his hands on her, his mouth moving against hers, she had a busy day.

She stepped out into the hall, composed, collected as if she hadn’t spent the entire night tangled in forbidden pleasure.

Soap was outside, speaking with some of the other security. Ilaria had to resist the urge to let her eyes linger on how his arms flexed when he shifted, framed perfectly in his black dress shirt. Those same arms that had held her down, held her to him…

She swallowed hard, keeping her face neutral. “Meet me at the car. Busy day today.” Soap nodded, his blue eyes meeting hers, but if he was thinking of last night, he gave nothing away. “Aye. Be right there.”

Ilaria turned away, forcing herself to focus. Professionalism. Control. Not Soap’s plump lips and where they had been last night. Not the way her hands had mapped his body in the dark.

Outside, the sun was warming the stone pavement, but it was now losing its intensity. Autumn was basically upon them; the cool relief in the evenings and gentle breezes promised it was coming.

A car was waiting at the front of the estate. It wasn’t uncommon for a vehicle to be prepared in advance, especially if she was expected somewhere early. She barely thought twice about it.

The driver, one of the usual men, stood beside the car, nodding as she approached. “Good morning, Miss Montevi.”

She slid into the back seat, smoothing out her skirt. “Good morning. Vetonio Plaza, but we’ll wait for-”

The door slammed shut.

Rude. Ilaria reached for the handle, pulling sharply and ready to tell the driver what she thought of his attitude.

It was locked.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her lungs seemed to turn to stone when they refused to allow her another breath. The other door opened, and a man slid into the seat beside her before she could react. It wasn’t the driver, not any of the staff she recognised. It was a complete stranger.

A gun was aimed at her ribs.

“Don’t scream,” the man warned. “We wouldn’t want to make a mess.”

Ilaria’s blood ran cold, and her mind raced.

Stay calm. Think. Ilaria could talk her way out of this. She had done it before, negotiated and charmed her way out of a sticky situation. But one look at the man beside her, the sharp, merciless set of his jaw, the deadness in his eyes, told her this was different. This man wasn’t going to be reasoned with.

The driver’s door opened, and her stomach lurched as the driver slid inside, unphased by what was occurring in the backseat. He was in on this; they had planned this. With her heart hammering in her chest, she turned to the window, trying to see anyone, someone who could help.

Soap was walking toward the car, something off in his stride as he approached, like he could sense something wasn’t right. His brows furrowed, his lips parted, and Ilaria made sure not to hide the panic in her face, and she could see the realisation hit him.

She screamed. “Soap! Help—”

The tyres screeched against the pavement as the car lurched forward. The force of it slammed her back into the seat, and a hand harshly grabbed at her wrist.

“Stay quiet,” the man beside her hissed, pressing the gun harder into her ribs as a warning. “Be calm, and nothing happens to you.”

His voice was eerily calm, as if this was just business, like it was something he did every day. Ilaria sucked in a sharp breath, her heart pounding in her throat as the car sped away, Soap’s figure shrinking in the distance. She had to breathe; panic would not help now, and she forced herself to lean back in the seat. Smoothing her expression, she forced her body to relax even as her muscles screamed to run, to fight.

Stay calm. Stay aware.

Trying to take in every detail she could, her eyes flicked between the two men. The man beside her had a military build, his grip on the gun firm, not like a hired thug like the last attempt, this one had training. The driver was leaner and older; how he handled the steering wheel told her he’d also done this before. There were no nervous tics, no hesitation; professionals.

“Which house sent you?” she asked, “this is almost too easy for some random group wanting a ransom.” The man beside her didn’t react or even glance her way. She tilted her head, pushing, searching for any crack. “You take me, you make an enemy of my mother. That’s a death sentence.”

That made the driver chuckle, but it wasn’t from nerves; he was genuinely amused. The man beside her shifted, finally acknowledging her, his grip tightening around the gun again. “Be quiet,” he hissed.

The driver checked the rearview mirror. “Time.”

The words sent a shiver through her, and before she could look out the window and pinpoint where they were, the man beside her moved fast, grabbing the back of her neck as he yanked a black bag from his jacket.

Not happening.

Ilaria raked her nails down his forearm, digging deep enough to break the skin. He hissed, his grip faltering for a split second, and it was just enough. She used the moment to surge forward, her body twisting as she drove her elbow into his ribs as hard as she could muster. He grunted, his body jerking sideways, but his hold remained firm.

Not good enough; try again!

She stretched for his gun, fingers wrapping around the grip. She felt its weight, the cool metal against her palm. Almost—

A hand slammed into her wrist, then grabbed and twisted it painfully, and Ilaria was forced to open her hand, and the gun yanked away. But she wasn’t done. She lashed out at him, kicking and scratching whatever she could reach of him. His hand snapped around her throat, shoving her flat against the car seat. Her vision swam for a second, stars bursting in her peripheral as her head hit the door.

The driver cursed. “Hurry the fuck up.”

Then the gun handle came down fast, and Ilaria couldn’t dodge it.

Pain exploded through her skull, white-hot and blinding, and she fell limp into the dark.

When Ilaria drifted back to consciousness, she wished she hadn’t. All through her head was an ache that didn’t seem to ease, and her mouth was dry like it had swallowed dust. Every time she blinked, the light seemed too bright and made her head swim.

Eventually, she realised she was lying on a lounge, her body heavy and sluggish and when she tried to sit up, metal bit into her wrists. Lifting them to her blurry vision, she saw the handcuff locked tight around her wrists, pinching the skin every time she moved, and bile rose in her throat.

Where am I?

The air smelled faintly of damp wood and stale cigarette smoke. A warehouse? A safe house? Somewhere old, somewhere forgotten. She shuffled slightly, eyes focussing enough to let her scan a few feet around her. She couldn’t see anyone, but she could hear them.

“… wasn’t meant to hurt her, you idiot!” a voice bellowed, furious. “The boss is gonna be so pissed.”

A chair scraped against the floor. “Shut up,” another snapped. “Stop squabbling. She’s here now, so we focus.”

Ilaria kept her breathing even, her head still throbbing as she tried to commit their voices to memory. Three? Maybe four of them?

Then another voice spoke, deeper, more authority as the others fell silent. Must be their leader.

“This is all part of the plan,” he said, “each step brings us closer to our goal.”

A cold weight settled in her stomach. This wasn’t a normal ransom. This was something bigger, and she felt, as she always felt, like a piece on their board.

A fourth voice scoffed, not hiding his frustration. “This isn’t what I signed up for. I didn’t join Nerium to play babysitter.”

“None of us did; this is a waste of time.” another snapped.

“You knew what you were signing up for. If you’ve got a problem with orders, I suggest you take it up with the boss if you’re brave enough.”

Ilaria forced herself to stay still, to breathe evenly despite the way her pulse hammered in her throat. Listen. Memorise. Stay calm.

“How long are we even keeping her?” one finally asked, “A few days? A week? What the hell are we supposed to do with her until then?”

Another snorted, a disgusting hint of amusement curling in his tone. “I got a few ideas.”

Her stomach turned violently.

“The boss said untouched,” the leader snapped, “Unharmed.”

“She’s so soft and fragile she’d probably break anyway, and where’s the fun in that?” The casual cruelty in this man’s tone made Ilaria’s skin crawl. She could already feel their eyes on her, weighing, considering, and it made her want to disappear until she was nothing but dust on the lounge she was lying on.

Footsteps started moving closer, heavy boots scuffing against the concrete as they approached her room. Ilaria squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to stay limp.

There was a rustling noise, objects clattering, and she realised they were going through her bag. “What the hell are you looking for?” someone asked. Fabric shifted, zippers yanked open, contents upturned. Papers, her wallet, her perfume bottle clinking against her keys… Then there was a sharp curse. “You didn’t ditch her phone?” There were quick steps and then a loud slap followed by a grunt of pain and someone stumbling backwards, their body crashing into a chair with a heavy thud. Ilaria flinched before she could stop herself. “You fucking rookie. Fix it. Get rid of the damn phone.” he snarled. Ilaria barely had a moment to calm herself before a shadow loomed over her, cutting out the light. The leader crouched down, his voice smooth, almost mocking. “Awake, are we?”

She kept her breathing steady and opened her eyes. Don’t show fear. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

His hands moved toward her, fingers reaching out and Ilaria jerked back. “Don’t you dare touch me.” she snapped, proud that her voice was strong enough to almost be convincing despite the dryness.

A low chuckle came from the leader as if she was nothing more than entertainment to him. “Feisty,” he mused, gripping her shoulders painfully tight and sitting her upright. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Ilaria’s stomach churned, her head still throbbing as she swayed slightly on the lounge, the dizziness making it hard to focus. The leader dragged a chair across the floor, the scraping sound grating against her already-pounding skull, and he sat before her, folding his arms across his chest as his eyes looked her over.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” he said, and Ilaria forced herself to pay attention. He wasn’t threatening, not yet, just matter-of-fact. “You behave; we take care of you. Food, water, a warm place to sleep. Things stay nice and easy.” His eyes narrowed, “You don’t behave? Things get very unpleasant. very quickly.”

Ilaria clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to react.

“You’re important to us,” he continued. “That means we keep you breathing. That means we don’t want you hurt.” He paused, something sharp settling into his gaze at her. “But don’t mistake that for kindness.”

His fingers tapped against his knee. “So, what’s it going to be, princess? Make this easy for yourself?”

Ilaria forced herself to nod slightly, managing a dry, barely audible snarl, “Yes.”

The leader’s smile was slow, almost satisfied, as he towered over her. She watched him carefully, forcing her thoughts to sharpen through the haze of her headache. Nerium. She didn’t know who they were. A part of one of the houses? A new faction wanting change? A splinter group with their own agenda?

She had to know, so she swallowed against the dryness in her throat, licking her lips before speaking. “What is Nerium?”

His reaction was immediate anger. He spun on his heel, his hand latching onto her shoulder with bruising force, and a sharp sting radiated through her arm.

“Rule number one,” he growled, his grip tightening. “No questions.” His fingers dug in painfully, his face too close, and he was lucky that Ilaria’s mouth was so dry, or she would have spat at him. “No talking at all, in fact.”

Ilaria swallowed hard, keeping her face neutral despite the ache spreading through her shoulder and her own anger starting to boil. The leader held her there for a beat longer, ensuring she understood before releasing her with a shove.

“On your feet.”

She hesitated for a moment before obeying, forcing herself to stand despite the weakness still weighing her limbs. The leader gestured toward the door, smirking as if this was all some sick game. “Onto your new home.” He opened the door, stepping aside as if offering her a choice. “Won’t be as grand as what you’re used to, princess, but trust me, it’s better than what they would have kept you in.” he gestured to the few men behind her and squaring her shoulders, Ilaria stepped forward.

Ilaria barely had time to process where she was outside before she felt rough hands grabbing her again. The cold fabric of a bag was yanked over her head, plunging her back into darkness. A car rumbled closer, its tyres crunching against the dirt and gravel. They were moving her again.

But before she could step into the car, a bang echoed.

A gunshot.

A body hit the ground with a sickening thud beside her, and Ilaria panicked, instinctively ducking. What was happening?

The leader’s grip tightened painfully around her arm. “Move!”

More gunshots. Frantic shouting and footsteps pounding against the pavement.

She remained low, barely able to breathe, her body trembling as the leader shoved her into the car. She hit the seat hard, gasping as she curled in on herself. The gunfire continued outside. It sounded chaotic; it sounded far too close.

Then she heard the driver’s door yanked open, and the car lurched forward. Ilaria had no idea where they were or even where they were going; all she could do was clench the material of the seat as the car turned and swerved. The bag over her head made it hard to breathe. Why is it so hard to breathe? She tried not to sob as she curled, forcing herself onto the car floor between the seats. She couldn’t afford to lose control now, but what if this was it? What if whoever had her now decided she wasn’t worth the risk? What if they thought she was too much trouble and decided to kill her instead?

Eventually, the car came to a sudden stop, and the engine cut off. Ilaria could feel herself tremble as the driver got out of the car. Loud footsteps circled the car and stopped beside her door.

The door flung open, and Ilaria reacted instantly.

She kicked, flailed, fought, and as much as she wanted to scream and curse, she couldn’t; all she could manage was a pitiful wail. She couldn’t even beg for her life when she needed to.

“Ilaria.”

That voice was familiar. Safe.

She froze as her breath caught in her throat, her cuffed hands no longer beating at the body trying to get her out of the car but clinging to it instead. Then, the bag was lifted from her head, and she saw him through the haze of fear.

Soap.

A sharp breath shuddered through her, and before she could think, she was crawling into his arms. The weight of everything, the fear, the helplessness, the uncertainty hit her all at once.

Soap sank to the ground with her, pulling her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her protectively. She looped her cuffed hands over his neck, holding on as if she might disappear if she let go. Emotions flooded through her, her body trembling and mind racing, but her eyes remained dry as she pressed her face into Soap’s chest.

Soap kissed her temple, then her forehead, his hands moving over her body—not in heat, but in reassurance. Checking. Making sure she was whole.

“Are you okay?” he asked, trying to sound calmer than he looked. He needed to know she was fine, and she nodded against his chest, trying her best to let him know she was now that he was here—that he had her.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, tightening his arms around her. “I got you. You’re safe.” Again and again, he repeated it until her breathing finally calmed, until the trembling in her limbs began to ease, and she could believe it.

Chapter Text

Ilaria sat curled up on the bed, as far from the windows and doors as possible. Logically, she knew this safe house was secure. She was safe; she was with Soap. But no matter how much her brain repeated that to herself, her body refused to listen. Fear still curled in her stomach, sharp and gnawing.

The blanket Soap had given her was draped around her shoulders, heavy and warm, but it did nothing to stop the trembling that ran through her limbs. Was she cold? Or was this just the aftershock of everything that had happened? She honestly couldn’t tell anymore. Ilaria remembered falling asleep in the car, exhaustion dragging her under like a rip current, remembered the low murmur of Soap’s voice saying something calming before she felt the weightless sensation of being lifted. His arms around her, holding her to the safety of his chest.

She had tried to fight it and stay awake. But the moment Soap laid her on the bed, she couldn’t stop her body from shutting down. And now, hours later, her mind was wide awake, but her body still felt the weight of exhaustion.

From the other room, she heard Soap’s low voice.

“… We’re safe, ma’am.”

Ilaria clenched her fists beneath the blanket. Lucrezia. Of course, it was her mother. Of course, she had wasted no time calling to make sure her precious investment hadn’t been damaged.

“We’ll remain here until we get the all clear.”

Ilaria didn’t need to hear Lucrezia’s response to know what she had said. Protect my daughter. Protect the princess.

Soap let out a breath, and the call ended.

The moment he stepped into the room, his eyes found hers immediately. His gaze softened, concern shadowing his features as he took in how she was sitting—tucked into herself, small. She hated it.

“Ilaria,” he murmured, closing the distance between them.

She exhaled, unsteady. “I’m sorry.”

Soap frowned. “What?”

“This is my fault.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I was fucking stupid. I put everyone at risk. If I had just been paying attention—”

“Hey, hush.” He sat slowly, carefully, on the edge of the bed. She stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. How could he just brush this off? How could he not see that this was on her? That she had made a mistake?

His gaze didn’t waver. “Ilaria, I’m the one who should be apologising. It happened under my watch. I should have protected you.”

Something inside her snapped.

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped before she could stop it. “You should have protected me?” Her head shook, frustration bubbling over. “Christ, Soap, I am so sick of this.”

His brows furrowed, his expression unreadable. “Sick of what?”

“This.” She gestured wildly around the room. “Of being treated like I’m some delicate little princess who needs to be kept in a glass tower.” She tore her gaze away from him. She must look ridiculous—red-faced, angry, shaking.

“I let myself get this useless,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to fight. I don’t know how to shoot a damn gun properly. I will always be someone else’s problem, someone’s burden. Always stuck waiting for some knight in shining armour to save me.” Her voice cracked at the last word, and she hated it. Hated herself for it. She buried her face in her knees, swallowing back the lump in her throat.

Soap huffed a quiet chuckle. “Aye, well, I’d make a shite knight anyway. I don’t do well with horses.”

Ilaria didn’t want to laugh, damn him. She didn’t want Soap to say anything because no matter what he said, it wouldn’t change the reality. She was weak. She was a liability.

The weight of it pressed against her, heavy and suffocating. There was no release, no escape, just this endless, gnawing ache inside her. She felt the bed dip as Soap shifted closer, but she forced herself to stay still. Fought the overwhelming need to press against him.

His voice softened. “I don’t think you’re fragile.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her face to look at him. His blue eyes were warm, unwavering.

“You’ve just had a taste of hell and survived. That makes you pretty tough.”

She didn’t know why, but that was what did it. Not a grand speech, no false reassurances. Just that. Her breath hitched slightly, and before she could think, before she could stop herself, she let the blanket slip from her shoulders and closed the space between them.

Her lips found his in a kiss that wasn’t careful or hesitant, just need. She felt his breath catch, his warmth so solid, so real, but before she could pull him closer, he stopped her. His hands, so gentle, cupped her shoulders, holding her back, and Ilaria’s stomach twisted.

Of course. Of course, he would stop this.

Anger flared because she already knew why. He was worried, worried that she was fragile. Worried about taking advantage of her when her emotions were all over the place. Worried that she wasn’t thinking clearly.

But this wasn’t a weakness. She wasn’t looking for comfort. She needed him. Needed to feel something other than this awful, suffocating fear. And maybe that was selfish, but she didn’t care.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke. “I’m not that fragile.”

Soap exhaled slowly, his thumbs brushing lightly against her bare skin. “I know.”

That soft touch wasn’t enough. She didn’t want careful. She didn’t want tender. Ilaria leaned in again, her lips grazing his and testing his restraint. “Prove it.”

She felt the sharp inhale of his breath, the shift of his muscles beneath her hands. She rolled her hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind that pulled a low curse from Soap’s lips. Again, Soap’s hand brushed gently against her arm, up to her chin, but before he could cup her face, she grabbed his wrist, holding him still, pressing a lingering kiss to the tender part of his wrist.

“I don’t want gentle,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. “Not this time.”

Something changed in his expression. His eyes darkened, something dangerous flickering beneath the blue.

“You sure about that, lass?”

Ilaria tilted her chin up in defiance, holding his gaze as her fingers moved to curl between the buttons of his shirt, nails scraping over his skin. “Make me sure.”

Then his hands were on her again. Soap’s palm curled around the back of her neck, his grip firm, tilting her head exactly how he wanted. The moment his mouth crushed against hers, there was nothing soft about it.

Ilaria gasped into him as his teeth caught her lower lip, tugging, biting just enough to make it sting. He swallowed the sound greedily, not giving her a second to recover. One hand slid down her back, gripping her waist, holding her still against him even as she tried to grind against his lap again. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest at her slight whine.

Soap pulled away long enough to tug her shirt over her head, discarding it carelessly to the floor. His heated gaze raked over her, taking in every inch of bare skin now exposed to him.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and thick with that accent. His fingers skimmed slowly up Ilaria’s ribs, teasing, barely touching over the curve of her breasts. It was not nearly enough.

Ilaria shivered beneath his touch, her skin flaring with heat at every barely-there caress. Goosebumps prickled along her arms and up her spine, but it wasn’t from the cold. A low, impatient whine escaped her lips as she wiggled in his lap, pressing against him, searching for more friction, of more him.

Soap chuckled softly like he was enjoying drawing this out, but as if he could read her mind, his hands suddenly gripped her thighs firmly, spreading her further over his lap. Her breath grew shallower as he leaned in, hot lips pressing against the delicate skin of her neck.

Softer at first, teasing, then hungrier, deeper, his mouth parting against her skin, tongue flicking out to taste her before his teeth scraped over her pulse.

She gasped, arching back, and Soap took the invitation. His mouth trailed lower, slow, open-mouthed kisses dragging over her collarbone, down, down, down until he reached the soft swell of her breasts.

Ilaria’s breathing became fast, her chest rising and falling sharply, her nails curling into his shoulders. But he didn’t rush, didn’t give in to her impatience. Instead, he took his time, letting his lips hover, just brushing against her heated skin. She let out a frustrated groan, tugging at his hair, trying to pull him in harder.

A growl rumbled deep in his throat, his grip tightening, sudden and unyielding. He caught her wrists, ripping them away from his hair in one swift movement, holding them behind her back.

Ilaria gasped, and she was about to complain, to protest—

His mouth closed over her breast, tongue flicking against her nipple before he sucked, pulling more of her into his mouth, and bit. Hard enough to make her jolt. Ilaria cried out, her head tipping back, her thighs trembling where they straddled him.

It was hard enough to send lightning of shock through her but also straight to her core, and a wrecked, breathless moan tore from her lips before she could stop it, her back arching instinctively.

Soap groaned against her skin like it was fuel to the fire already burning between them. He pulled back just enough to drag his teeth over the now-sensitive flesh, a smirk curling at his lips when he heard the way her breath shuddered.

“Fuckin’ hell, you like that, don’t you, Tesoro?” His voice was rough, almost smug. Ilaria tried to glare at him and fight back with her usual sharpness and control—but her body betrayed her. Her breath came too fast, her skin flushed and oversensitive, the lingering bite still pulsing with heat. And Soap knew it.

He chuckled, low and knowing, shifting beneath her.

The movement was slight—but she felt every inch of him, hard and throbbing against her, pressing in just the right way. Ilaria swallowed hard, her stomach twisting with need, her thighs clenching around his waist.

He was holding back, still, maybe testing her. His fingers tightened around her wrists, still pinning them behind her, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. Then his lips moved across her skin again. Ilaria’s breath caught in her throat as he dragged his mouth across her chest, lips warm and teasing, tongue flicking just enough to make her shiver. Then—he bit her again. Harder this time.

Her sharp cry filled the room, her body arching into his mouth, into him, desperate and growing mindless. Another jolt shot straight through her, sharp and intoxicating, pooling between her legs. Soap groaned at the way she reacted, the way she offered herself up without thinking. She barely managed to lift her head, her thoughts muddled with heat, but his eyes were already on her when she did.

That bright, sharp blue was watching her, waiting for her reaction.

Was he waiting for her to beg for more? Because fuck, if he was, she’d scream it over and over and over again. Desperation coiled hot in her stomach. She licked her lips, her body aching, thrumming, the sharp bite of his teeth still pulsing through her.

Soap must have felt the shift in her, must have seen the way her body trembled with need and craving because he smirked against her skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, “You really want this, don’t you?”

She barely managed to nod, and her hips pressed low, as much as she could, as her body searched for his, heat pooling, making her pulse race. Soap’s grip loosened, releasing her wrists and letting her hands fall. He traced slow circles over the soft skin of her forearms before his fingers ghosted up her arms, over her shoulders, along her collarbone. His touch was barely there, almost cruel in how light it was, yet it set every nerve on fire.

“Tell me.” His hand trailed up her neck, fingers curling beneath her jaw, tilting her head enough to make her look at him properly. “Let me hear you say it again.”

Ilaria’s breath caught, her heart hammering against her ribs, pounding against his touch. She lifted her hands to hold his, guiding it to her lips.

Soap let her, watching her closely, eyes dark. Soap’s palm cupped her face, his thumb dragging slowly over the fullness of her lower lip, a touch that should have been gentle, but it wasn’t, and Ilaria’s blood sang. She parted her lips just enough, sinking her teeth into his thumb and biting down. Not hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, an imprint of her own hunger.

Soap exhaled sharply, a quiet growl deep in his chest. His pupils dilated, his grip tightening just slightly on her face.

Good.

Then, just as slowly, she licked over the mark in apology. A soft flick of her damp tongue and that had Soap cursing under his breath, his jaw clenching. Her lips curved in a slow, knowing smirk. Still, before she could say anything, before she could gloat about winning his little game, he snatched her wrists again, flipping her onto her back, pressing her deep into the mattress.

His weight caged her in, his body flush against hers, and fuck, she had never wanted someone more.

His mouth hovered just above hers. “No backing out now, lass.”

She smirked, rolling her hips against him, “Do I look like I want to?”

Soap’s mouth crashed into hers, all heat and need, his grip tight on her hips as he pressed himself down against her. She could feel him, but there were still too many layers between them for her to be completely satisfied. There was barely any clarity left in her to work on the buttons of his shirt, her fingers trembling—not from nerves, but from the pure excitement curling deep in her belly. Soap groaned into her mouth when she dragged her nails down his chest, unfastening the last button before pushing the fabric over his shoulders. He shrugged it off without a thought, tossing it aside, baring his body’s lean, muscled planes to her.

God, he was beautiful.

Before she could trace her fingers down his chest, before she could take him in, his hands were on her waist, hooking into the fabric of her pants and tugging at them almost angrily. She lifted her hips without hesitation at the silent command, helping him pull them down, but before she could fully settle back onto the mattress, Soap moved.

He didn’t yank them off completely. Instead, he dragged them down her legs, then shimmed off the bed with them, pulling her with him, forcing her legs apart when she was free of them. Warm lips kissed up the inside of her thigh, his teeth grazing enough to make her squirm, and then he bit before moving on, biting a different tender spot of flesh. Ilaria gasped, her back arching slightly at the sensation. Soap hummed against her skin, his hands pressing her thighs wider, keeping her open for him. Like he wanted her right there, vulnerable, exposed and completely his.

She barely had time to catch her breath before he bit again, higher this time. His tongue soothed the sting, a sharp contrast to the harsh, open-mouthed kiss that followed. heat pooled between her legs as he moved higher, devouring her piece by piece, dragging her closer and closer to the edge without even touching her where she needed him most.

Ilaria let out a shaky breath, expecting him to go higher, expecting the warmth of his mouth to sink onto her completely where she was wet and aching for him-

Sharp slaps landed on each of her inner thighs, the sting snapping through her, sending another pulse of heat through her.

“Roll over.”

Soap’s voice was gravelly, and Ilaria barely heard him over the rush of blood in her ears. Her breath stuttered, her body tense and aching, but she pushed herself up, eyes locking with his. Soap’s hands had been on his belt, unfastening it, and she wanted to taste him, to drag her lips down his toned stomach, to see if he could stay as composed as he was now.

Ilaria sat up slowly as he kicked his pants aside, trailing her hands over his thighs as she moved closer, her lips parting as her mouth watered at the sight of his cock in front of her. It was perfect every time, and she wanted it in her mouth again, down her throat-

Soap’s hand snatched her wrist before she could touch it.

“Nah, lass. Not tonight.”

Before she could protest, before she could even blink, he grabbed and flipped her around, tossing her back onto the bed. A surprised gasp left her lips as she landed on her stomach, her arms catching her before she could fully collapse into the sheets.

There was still no time for her to fully register the shift; she barely had time to take a breath before she felt him behind her; a strong hand pulled her hips up, another scratching up her spine to the middle of her back, pressing her into the mattress.

Ilaria swallowed, her cheek pressing against the sheets, her entire body burning, throbbing, aching. She strained to try and see over her shoulder, desperate to see him, imagining how he must look right now—stripped down, muscles flexing, his cock hard and aching just like she was.

The bed dipped behind her, the warmth of him returning, his bare skin pressing against the backs of her thighs, and a smirk curled at her lips. She couldn’t lift herself up, but she could arch her back slightly, just enough to push her ass against him, enough to feel the solid weight of him.

Harsh fingers dug into her hip, keeping them up at the perfect height for him as he nudged her legs wider part with his knees. The hand keeping her pinned to the bed traced down her spine, following it to the gentle curve of her ass. Ilaria groaned, moving her hips back and started to lift herself to her elbows, needing something, anything.

A smack on the rump of her ass made her jump before the hand grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her down to the mattress again.

“You stay still tonight.”

Ilaria bit back a moan, her fingers twisting into the sheets, heat curling deep in her belly as she obeyed. Then she felt him hot and teasing as he slid his length slowly between her folds, spreading her slickness, coating himself in it without giving her what she wanted.

Her breath hitched, and Ilaria tried to push back, wanting to feel the sparks of pleasure she knew he could give her, excited for that feeling that she knew he would give her; she had never had a lover so attentive to foreplay.

“Soap—”

Another sharp slap to her ass.

Fuck.

“Don’t move.”

No foreplay tonight. Ilarias fingers tightened into the sheets as she groaned, but she was rewarded as he began to push inside. As excited as she was for this, as desperate for him as her body was, she still felt herself clench at the intrusion. Soap groaned, pulling back before pushing forward again, sinking a little deeper each time as he rolled his hips quickly. Then he filled her so completely that she gasped, her mouth falling open as the pressure of him so deep eithin her shot oddly mixed signals of pleasure and discomfort through her.

Soap moaned quietly, the hand on her hip holding her to him so tightly she could already feel the bruise.

“That’s it,” and that was the only warning she had, not allowing a moment longer for her to adjust before pulling back and driving into her again.

Shit, he wasn’t holding back. His pace was brutal and relentless, each thrust slamming deep, pushing her into the mattress. A loud moan tore from her lips, impossible to hold back, every nerve alight with sensation. There was nothing to do but take it, exactly like she had asked for.

Fingers clutched desperately at the sheets, the force of it all leaving her trembling, pleasure mounting too fast. Her muscles tensed, her wet walls fluttering around him, and above the steady rhythm of his breathing, a quiet, choked curse slipped from his lips as she clenched.

Good, she wanted him wrecked, too.

He changed his position, mounting more of her. Ilaria could only drop lower into the bed beneath the weight of him, beneath the onslaught of his hips against hers, his cock burying so deep inside her that she couldn’t tell if she was in agony or bliss. Ilaria mewled, pressing her face into the sheets as waves of pleasure rolled through her, every snap of his hips driving her deeper into that dizzying, overwhelming high.

His fingers tangled into her hair, yanking her up harshly. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as she was forced to arch, her back bowing. Soap’s breath was hot against her ear, ragged, intoxicating.

“No, no.” His grip in her hair tightened, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. “You wanted this, so you take everything I give you.” Another precise, punishing thrust sent stars exploding behind her eyes. “And you let me hear you sing.”

If he wanted singing, then he was going to get it.

A long, wrecked moan spilled from her lips now, dragged from somewhere deep inside, from the very core of her pleasure. The sound stretched, high and desperate, raw in a way she had never been before with any other lover.

But before she could even draw in another breath, his other hand slid forward, and those strong fingers wrapped around her throat, claiming her completely. The heat of his palm pressed against her skin, firm but not constricting to the point she couldn’t suck in a tight breath; it was enough to make her pulse race, to remind her that he was in control, making her brain numb and eyes water.

Fuck, she loved it.

Soap’s grip tightened slightly, tilting her head back, and the tingle of sharp pain across her scalp was addicting. His breath was hot, rough against the shell of her ear, a low growl that sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through her.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his thumb caressing over the rapid flutter of her pulse. “So fuckin’ pretty like this, so desperate for it.”

She hated he could still form words while Ilaria could only whimper, her fingers clawing at the sheets, trying to find something, anything to hold onto. Her body felt like it was burning from the inside out, spiralling dangerously close to the edge.

And he knew it. He always knew.

Soap shifted behind her, the movement deliberate and controlling. With a rough tug, he pulled her up, pressing her back against his chest until they were both kneeling on the bed, bodies moulded together, skin slick with sweat.

One arm wrapped tight around her hips, pinning her against him with handfuls of her skin, locking her in place as his thrusts grew faster, impossibly deeper. Every snap of his hips drove her higher, drowning her in sensation, unravelling her completely. His other hand slid up, pinching her nipples until she shuddered before moving higher until his arm curled around her throat.

A sharp, instinctive jolt of fear shot through her veins for a second. The sheer power of Soap, the effortless way he controlled her— he had probably killed men before with this chokehold and yet—God, the way that realisation sent molten heat straight between her legs, a rush of forbidden thrill that set her pulse racing. If wanting this sent her to hell, she’d go willingly.

A low, shattered moan spilled from her lips as fingernails dug into his forearm, searching for something, anything to hold on to. But there was nothing except him; the way he surrounded her, consumed her, ruined her.

Soap’s breath was hot against her ear, the rasp of his voice sending a violent shiver down her spine.

“Fuck, Ilaria… you feel that? The way you’re pulling me in?” His voice was rough, almost wrecked. “You’re gonna ruin me, lass.”

The sound of his voice, the rattle of it in his chest against her back, Ilaria swore she could feel it, how needy her pussy was to keep him inside her; she swore she could feel his pulse and throb inside her. Her head dropped back, and Soap took the offering, biting down with canines sharp enough to send her spiralling. Pleasure surged through her in electric bursts, her body tightening, quivering, everything inside her winding up impossibly tight.

She was right there, teetering on the edge, and he fucking knew it. Soap loosened his grip on her hip to let his fingers slide lower, trailing down her stomach, down between her legs to exactly where she needed him most.

“Oh fuck Soap!” A high, desperate cry left her lips as she shattered, pleasure crashing over her in violent waves that stole her breath. Soap cursed, gripping her tighter, chasing his own release as she pulsed around him, dragging him right over the edge with her. His thrusts grew erratic and rough, his own groan of pleasure muffled against the curve of her shoulder as he released inside her.

And then there was nothing but calm.

The only sound in the room was the sharp, uneven rhythm of their breathing, the quiet hum of lingering pleasure still burning through every cell in her body. Soap’s grip eased, his arm shifting from her throat to cradle her jaw instead. His fingers traced along her skin as if he was savouring how soft she was. Then he tilted her face towards him, capturing her lips in a deep, unhurried kiss, enjoying every lingering tremor that still raked through her.

Ilaria melted.

Her eyes had been closed—she wasn’t even sure for how long—but the world still felt like it was spinning, distant, and she was weightless and swept up in it. She returned the kiss as best she could, but her limbs felt like jelly, her body utterly spent, and she simply let Soap take what he wanted, what he needed.

Soap hummed against her lips, a satisfied sound and his hand drifted down her back, soothing the muscles he had tested so thoroughly before gripping her waist and steadying her as she tried to collapse forward.

He didn’t let her fall. Instead, he guided her down carefully, shifting their bodies until they were lying on their sides, his chest flush against her back. Deep and warm, he was still inside her, and she was glad for it.

Ilaria sighed, completely relaxed, completely ruined in the best possible way. She hurt in all the right ways, an ache that wasn’t unpleasant, a reminder of what they had just done, of how thoroughly he had taken her apart.

Soap’s arms tightened around her, his nose pressing against the damp skin of her neck. His breathing was steady now, and his touch was no longer rough but something kind, almost loving.

Neither of them spoke. Ilaria could feel him, feel everything—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath against her skin, the way his fingers traced absentminded patterns over her stomach before he exhaled against her neck, his lips pressing a final kiss against her skin before his breathing slowed, settling into something calmer.

He wasn’t going anywhere, and there was no need for a quick escape or detachment to avoid being caught. She felt her heart clench strangely before the tiredness pulled at her eyes.

Chapter Text

Ilaria didn’t want to move when her body stirred slowly. The early morning chill clung to the air, making her bury her face deeper into the warmth of the bed. Nothing was pressing on her schedule—no meetings or appearances—at least, she could remember none. So why not stay like this a little longer? She was so comfortable, and Soap smelled so damn good.

A single thought pulled her further from sleep; he was still here.

Ilaria kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, soaking in the warmth of their bodies tangled in the sheets, the scent of him in every breath she took. His steady breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest behind her. She wasn’t alone; he had stayed.

She wasn’t used to this, waking up with someone still beside her.

Carefully, she rolled to face him, his arm shifting, fingers brushing lazily against her skin as though he was aware of her even in his sleep. Ilaria watched him, studying how his lips were slightly parted and the unruly mess of his dark hair. Something warm curled in her stomach. She had known he was handsome, but seeing him like this—unguarded, quiet, without the teasing smirk or sharp wit—was different.

Slowly, she edged closer, careful not to wake him just yet. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this, but she just wanted to feel him, to hold onto this moment a little longer before the real world ruined it. Tentatively, she let her fingers brush through his fringe, tracing the deep scar across his temple. She hated to imagine what would have caused it.

Soap exhaled softly at the touch, stirring slightly before his voice, rough with sleep, mumbled, “Mornin’.”

“Morning.” His eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep, before sharpening as they landed on her face. Silence settled between them, neither moving, just watching each other. Being like this was strange, simply existing in someone else’s space without needing to fill it with words.

She touched him again carefully, allowing herself more boldness this time, threading her fingers into his dark hair. His hand moved, warm and slow, not desperate like last night but softer. His touch skimmed down her side, tracing the dip of her waist as he held her softly.

“How’re you feelin’?” His voice was still thick with sleep, his eyes half-lidded, like he had no intention of moving from this bed anytime soon. Ilaria considered the question, stretching slightly beneath the sheets before humming, “Sore. In all the right places.”

Soap huffed a quiet chuckle. “No bruises?” His fingers skimmed along her wrist, his thumb brushing lazily over the pulse point before his gaze drifted lower over what he could see of her body.

“None that I won’t want.”

That earned another chuckle, but then his expression shifted, more serious now, his knuckles tracing lightly along her neck. She could imagine it was still marked from last night, but she didn’t care.

“You need anything? Water? Food?”

The question caught her off guard. Usually, she was the one slipping away, leaving before the silence between bodies could turn heavy. Before disappointment and hollow grief had the chance to set in but right now, she didn’t want to move.

Still, she scoffed, rolling onto her back against the pillows. “I don’t need you fussing over me.”

Soap didn’t let go of her wrist.

“I’m not fussin’, Ilaria.” His grip tightened slightly, pinning her hand beside her head as he rolled with her, his legs tangling with hers as he hovered over her. “I just spent half the night fuckin’ you into the mattress. Least I can do is make sure you’re alright.”

Heat flushed through her, pleasure curling back to life just from the sound of his voice, that deep, teasing roughness that sent sparks down her spine. Her thighs pressed together instinctively. Soap caught the movement, and his lips twitched with amusement before he kissed her forehead.

She had never liked the feeling of being trapped before under the weight of another person. But God, this? This she could get used to.

His voice was quieter now, his fingers brushing along her jaw. “You alright?”

Ilaria could only stare up at him, caught between wanting to answer honestly and wanting to ignore the truth entirely.

This was dangerous, she wasn’t supposed to want this. Not the sex—that part, she could justify. But this? The comfort? The way he looked at her like she actually mattered?

That was the kind of thing that made people reckless.

She swallowed, forcing herself to nod, and Soap seemed to accept it. His touch lingered for a second longer before he sighed softly and pressed a kiss to her lips, not demanding, not teasing, but something else.

Fuck.

She was so fucked.

Soap pulled back slightly, watching her, waiting for something from her. When she stayed quiet, Soap’s hand trailed lower, pushing the sheet aside as he cupped the back of her thigh, lifting it just enough so he could press more firmly against her. It wasn’t heated; it was just the same feeling of being as close as possible to one another.

Soap exhaled, running a hand down her side, forcing himself to move. “C’mon, I’ll get us somethin’ to eat.” Ilaria blinked up at him, and Soap chuckled. “Don’t look so surprised. I can cook.”

She scoffed, sinking deeper into the pillows as he rolled off her with far too much energy for someone who had been half-asleep moments ago. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Soap chuckled as he stood, stretching and flexing every muscle in his back. Ilaria bit her lip, watching him as she drank in the way his body shifted. Swallowing hard, she dragged the sheet higher over her, resisting the urge to pull him back into bed and drag him under the covers with her. Last night was still on her skin, in her body, and all she could think about was how good it felt. How good he felt.

She should feel ashamed for wanting him again so soon, for being so reckless. But when Soap caught her staring, that smug little smirk curling on his lips, mischief flashing in his eyes, she really didn’t give a shit.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, lass, we’ll never get out of this bed.”

Ilaria rolled her eyes, pretending she wasn’t affected but knew her face was warm. She buried herself deeper in the pillows, ignoring his chuckle as he shook his head and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Eventually, Ilaria forced herself to move. Her body protested, but she ignored it, letting the sheet pool in her lap as she moved to the edge of the bed. Naked, the cool morning air prickled her skin, and she searched for her clothes. All she could find was Soap’s shirt, which she grabbed. The fabric was soft and smelled like him as she slipped it over her shoulders, buttoning it up and tugging the hem down as far as it would go. She found her underwear tangled in the sheets, snatching them up before entering the small bathroom.

The light flickered on, too bright against the early morning haze, but she didn’t bother turning it off. Instead, she braced her hands on the sink, looking at herself in the mirror.

A mess. Hair tangled, lips swollen, skin flushed from where Soap had touched her, marked her. It didn’t look bad—it looked good. It looked like something she had wanted.

And yet—

A dark bruise was forming along the side of her forehead from the butt of the gun. Her eyes flicked lower, to the faint bruising on her wrist, not from Soap but from them. Nausea twisted her stomach, creeping up her throat as the memories surfaced.

Don’t scream, we wouldn’t want to make a mess.

It was embarrassing now for her to think she had just nodded and was about to go along with whatever they wanted. But what the hell else could she have done? She didn’t know how to fight, didn’t know how to overpower men twice her size. If Soap and the others hadn’t gotten to her in time—

Ilaria inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing the thoughts away as she turned on the tap, cupping cold water in her hands and splashing it against her face, chasing away the lingering heat of sleep. Her fingers trailed to her throat, brushing over the marks Soap had left, a different kind of imprint. She let out a slow breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Soap had held her too, pinned her down—but he had never hurt her, never made her feel powerless.

Her fingers curled against the porcelain sink. Maybe that’s why she had wanted him like that last night. To be held down by choice. To have control over when, how, and with whom. She swallowed hard, straightening her posture.

Grabbing a washcloth, she wet it, ran it over her skin, and wiped away the last traces of last night. She didn’t want to get dressed just yet, but she felt better.

When she finally stepped out of the bathroom, Soap was waiting. He leaned against the kitchen arch, a cup of coffee in one hand. His eyes dragged over her body and lingered on her exposed legs before he smiled up at her.

“You alright?” He said it so gently.

Ilaria nodded, but she knew he saw right through her. “Of course.”

Soap didn’t push; he just extended the coffee toward her, and she took it, fingers brushing his before she brought the cup to her lips. It was hot and bitter, and her gaze met his over the mug’s rim. “You make breakfast too? Or am I supposed to be impressed by just this?”

Soap smiled, his gaze turning into something lighter. “Patience, lassie..”

The safehouse kitchen was small and bare, meant for function over comfort. The cupboards held only the essentials, and the fridge hummed low in the silence. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of something being toasted.

Soap had managed to scavenge enough together for breakfast—a simple meal of toast and eggs, barely seasoned, but it was food. They sat across from each other at the tiny wooden table, plates between them; the only sound was the quiet scrape of cutlery.

Soap wasn’t talking much. That wasn’t unusual; Ilaria didn’t know him as a man who filled silences unless needed, but it felt different this morning. It wasn’t awkward, but his eyes would flick up and over her occasionally, like he was giving her space to decide whether she wanted to speak.

Ilaria took a bite, chewing slowly, barely tasting it. She wasn’t hungry, but he had made it for her. It was easier to focus on the food, on the heat of the coffee cup against her palm, than on the thoughts creeping into her mind. But keeping quiet would never help them get answers.

She swallowed, then set the fork down.

“Do you need to know what happened now?” she asked. Soap looked up, his blue eyes steady as he waited. Ilaria exhaled slowly, fingers running along the edge of the table. “I was unconscious for a lot of it, I think,” she touched the bruise on her forehead, not missing the way Soaps’ face tensed. He didn’t move, but his grip on his fork tightened slightly.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I do.” She met his gaze, running a thumb along the rim of her coffee mug. “They said that kidnapping me was not the end goal, just a step. It sounded like they would keep me somewhere for a while, but they weren’t to harm me.”

Soap set his fork down carefully, his forearms resting against the table’s edge. “Did they say anything about who sent them?”

Ilaria shook her head. “Not directly. But one of them said something that sounded like they were a group called Nerium. And before you ask, I have never heard of them.”

Soap exhaled sharply through his nose. “Probably not freelancers then. They are working for someone.” He wiped the last few crumbs off his plate with a piece of toast.

“We should head back to the estate now; they may have more information.”

Ilaria swallowed the last mouthful of her coffee. She knew this moment was coming, but hoped it would be longer. Of course, they couldn’t stay holed up here forever, pretending the world outside didn’t exist. She could already imagine that her mother’s reaction would not be relief or concern, but frustration. Frustration that Ilaria had been a problem, an inconvenience, that she had required the use of extra security and extra resources, and that she had made the Montevi name look weak by getting herself kidnapped in the first place.

You should have been smarter, Ilaria. You should have seen it coming. You should have handled it before it became a mess for me to clean up.

A headache already pressed against her temples.

Soap must have caught the shift in her expression, because he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “We don’t have to rush back if you’re not ready.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “And what? Stay here forever? I don’t think I will ever be ready.” Her fingers idly brushed the rim of her mug, eyes flicking toward the faint light streaming through the window. “As tempting as that sounds, there’s no avoiding it. My mother will want to see me—to remind me how I’ve wasted everyone’s time.”

Soap’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue; he just studied her for a moment like he always did, with a slight pout in his lips. Ilaria pushed her chair back, stretching her arms overhead, spine arching with a pop.

She could feel his eyes on her, taking in the sight of her in his shirt, and she gave him a sly smile as she unbuttoned it, stripping it off and holding it out to him.

“Here. Can’t have you wandering around half-naked.”

She stood before him in nothing but her underwear, unapologetic. Soap rose slowly from his chair, reaching for the shirt, his eyes never leaving her face. Hers, however, wandered freely. She took in the hard planes of his stomach, the fading bruises, and the line of a scar that curved just above his hip. How long she stared was shameless; she didn’t even try to hide it.

“Like what you see?” he teased.

Ilaria quirked an eyebrow, but turned away with a feigned indifference, even as the heat climbed in her cheeks. She began to dress, pulling on her pants and trying her best to smooth out the wrinkles in her blouse while Soap moved to the window. He buttoned his shirt quickly, his gaze scanning the street below. Instinct had taken over again. She fastened the last few buttons on her shirt, then leaned briefly against the dresser, watching him. Even here, in the quiet of this tucked-away safehouse, he never truly let his guard down.

“I’m ready,” she said softly.

Soap looked over his shoulder with a nod, then gave the window one final glance. As he stepped beside her, his shoulder brushed lightly against hers.

“Let’s go.”

The ride back to the estate was quiet. The roads were mostly empty this early in the morning, the city barely waking to start the day as golden sunlight began to peak over and through the buildings on the horizon. Ilaria stared out of the window, watching the blur of buildings pass, her thoughts tangled more than her hair.

“Gotta make a stop first.” Soap said.

Ilaria blinked, glancing at him. “For what?”

“Information about your kidnappers.”

She studied his profile for a moment. His grip on the steering wheel was steady, his expression unreadable, but something about how he said it made her stomach twist. Still, she only nodded. “Alright.”

They drove a little longer before he pulled off the main road, winding through narrower streets until they reached a small city park. It wasn’t the kind meant for children; there were no bright playgrounds or swings, just an open space with a scattering of trees and benches, a few joggers passing through, and older men reading newspapers on benches.

A park? She supposed there were more bizarre places that people could meet.

Soap put the car in park and turned to her. “Stay in the car.”

She arched a brow at him, blinking disappointedly. “You really think I’m gonna get out and start waving my arms around?”

Soap smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just stay down. I’ll be quick.”

He didn’t wait for her response; he just pushed the door open and stepped out, moving with that easy, confident stride she was starting to recognise as his usual way of controlling a situation. Ilaria sank lower in the passenger seat, watching as he crossed the pavement, pausing near a line of trees, glancing at his watch as he waited.

Another man soon approached. He was older, dressed plainly in jeans and a dark jacket, the kind of person you wouldn’t look twice at in a crowd. His posture was relaxed, but Ilaria had been around men who were soldiers, trained killers who tried to act like civilians. She could see right through him.

Soap and the man exchanged a few words before Soap reached into his pocket and pulled something small out.

A flash drive.

The man took it, slipping it into his jacket pocket without looking. Another exchange, a nod from Soap, and then they parted.

Ilaria frowned from her seat in the car, eyes narrowing. Wasn’t Soap supposed to be the one gathering information? Receiving intel? What the hell was he giving away? A trade, maybe. Information for information. That made sense… didn’t it?

Soap turned back to the car, walking with the same easy stride as if nothing unusual had happened. Ilaria sat perfectly still as he slid back into the driver’s seat, shutting the door.

She didn’t ask, didn’t press him for an explanation as the engine rumbled to life, and they pulled back onto the road.

The Montevi estate loomed, the sight of its grand gates not as comforting as she had thought they would be. She wasn’t sure what to expect. The moment the car pulled up to the front entrance, the doors were opened before the vehicle could even stop. Guards were waiting, staff and other people moving quickly, their eyes focused on her. Ilaria barely had time to straighten her posture before Lucrezia emerged from the entrance.

“Oh, amore mio,”

She quickly closed the distance between them, and the embrace came before she could react. Lucrezia’s arms wrapped around her in a way that left Ilaria momentarily stunned. Her mother rarely touched her, let alone hugged her like this, tight, protective, and genuine?

She stiffened before allowing herself to briefly sink into it, just enough to absorb the moment. The scent of her perfume was familiar, something expensive and floral. It felt… strange.

Lucrezia pulled back, and her long fingers gripped Ilaria’s face, tilting her chin up to inspect her.

“Look at you…” she murmured, eyes sweeping over every detail—the bruises, the exhaustion, the scruffiness, “Who dared do this to you?”

Ilaria didn’t answer, knowing that it wasn’t one she would have to. Lucrezia turned sharply toward Soap. “You brought her back to me, you protected my daughter.”

Ilaria glanced at Soap, catching the slight crease of his brows, the way he hesitated for just a second before giving a small nod.

“Did my job, ma’am.”

Lucrezia exhaled, placing a hand lightly over her chest. “Thank you.”

Ilaria wasn’t sure what was more surprising, her mother’s gratitude or the fact that she looked like she actually meant it.

But the moment was short-lived. Lucrezia straightened, the softness in her expression turning to stone, her fingers curling into tight fists.

“They dared to touch my daughter.” The words rang out, sharp and venom-laced, cutting through the courtyard. “We will not rest until the house responsible is brought to its knees. This is a declaration of war. Whoever thinks they can lay a hand on what belongs to Montevi will regret the day they were born.”

Ilaria said nothing—not because she disagreed, or because arguing was pointless. She stayed silent because the only person who had truly laid hands on her yesterday wasn’t a kidnapper. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Soap, catching the subtle shift in his jaw, the way his shoulders squared. He was probably thinking the same thing.

Lucrezia was furious at the wrong people.

And Ilaria wasn’t about to correct her.

Chapter Text

Once Lucrezia had made up her mind, nothing on Earth could change it. Ilaria’s bruises had only just begun to fade yet her mother was already preparing to throw her back into the spotlight. To Soap, it felt less like a social gathering and more like a test. Or a trap. Lucrezia wasn’t shielding her daughter tonight; she would be parading her around and dangling Ilaria like bait to see who might be bold or stupid enough to take it.

Soap had arrived at the mansion early that morning with Ilaria and a small army of guards and staff. Preparations were already in full swing; staff were hurrying through the halls, the grand ballroom echoing with the sounds of movement and orders. Some fussed with table arrangements and crystal glassware, others vanished into the cellar, returning with dusty bottles of vintage wine as if it mattered what the guests drank when Soap was sure bullets could be flying by midnight.

Soap and the security team had swept every corner of the area, checking blind spots, testing emergency comms, reviewing escape routes and fallback points. He made sure guards were stationed at every entrance, exits reinforced, vehicles checked and ready in case they needed to vanish before dessert was served. It wasn’t enough; if Soap had his way, Ilaria would be holed up somewhere safe while he hunted down whoever was responsible for hurting her.

Now, he stood in the shadow of a column, eyes tracking every movement across the ballroom as guests began to pour in through the open doors. Cloaked in wealth and charm, smiles painted on, all dressed to impress. Any one of them could be the enemy. Any one of them could be the bastard who orchestrated the kidnapping. Any one of them could be planning to finish what they started.

Ilaria had told Soap on the way that this mansion was just another of the Montevi collection, a grand gift from some long-dead prince centuries ago.

It wasn’t just grand, it was oppressively opulent, the kind of place built to remind every guest of their place and exactly who sat at the top of the gilded staircase. The main hall was drowned in gold and marble. Gilded Corinthian columns stretched from gleaming floors to a painted ceiling. It depicted gods and war, mythic scenes he didn’t fully recognise. Still, Soap didn’t need to be a scholar of Montevian history to know what it was meant to say: we were chosen by divine right. Polished marble reflected the chandeliers overhead in a thousand glittering fragments. Statues and busts lined the perimeter, ancestral figures and long-dead icons watching from their pedestals like stone judges.

Everyone wore pleasant smiles, laughter mixing with the soft music of the live band, but Soap saw through it. Whether they were members of the main houses or just well-dressed vultures with influence, everyone in this room was a wolf in silk.

The double doors opposite the main entrance opened, and the chatter in the ballroom faltered for a moment.

Ilaria stood framed in the threshold like something pulled straight from the fresco above them—radiant and otherworldly. Her deep, royal blue gown hugged her waist before spilling into a full skirt that moved like water. Gold embroidery ran down the fabric in intricate, vine-like, ancient heraldry patterns. Across her chest and shoulders, the design thickened to laurel-shaped filigree like armour.

She didn’t just look beautiful, she looked sovereign.

Even Soap, who was used to war zones and dark corners of the world where whisky replaced wine and music came from jukeboxes, felt the purpose of it. This dress was like a declaration. Draped in Montevian colours, Ilaria was reminding them all exactly who she was.

Even the heads of the other houses, all men carved from centuries of privilege and power, paused. From across the room, even Stefano froze mid-sip, wine forgotten at his lips.

But for Soap, it landed like a punch to the ribs.

She wasn’t just beautiful, she was devastating.

Every inch of her radiated control and confidence. This wasn’t the woman he had held close in a safehouse, trembling under his touch and whispering that she didn’t want to be seen as fragile. This was Ilaria de Montevi: heir and symbol. A woman born into a world where elegance was armour and attention was currency.

And he’d dared to touch her like she was his.

Guilt curdled low in his gut, sharp and unwelcome. He was one of them, one of the wolves. No—worse. He hadn’t used her name or her family; he had used her. Her trust. Her body. All for the mission.

Soap’s jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. He hated himself for it, for standing in this sea of silken wolves, pretending to be anything different when he had done the worst thing imaginable; slipped under her defences for a greater goal.

And yet…he couldn’t look away. Because Ilaria was his, whether she knew it or not, and every cell in his body screamed that he’d never let anyone touch her again. Not Stefano or any of these smug bastards in tailored suits. No one.

He didn’t deserve her but fucking Christ help him, he couldn’t stay away either.

She descended the steps with effortless grace; her smile was the one he knew was the weapon. Every man she passed leaned in just a little too far, and every woman tried to match her poise and fell short. And then she was in the centre of it all, surrounded on all sides by would-be enemies: House De Santis, House Varetti, even that snake Stefano lingered at the edge, trailing her every move.

Soap tracked her movements with the intensity he used to scan an active battlefield. It was instinct by now, but soon he realised it wasn’t just threat assessment. He had no right to feel it, but fuck if it didn’t feel like she was pulling the breath from his lungs every time she smiled at someone else.

She laughed at something one of the Varetti sons said. Not a polite smile, a real laugh, her hand brushing over his arm. The touch was casual, harmless to anyone who didn’t know her. But Soap knew better. He knew her laugh when it was real, he knew how her fingers curled when she was nervous, how she tilted her chin when she was sizing someone up. And right now?

She was playing them. Flirting. Charming.

And it was fucking killing him.

He clenched his jaw, jaw ticking as she leaned closer to one of them, too close. One hand resting lightly on a man’s shoulder, her lips brushing his ear as she said something Soap couldn’t hear. Another laugh, another lingering touch, another flutter of her eyelashes that said, You want me to notice you, and I have.

Soap knew what this was. It was strategy, a queen moving across the chessboard in a dress made of house colours and war paint disguised as gold thread. She was in control, yet Soap burned with jealousy like he’d been replaced.

Ilaria looked at him, a glance over her delicate shoulder, her eyes locking with his, and she smiled. Innocent. Fucking innocent. Like she didn’t have a single clue she was the reason his blood was boiling.

It made it worse that she didn’t see it. Didn’t see the way his jaw ached from being clenched too tight, the way his fingers twitched at his sides with every damn touch she gave to someone else or every other hand that touched her back or waist.

Christ, the way she smiled at him, so unaware, so sweet, as if she wasn’t the reason he was standing there trying not to lose control in a room full of vultures. Like he was just another man in the crowd, not the one who had tasted every inch of her, who had made her cry out his name, who had kissed every bruise he’d left behind on her skin.

The ballroom fell quiet, and Soap was snatched from his thoughts as Lucrezia Montevi stood at the top of the grand staircase. Draped in black and gold, her mere presence demanded stillness. Sharp eyes took in the room, as if making sure to look at each and every single person before her with a calm expression. Dangerous.

“My friends,” she said, smooth as silk, “how rare it is for us to all be gathered under one roof. The five houses, bound by history and blood.”

She let the words hang, watching the crowd like a spider watches the edge of its web.

“You have come tonight to show respect, not just to the Montevi legacy,” she gestured lightly to the grandeur around her, “but to something greater. To the pact that has kept our houses strong, resilient and untouchable.”

Soap stood near the edge of the crowd, spine stiffening.

“In recent months, there have been… rumours. Whispers of unrest. Attempts to fracture what has long been whole.” She tilted her head, voice calm, almost amused. “Some people out there, and indeed, some of you in here, believe the houses have weakened. That we bleed quietly behind closed doors, that our names can be toyed with and our daughters can be taken.”

A few heads turned subtly toward Ilaria, who stood near the base of the staircase like a statue.

“But we are still here. And tonight, Montevi opens its doors to you all, raises its glasses, and smiles—because we are civilised. Because we believe in tradition. In unity.” She descended a single marble step. “Let me remind you, as clearly as I can: an attack on one house is an attack on all. Those who betray us do not go unpunished. The old blood still runs deep and strong. We must look to the future, and for the future to endure, it must be guided, not scattered. We cannot afford chaos while the world watches. Montevia was once ruled by a single voice, a single will.” Her gaze swept the room. “And it will be again.”

Lucrezia smiled, raising her glass. “To unity, loyalty and to the inevitable return of order.”

The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath. Then, one by one, crystal glasses lifted, and toasts were shouted. The string quartet resumed, as if nothing had happened, but Soap felt it, the unease threading through the room like smoke. He saw it in the side glances, the stiff smiles, the tension in knuckles gripping delicate stems.

It wasn’t just a toast, it was a warning. Ilaria was standing right in the centre of a declaration of war.

As the crowd began to move again, Soap started to weave his way toward Ilaria, who was poised and unreadable at the base of the stairs. But Soap saw the tension in her shoulders, the tight grip of her hand at her side. She hadn’t reacted during the speech or flinched when her mother spoke of daughters being taken. Still, he knew her well enough now to understand the storm beneath the surface. He needed to be beside her, needed her to realise she wasn’t alone in this, but he couldn’t get to her.

Lucrezia had descended the stairs and, the moment she saw Soap, walked straight toward him. Every inch of her was like a queen, something to be feared and marvelled at. Guests parted for her without a word, without a second thought, until she was in front of him.

“Mr. Ellice, I must commend you.”

Soap gave a subtle bow of his head. “For what, ma’am?”

“For your loyalty,” she said simply. “You’ve been with us for some time now, yet you’ve already proven yourself more steadfast than men who’ve had a lifetime to try.”

Her gaze searched his face, and for a terrifying moment, Soap felt exposed.

“You act without hesitation. Protect without question. Men like that are… rare, and rarely without motive.”

Soap’s throat worked around a tight swallow, but he held her sharp gaze.

“I believe in order,” he said. “In keeping things from falling apart. You spoke tonight about unity—about taking Montevia back. I just want to help make that happen. If I can be of use... I will be.”

Lucrezia smiled, and Soap had half expected to see a row of sharp teeth behind her lips. “Ah. So you’re a soldier and a politician.”

“Just observant,” Soap replied smoothly. “I know strength when I see it.”

She turned slightly, watching the rest of the ballroom swirl back into motion with an unkind gaze, like how Soap felt he looked when scanning the room for threats. “Then perhaps you’ve also observed the rot beneath the surface,” she said. “The ones who dress in tradition but plot with outsiders. The ones who speak of peace while lining their pockets with betrayal.”

Soap didn’t answer, just watched her profile carefully.

“I wonder,” she murmured, “if it’s loyalty that drives you… or ambition.”

Soap let out the barest chuckle. “Can’t be both?”

Lucrezia turned back to him, studying him again. “I wonder what we did to deserve such loyalty,” she said softly. Her eyes flicked to the far side of the room, and Soap followed her gaze.

To Ilaria.

Soap’s blood ran cold, and Lucrezia lingered there, watching her daughter, who was now speaking with a councilman near the stairwell, unaware of the weight aimed at her.

Lucrezia looked back at Soap, and for a moment, his heart stopped. But she didn’t say a word. Didn’t accuse, didn’t hint, didn’t even blink. She just reached out, brushed a speck of invisible lint from his lapel with the tenderness of a mother and smiled.

“A useful man, John. I hope you stay that way.”

Lucrezia’s heels clicked as she walked away, swallowed by the crowd. For a moment, Soap stayed rooted in place, her words echoing in his head. He exhaled through his nose, steadying the ache in his chest, and turned to find Ilaria. Her gaze found his across the ballroom, and just as quickly, she turned away, her attention sliding back to the young man beside her.

Soap’s jaw tightened again as she laughed at something the man said, her hand brushing against his chest, and the bastard took it as an invitation. His hand slid around her waist, fingers trailing lower, far too low.

Soap’s eyes darkened. He waited for her to recoil and slap the hand away like it was foul. But she didn’t; she simply smiled and pushed at the man’s chest like they were flirting in the back of some club.

Heat surged under Soap’s skin again. That low, slow burn he usually kept in check coiled tight in his chest. She left the room a minute later, slipping through a side corridor like it was nothing.

Soap didn’t hesitate; he knew this game.

He followed.

The corridor was narrow, hushed, and dim compared to the brightness of the main hall. Gold sconces lit the way with a soft flicker, and he turned a corner and found her in one of the many reception rooms, all velvet and luxurious, with tall windows that overlooked the gardens.

Ilaria was waiting for him. She stood by one of the windows, leaning casually against the sill as if she hadn’t just left him boiling in a ballroom full of enemies. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, the soft hem of her dress brushing against the polished floor. They were far enough from the music now that it was just a faint vibration in the walls.

Soap stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a click that sounded louder than it should have.

“You trying to get me to start a fight tonight?” Soap’s voice was low, and a slow smile curved her lips.

“Why, Soap, are you jealous?” she purred.

He was in front of her in a heartbeat, caging her between his body and the window. His hands planted on either side of her waist, not touching, not yet, but close enough she would feel the heat radiating off him.

“You were flirting with him.”

“Of course I was.” Her tone was flat, almost amused, and she raised a brow like it should’ve been obvious. But then her lips curled into a knowing smile. “And you didn’t like it.”

“You think this is a game?” His voice came out lower than he intended, rough from the heat in his chest. She leaned back slightly, her posture shifting just enough that Soap caught it. For a split second, he wondered if his stance, voice, and anger were too much. Her brow furrowed, and the look in her eyes wasn’t smug or scared. It was… disappointment.

“Yes,” she said simply, her voice quieter now. “This whole life—this world my mother built—it’s a fucking game of chess, Soap. You either learn to move the pieces or you get sacrificed.” Her fingers slid up over the buttons of his shirt. “Everything I do is a move. Every look, every touch, it’s all a lie.” Then her hand curled around the back of his neck. “But this?” She pressed her body flush against his. “This is real.”

Soap’s breath hitched as Ilaria’s pressed into him now, her body molding against his like she belonged there and fuck, did it feel like she did. Her hand curled behind his neck, nails lightly grazing his skin, pulling his mouth close to hers, not quite kissing, just letting her breath brush his lips.

“You think anyone else gets me like you do?” she murmured, her lips ghosting over his jaw as her fingers curled in his shirt, tugging slightly. “You think I’d let them touch me the way I let you?”

Soap swallowed hard, his jaw tight, and his hands gripped the windowsill painfully hard as he tried not to give in. Not too fast anyway because God and Price forgive him, he knew he was going to again.

He let out a breath through his nose, catching her wrist as her fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his trousers. Not to stop her, he knew he didn’t have the strength to, but because he needed to know.

“This isn’t just some move for you?” he asked.

Her hand stilled, but her gaze didn’t falter. “No,” she whispered. “You’re not a move, Johnny. You’re the only thing in this whole damn house that feels real.”

That did it. Something in him snapped; need or fury or the ache of wanting her too much, and his mouth sealed over hers. He didn’t care if someone walked in at that moment, didn’t care about Lucrezia, or the CIA, or the knife-edge he was dancing on.

She stepped back from him suddenly, eyes still locked on his, and before he could ask what she was doing, her hands were at his chest, pushing. Soap let her guide him, stumbling back a few steps until his back hit the opposite wall. The cold marble kissed the back of his head as he leaned into it, his pulse thundering in his ears. She sank to her knees in front of him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she belonged there. Her hands slid down his torso, and when her fingers reached the belt at his waist, he thought he might actually forget how to breathe.

His head banged gently back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as he muttered, “Fuckin’ hell, Ilaria…” the words dragged from his throat as her hands freed his cock.

Then her mouth was on him—hot, wet and relentless as she sucked him into her mouth and deeper. Every instinct screamed at him to reach down, to grab her by the hair and take control the way he usually did. But he didn’t, couldn’t, because this, her on her knees, her hands steady and sure, her mouth worshipping him with a fire in her eyes, this was hers and he would let her have it.

Her mouth moved with maddening pressure, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to touch her—fuck, he wanted to guide her, thread his fingers through her hair, feel the rhythm of her moving around him but he held back. Somehow.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles aching with restraint as pleasure coiled low and hot in his gut, tight as a wire. Christ, she was destroying him so effortlessly. She knew exactly where to touch, how to look, what to give and what to take. When she slipped off him just long enough to draw a breath, lips slick, a quiet sound like a moan in her throat, she looked up at him with those big brown eyes, it knocked every thought out of his head.

There was no control, no mission, no rules. Just her and the need to hear the way his name would fall from her mouth again if he gave her exactly what she wanted.

Reaching down, he hooked under her arms and lifted her to her feet, capturing her lips with a groan. He wanted her so badly it hurt. But he fought it, clung to that last fraying thread of control. Her lipstick somehow was still perfect, her lips red and swollen from where she’d taken him in her mouth, and he could see a slight red bloom along her chin, raw from the scrape of his stubble against her soft skin. The sight nearly undid him, and he felt sick with a need to smudge that perfect red lipstick.

His hands moved on instinct, sliding down the curve of her back, gathering the heavy fabric of her gown. It bunched beneath his fingers as he dragged it higher, inch by inch, until her thighs were bare beneath his hands. He lifted one of her legs, and she curled it around his hip as he stepped into her, their bodies pressed flush.

His hand gripped her thigh, the supple flesh warm and tender beneath his calloused palm, and he ground against her. One of her arms looped around his neck, anchoring herself as her other hand slid between them, dragging her panties aside. He enjoyed the soft hitch of her breath, the flicker in her eyes as they met his. Then she arched into him with a wicked little moan, her lips brushing his ear.

“You’re the only one who gets this,” she whispered. “Only you make me come undone like this.”

Soap groaned, his forehead dropped against hers, the tip of his cock nudging her entrance, slick and unbearably hot.

“Say it again,” he muttered, not ashamed of the blatant want in his voice.

“I’m yours.”

Soap thrust into her.

She gasped as he filled her, her back hitting the wall with a thud as her leg tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper. Soap groaned into the crook of her neck, every muscle tight as he thrust again, rough and hungry, her tight heat around him what he had been craving all night.

“Soap!”

They moved in sync, fast, as they both tried to soothe the ache. The scrape of his belt buckle, the frustration of her heavy dress getting in the way—everything about this was unpolished and rushed.

Ilaria moaned, her head tipping back against the wall, lips parted, chest rising fast. He watched her, she was so damn beautiful it made his head spin.

“Fuck, you feel—” he couldn’t even finish the sentence. She clenched around him, and his knees nearly buckled. Fingers dragged into his hair, gripping tight, pulling his face close. His rhythm stuttered, jaw clenched, but hips snapping harder, rougher, faster, and she met every thrust, hands clawing at his back now, whimpers breaking free with every movement. Her leg slipped briefly from his waist, and he caught her with one arm under her thigh, adjusting without pause, driving into her so deep they both choked on breath. Nails raked down his neck as she tightened around him, gasping his name.

“Need to come,” Soap bit his lip and he felt the small shiver that ran down Ilarias spine, her pussy clenching impossibly tight around him that he almost couldn’t slide out of her.

“In me, don’t you dare stop.” she licked her fingers before her hand dropped to her clit, her legs quivering and who was Soap to deny her. Her mouth fell open as she came, and it dragged him over with her, a low moan as he buried himself to the hilt, chasing every last tremor she gave him.

They didn’t move at first. Still tangled, breathless, and trembling in the quiet, neither was ready to move. Soap’s arms were around her, and Ilaria clung just as tightly, her leg still hooked around his hip, her breath warm against his throat.

He leaned in to kiss her again, slow and unhurried this time, but just as his lips grazed hers, there was a knock at the door and a heartbeat later, the door creaked open.

Soap’s instincts instantly kicked in, pulling Ilaria tighter against him, shielding her from sight of whoever was at the door.

“Oh—shit, sorry! Didn’t think this room was taken.” A man peeked in, one of the younger heirs from one of the houses Soap couldn’t remember, a drunken grin on his face, and clearly not alone. Another man leaned against him, giggling as he pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Carry on!” the first man said with a grin, raising a hand as he backed out. “We’ll find another corner!” He gave Soap a wink and shut the door with a click.

Soap exhaled slowly, still facing the door for a beat before turning back to Ilaria. She was half-laughing, half-horrified, her hand pressed to her mouth, trying not to make a sound.

Soap didn’t move at first, still pressed against her, still buried inside her.

“That,” she whispered with a nervous laugh, “was definitely not the quiet moment I was hoping for.”

Soap felt himself laugh despite the rush of fear that flooded his system. “You’re the one who dragged me into a side room dressed like a goddess and started undoing my pants.”

“I never heard you complain,” she murmured, nipping his lip. But then, reluctantly, she let her head fall back against the wall with a sigh. “Guess we should go before someone else comes looking for somewhere to sneak off with their lover.”

Soap finally stepped back, adjusting his clothes as she did the same, smoothing out her gown as best she could.

“You think that guy was lookin’ for you?” Soap asked, glancing toward the door with a frown.

Ilaria let out a soft laugh, adjusting her dress. “No, just scouting for an empty room to sneak off into. These parties get dull without a few inter-house scandals. Honestly, if someone doesn’t get caught half-naked or slapped by a furious fiancée before the night’s over, the tabloids will be devastated.”

Soap huffed a quiet breath as he straightened his cuffs and ran a hand through his hair.

Once they were both put back together, clothes fixed and not a hair out of place, he moved to the door, cracking it open to glance down the corridor.

“Alright. You go first,” he murmured, “People’ll expect me to be missin’. You? They’ll start whispering if you’re gone too long.”

Ilaria gave a small nod and stepped into the hallway, but just before she walked away, she turned back, her hand lifting to gently cup his jaw.

“You don’t have to be jealous, Soap.”

He leaned in and kissed her, a soft, unhurried press of his lips to hers.

“I’ll always be, lass.”

Soap waited until her footsteps had faded before stepping out himself, his face already shifting back into that neutral slate, just a guard on patrol. The moment he stepped into the grand ballroom again, the warmth of their moment vanished, replaced by chandeliers, music, and too many eyes watching everyone too closely.

Ilaria was already there, gliding through the crowd like she hadn’t just been pressed against a wall with his name on her lips. He followed a few paces behind, just like a proper bodyguard should. She was speaking to some foreign dignitary, laughing softly at something he said, her doe eyes wide with polite admiration. He might’ve believed the act if Soap hadn’t just had her gasping against a wall.

But he knew how she tasted when the mask slipped, knew it was his come running down her thighs right now. No matter how many wolves circled her tonight, she’d already bared her throat to him, she just wore her crown while doing it.

He forced his gaze away from her, scanning the ballroom like any good bodyguard should. But then a voice, light and amused, drifted from a nearby cluster of guests near the wine table.

“They’ve been cultivated for centuries,” an older man was saying, swirling red wine in his glass. “Beautiful things, oleanders. Fragrant, elegant… and deadly, in the right dose.”

A younger guest chuckled. “Shame they’re so toxic. Nerium oleander, right? Pretty names for poisonous things.”

Soap’s ears pricked at the name. Nerium.

His posture stiffened, heart thudding harder as he turned slightly, enough to catch sight of the two men speaking. They looked harmless, just idle conversation over wine and botany, but his mind was already spinning. Nerium oleander.

That email in Lucrezia’s office. The oleander is growing strong, soon to bloom. And then Ilaria telling him that during the kidnapping, one of the men had mentioned they were part of a group called Nerium.

Lucrezia… she’d known. She’d been monitoring them, probably for longer than she’d ever admit.

Soap’s jaw tightened, a chill crawling across his spine. If Lucrezia had known about Nerium, why the hell had she kept it from the very people risking their lives to protect her daughter?

Chapter Text

The pillar that Soap crouched behind exploded in a cloud of pale dust as bullets buried in it. Chunks of white stone splintering past his face, the sharp flecks scraped across his skin, and he clenched his jaw as he ducked lower. They weren’t close enough yet to flush him out, but they were getting there, closing in fast. He couldn’t afford to get pinned here, not in the open courtyard with nowhere to retreat, no cover but crumbling oversized garden pots and ornamental hedges. The estate’s manicured perfection had turned into a fucking kill zone.

The Ettore estate had seemed like a good choice earlier on; grand, remote, easily defendable. Neutral ground was required when Lucrezia called for a rushed meeting of the houses, gathering the heads and other delegates to discuss a path forward after her opulent ball. A show of unity between all the houses, the government and any other fancy folk that Soap had no idea who they were.

Soap had spent most of the day bored out of his mind, patrolling the perimeter, watching workers scurry about their tasks and hearing the distant drone of political posturing behind closed doors. Now, the silence was replaced with gunfire and the screams of chaos.

The enemy had scaled the walls out of nowhere, bypassing the outside security without incident, masked and heavily armed.

He adjusted his grip on his weapon, shoulder pressed to the crumbling column as he scanned the courtyard. He could hear shouting in between the gunfire; guards calling for support, someone screaming in pain near the eastern wing. Whoever these bastards were, they weren’t mercs from Montevia’s usual black market crowd; they were coordinated and trained and were here for blood.

Soap didn’t need to guess what they were here for. Almost every important figure in Montevia was inside, unarmed and unprepared.

And Ilaria, Christ, she was in there too.

He hadn’t seen her since the meeting began, a quick brush of the hands before they went their separate ways this morning, but he knew where she would be—next to her mother at the main target site.

Gritting his teeth, Soap broke cover and sprinted low toward the garden wall, weaving between green hedges and overturned chairs. His mind was already cycling through the route he’d memorised earlier, back hallways, servant corridors, whatever would get him into the main building fast. He had to reach her before they did.

A shadow moved ahead, too controlled to be one of the panicked staff or guests. Soap ducked behind a garden arch, waited for the right moment, and sprang forward. Slamming his shoulder into the attacker mid-stride, he sent them both sprawling across the gravel path. The man was quick, but Soap was faster as he pinned the man beneath him and pulled his knife from his vest swiftly. They struggled only a moment before Soap drove the blade in low and hard, straight through the ribs. A gasp left the man’s lips as he seized, hands clawing weakly at Soap’s chest. But it wasn’t the resistance that made Soap pause from taking cover again; it was the military patch sewn onto the man’s vest. A five-petaled flower was at the centre of the round patch, stylised and angular, with a bird of prey rising behind it, its wings in an almost protective embrace of the flower. Beneath it, Gens Super Omnia.

The Nation Above All Else.

Nerium.

Soap felt his chest tighten, hot fury rising in. He’d suspected it, felt it in his gut the moment the attack began, but he still wasn’t prepared for the confirmation. They weren’t just testing the waters anymore. Maybe it was the failed attempt at kidnapping Ilaria that stirred them into plan B. This was a full strike. They were here to kill, not kidnap.

Wiping the blade clean against the man’s vest, Soap felt the adrenaline flood him as he stood. Knowing who he was up against didn’t change anything. He had a job to do.

Gunfire echoed through the corridor as Soap pushed forward into the main house.

He moved carefully, boots brushing aside the shattered glass scattered across the floor. The white walls were riddled with bullet holes, the air still thick with lingering smoke from grenades. It was hard to smell anything besides heat and soot; he was surprised the curtains hadn’t caught fire.

Glass crunched ahead, and Soap dropped low behind a hall table, his grip tightening on his gun. A squad of Nerium soldiers stepped into view, far too disciplined to be regular mercenaries. One of them grabbed a figure from the ground, dragging an older man in what had once been a neatly pressed black suit through the debris.

Soap recognised him: the Bartollo head. Stocky, ruthless, and practically in control of Montevia’s entire police force.

“Shit,” Soap muttered under his breath, raising his gun but stopped. There were too many of them, and Bartollo was already beyond saving. Blood slicked the marble beneath him, and when he sat up just enough to spit at his captor, a pistol was calmly raised to his forehead.

One shot. No demands, no threats, just a clean execution.

He tried not to flinch as the body dropped; he tried to remind himself that the man was far from innocent, but it was still ruthless to watch. “Fuck,” he hissed, slamming his fist against the marble floor as he ducked back. He couldn’t have helped him, not without throwing away the chance to get to Ilaria.

Another volley of gunfire cracked overhead, plaster raining down on his shoulders. Soap ducked instinctively, jaw clenched, eyes scanning; he had to find another way. Turning a corner, his boots slipped on blood-slick marble just as another smoke grenade exploded nearby with a sharp crack.

Through the haze, a figure barreled into him. Soap caught them mid-collision, slamming them hard against the wall, gun raised to their ribs. He was half a second from pulling the trigger when the sob broke through the static in his ears.

“Stefano?”

He yanked the man around, and Stefano raised both hands, unarmed, blood smeared across his jaw, the crisp white of his shirt cuff stained a deep red, but it didn’t look like his own.

“You,” Stefano panted, scowling as his eyes flicked to the hall behind Soap. “You’re not with them?”

“No,” Soap snapped, forcing him back against the wall. “But maybe you’d like to explain why the fuck they are?”

Stefano scoffed, trying to push him away, but he lacked the strength to make it convincing. “You think I’d stage a suicide run at my own estate?”

For a second, Soap hesitated. His instincts screamed at him not to trust a damn word, but the bastard looked too dazed, too scared to be faking it. Part of Soap wanted to keep walking, let the rich boy deal with it alone, but couldn’t.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, grabbing Stefano by the collar as more gunfire cracked down the hall.

“Thought you hated me,” Stefano coughed, stumbling after him.

“I do,” Soap grunted. “But I’m not lettin’ you die before I figure out what side you’re actually on.”

He half-dragged him down the corridor, past the bodies of fallen guards, until he spotted a member of the estate’s security sprinting toward an open doorway.

“Watch him!” Soap barked, shoving Stefano into the man’s grip. “Keep him alive.”

Stefano twisted to argue, but the guard already had him by the arm, shielding him as they disappeared into the smoke.

Soap took a second to catch his breath and steady the pounding in his chest before pivoting back toward the chaos. The thick smoke’s cover was fading quickly, and shots were growing less frequent and sharper now, closer, each one echoing through the marble halls like a thunderclap.

Shapes flickered through the murk ahead. Nerium soldiers were sweeping methodically, guns raised. They didn’t see him at first, and Soap waited for the first one to move into a clear line of sight and then fired. The bullet made him drop instantly, and the second turned, shouting in alarm and returning fire. But Soap was already moving, slipping around a pillar as chunks were ripped from the plaster beside him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, ducking low and circling wide. He waited for a pause between the shots and lunged. The knife was out in a blink and sank into the man’s neck with sickening ease. The body had barely hit the floor when a scream tore through the air from somewhere upstairs, but he couldn’t help them. He had to keep moving.

Near the foot of the grand staircase, he spotted another team of Nerium operatives. They were breaching a set of locked double doors, and Soap could hear voices shouting on the other side. Soap fired at them before they noticed him, dropping one as the others scattered for cover. Bullets ricocheted off the marble, slamming into walls, glass, and furniture. Soap ducked behind an overturned cabinet, his heart hammering in his chest.

With a breath, he popped up and shot off a few more rounds. One missed, but the others didn’t. As the last man dove into cover, Soap moved, boots crunching over shattered glass and fragments of a blown vase. Without hesitation, he stepped around the makeshift cover and fired cleanly at the soldier.

It was brutal and efficient; he hadn’t missed this part—the adrenaline, the chaos, the blur of movement and violence. But his body remembered, and even though he was alone and not with Task Force 141, it didn’t matter.

War was war.

Soap stepped over the bodies, scanning the room as he moved closer to the doors. There was no room for mistakes; whoever had planned this knew exactly what they were doing, where to attack, and who to attack.

The double doors before him were thick, reinforced and old enough that they had probably witnessed multiple sieges. Guards had been posted here earlier, but now they were gone. Blood pooled at the base of the door, so whether they had died doing their job or abandoned their post, Soap wasn’t sure.

“Open the door!” he growled, pounding a fist once on the door. He was met with silence, but then a shaky male voice answered him.

“No. Not until it’s clear.”

Soap rolled his eyes, his anger boiling up inside him as he slammed his fist on the door again, shouting in English, “It willnae be fuckin’ clear if ye leave me standin’ out here like a shite decoy!”

He knew shouting in a foreign language with a heavy accent would not put many of them at ease, but he had no time to waste, and they didn’t either. Nerium would find a way into this room one way or another.

The door didn’t open.

Soap raised his fist to pound again, but heavy footsteps thundered down the corridor behind him. He pivoted quickly, eyes locking on the dark figures charging up the hallway. More Nerium soldiers.

There was no time. He snatched an automatic rifle from the body at his feet, raised it, and fired down the corridor. The burst tore through the advancing men, forcing them to scatter, but it also cost him. A blur surged from the staircase beside him, another soldier. He crashed into Soap, slamming him back hard against the locked door. The air punched from his lungs, and a flash of steel caught his eye, the knife close to slicing his face.

Soap twisted, dragging the rifle up between them just in time, using it to block the blade. The edge nicked Soap’s arm, slicing through fabric and skin, and he gritted his teeth at the sting. He shoved back, but the Nerium soldier had weight on his side, bearing down hard, trying to drive the blade home.

With a grunt, Soap shifted his stance, twisting his hips and forcing their movement sideways. The soldier stumbled, falling forward off balance, and that was all the opening Soap needed. He spun fast, brought the rifle up and fired ,the soldier dropping limp and silent.

Soap staggered back, breathing hard. He shook out his bloodied arm, red dripping from his fingers, before slamming a clenched fist against the heavy door.

“Open the fuckin’ door, or I swear to Christ I’ll knock it off the bloody hinges!”

A voice snapped from the other side—furious, familiar.

“Open the fucking door!”

Ilaria.

Bolts scraped and locks turned before the door cracked open, and one of the Montevi guards pulled it wide enough for Soap to see. Inside, a cluster of heads of houses and other politicians flinched at the noise, most of them pressed tight to the walls, some clutching sidearms with white-knuckled grips. Soap’s eyes swept the room and landed on her, Lucrezia, who sat near the centre with her posture composed despite the chaos. Still, it was Ilaria who pulled the breath from his lungs. She was beside her mother, pale, wide-eyed, but with that same iron line in her jaw that refused to crack.

She was okay, she was okay.

Her gaze locked to his before she scanned him, pausing when it landed on the blood slicking his arm. Soap saw the flicker of fear and how she buried it instantly.

Without waiting for permission, Soap stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him, the echo cracking like gunfire through the room.

“You all need to move. Now.”

Murmurs broke out at once, frantic and overlapping. One of the older men, grey-haired, heavy with self-importance, snapped back instantly, “We’re not scattering like rats. This is a coordinated assault; someone’s targeting us.”

“Aye,” Soap shot back, voice sharp, “and they’re getting closer by the second.”

Another man pushed to his feet, gesturing angrily, “We’ve got our own security. Reinforcements will be coming. If we stay, we can hold. We have to find out who’s behind this.”

As if on cue, a burst of gunfire cracked outside the windows, closer than before. It shattered whatever fragile confidence remained in the room. Several people flinched, gasps rippling through the room as others ducked, scrambling further behind chairs, beneath tables.

Soap’s jaw clenched. “You’re gonna die trying to figure it out in here.”

No one replied, and Soap turned from them and toward Lucrezia and Ilaria. Everyone else be damned, he was here to protect them, to save them. He crossed the space with quick steps, lowering his voice. “Ma’am, we need to leave. It’s Nerium.”

Lucrezia’s expression didn’t falter, but he saw it: the tight flicker in her brow and the subtle tremor of her next inhale.

“Take her.”

Soap blinked. “Ma’am?”

Her eyes didn’t leave his. “You’re the only one I trust to get her out alive. It’ll be easier with two than ten.”

Soap had expected her to be clamouring for survival, but she stayed seated, gaze steady on his.

He gave a short nod. “Understood.”

He reached for Ilaria’s arm, gripping gently but firmly, and led her towards the door. “Stay close, and don’t stop”, he said softly. “We move on my word.”

“Wait—Mother—”

Ilaria’s voice cracked as she hesitated, her head snapping back toward her, but Lucrezia silenced her daughter with a single flick of her wrist.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, not rising from her seat. “Go.”

Her tone left no room for argument. Ilaria froze for a heartbeat, torn between saving her own life and staying at her mother’s side—but Soap didn’t give her time to linger. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her away, and this time, she followed.

The men in the room were quick to open the door for them, and the second they stepped over the threshold, it closed behind them with a solid thud and the unmistakable sound of locks sliding into place.

There was no turning back now.

The corridor beyond was unsettlingly quiet. That silence was worse than gunfire until it wasn’t. Sharp cracks rang through the halls: a shot here, a burst there. They weren’t leaving survivors.

Smoke curled at the far end of the hall, creeping toward them like fog. Ilaria pressed closer to him as they crouched behind an overturned couch. Soap adjusted, pulling her tight against his side, shielding her as he quickly checked his mag and cleared his corners.

“We cut through the east wing,” he murmured, “Fewer blind corners. Less chance of a firing line.”

Ilaria nodded without hesitation. Her eyes were glassy, wide with fear, but focused on him. Soap worried that anxiety had sunk its claws in deep, but her gaze stayed locked on him as she took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“Here.” Soap pulled the sidearm from his belt and held it to her, grip first.

Ilaria hesitated, shaking her head. “I don’t—”

“You can,” he cut her off gently. “Safety’s here, thumb it off. Line up your shot; centre mass. No warning shots, you aim, you shoot. Understand?”

Her hand trembled as she took the weapon. It drooped slightly under the unfamiliar weight, but she adjusted quickly, jaw tightening, and her eyes met his. “Understood. What if I miss?”

“Then shoot again,” he made sure his voice softened, his hand brushing a lock of hair away from her face with the one that wasn’t slicked in blood. “You’re not helpless, Ilaria, and I’m right here with you.”

“Understood.”

Despite everything, Soap couldn’t help the small smile that curled the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl.”

Soap led them towards the exit, crouched low and moving quickly, but a figure stepped from the smoke before they could reach the door. Rifle in hand, they were scoping the area, and Soap didn’t hesitate; instinct kicked in. Soap surged forward, knocking the barrel of the gun away before rushing into the man. They slammed into the wall with a bone-jarring thud, and Soap’s arm locked tight around the enemy’s throat. The man struggled, boots scraping against marble, but Soap didn’t let go. His other hand pressed against the back of the man’s head, forcing the choke tighter. A sickening crunch, and then the body went limp, and he let the man drop.

When he turned, Ilaria was watching intently, and he didn’t breathe for a heartbeat. The look in her eyes—was it fear? No. She didn’t flinch, and she didn’t step away as he stepped back to her side.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

Ilaria nodded, not once looking at the dead body at Soap’s feet, only at him. “Yeah. Let’s keep moving.”

They reached the door, and Soap crouched, carefully scanning the area outside. Night had crept in quickly, and the shadows now blanketing the grounds would make it easier for them to hide but just as easily for Nerium to hide too. Behind them, screams echoed and wood splintered somewhere deeper in the house. Soap held Ilaria’s shoulder tightly, keeping her focus on him.

“Stay behind me. We go on three. Straight across to the wall, no stopping for anything. Ready?” Ilaria nodded.

“One... two...”

They ran.

The fountain in the centre of the lawn still trickled melodically, a surreal contrast to the chaos around them and the thundering rhythm of their footfalls as they sprinted across the grass.

But they didn’t get far.

A hand shot out from nowhere, yanking Ilaria backward. She cried out, stumbling as she was dragged in front of a soldier.

Soap skidded to a halt, his heart slamming into his throat as he spun. The soldier held her at arm’s length, weapon raised, but he didn’t fire. He just stared, head tilted, like he recognised who he was holding, and slowly, he began to lower the rifle.

Soap didn’t wait to find out why.

He charged, the impact knocking them both to the ground. They wrestled, Soap’s elbow slamming into the man’s ribs as he fought for the weapon. A heavy fist crashed across Soap’s cheek, pain flashing white behind his eyes, but he didn’t let go.

From the edge of his vision, he caught a blur of movement—Ilaria. Her hands gripped the pistol he’d given her, but she didn’t fire.

Instead, she swung it like a hammer.

The weapon cracked against the soldier’s skull. He reeled, dazed, and that was all Soap needed and he ripped the gun from her hand, flipped it in his grip, and fired twice into the soldier’s chest.

Soap turned to Ilaria immediately, chest heaving. “You alright?”

She nodded, still clutching at the empty space where the gun had been. “I didn’t want to shoot, you were too close. I—I couldn’t risk hitting you.”

Reaching out, he squeezed her arm comfortingly. “You did good. Saved my ass.”

Something flickered in her expression: shock, adrenaline, maybe a hint of pride, and it should be there. She’d held her nerve; hadn’t screamed, hadn’t panicked. Soap pressed the pistol back into her hand, then grabbed her other hand, fingers locking tightly with hers.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her with him as they darted toward the edge of the estate. They tore through the manicured grass, cutting across flowerbeds and marble paths toward the tall perimeter wall. The shouting behind them grew louder, orders barked, and gunfire started again in fresh bursts.

They reached the wall and Soap’s eyes scanned upward—no vines, no handholds, it was too damned smooth.

“I’ll boost you,” he said quickly, crouching low.

Ilaria didn’t argue and stepped up into his hands, and with a grunt, he launched her upward. Her fingers scraped the top edge, but she managed to haul herself over, hooking a knee to balance.

Shouts grew closer, they were running out of time. Soap turned to tell her to run, to break for the trees and get somewhere safe, but before he could speak, she leaned down along the edge of the wall, hand outstretched toward him.

“Here!” she hissed.

He blinked. He hadn’t expected her to help, not with gunfire in the distance and blood on her hands. Still, her grip was solid, giving him just enough momentum to haul himself up, boots scraping against the stone as he vaulted over the top. He landed hard on the other side, pain flaring in his knee and shooting up his thigh, but there was no time to stop.

Ilaria was already climbing down, slower than he liked, her footing uncertain. Soap stepped in, catching her by the waist as she dropped the last few feet and steadying her until her feet hit the ground. For a moment, they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, breathing fast and straining their ears for anything.

Silence.

The forest swallowed the gunfire, thick underbrush and looming trees closing around them. Safe for now, but the danger wasn’t far behind.

Soap exhaled sharply and looked down at Ilaria’s hands, confirming the pistol was still there. She held it tight, knuckles white, but steady. He jerked his chin toward the deeper tree line, and they started to move. The terrain was rough, uneven rock and tangled roots.

They couldn’t go back home, that much was certain. If they weren’t already there, the Montevi estate would be the first place their enemies checked.

He glanced at Ilaria beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. Her once-elegant clothes were streaked with dirt, her braid coming undone, and there was a smear of blood on her sleeve, he didn’t know whose. But her chin was high, her jaw tight as she kept in step with him. He’d underestimated her, again.

“We can’t go back,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Not to the estate. Who the fuck even knows what’s safe anymore?”

“I do,” she said, without hesitation. Soap stopped, turned to her, frowning, and waited for her to continue. “There’s a place on the coast. Mine. I bought it years ago, and it is quiet and hidden. No one knows about it, not even her.”

There wasn’t anything to consider; if she said it was safe, he trusted her.

“Then let’s get goin’.”

Chapter Text

The villa was quiet, with only the soft sound of the waves crashing on the cliffs below and the rustling of the olive trees in the breeze. Occasionally, there was a distant bark of a dog and a shout of laughter echoing up from a nearby beach, but other than that, it was quiet. There was no chatting of guards and staff, and no distant hum of the city—just perfectly quiet.

Beyond the window, the sky burned gold and pink, streaked with clouds like brushstrokes across a painting. The cliffs below dropped into deep blue water, jagged, wild, and breathtaking. This place had captured Ilaria’s heart years ago. It had been more of an impulse buy than anything logical: a tiny coastal town tucked between vineyards, rolling hills, and sheer cliffside, far off any tourist map. Of course, it was still luxurious in its own way, but it held an old, rustic charm that she didn’t know she adored. Colourful mosaic tiles cracked with age, white stone walls slowly being swallowed by ivy and flowering vines. She instantly fell in love with it, and it had been hers. A secret sanctuary that no one knew about or ever stepped foot in.

Until Soap.

The last few days had been a whirlwind of emotion. Each morning, she woke with him stretched out beside her in soft sheets. They’d walk into town for supplies; bread, vegetables, and wine, which had become inexplicably the safest, most normal part of her week. She never would’ve guessed that shopping for olives with a soldier would make her feel so... at peace.

Of course, he looked out of place here, all muscle and grit, his instincts sharper than ever since the attack. His protectiveness had only intensified, but somehow, it suited him. It made him feel real, more himself, not just the weapon she’d met in Montevia, and in turn, she found herself relaxing more around him.

She was as relaxed as possible. They hadn’t spoken much about the attack yet, but she could feel it under the surface. That conversation would come, but not today, not while the sea was calm and the man she shouldn’t be falling for was sleeping in her bed.

Today was no different.

The soft pinks of morning were fading now, giving way to a bluer sky. A breeze carried the scent of the sea, fluttering the pale curtains around the bed tucked beneath the open window. Ilaria lay on her stomach in the middle of the bed, and the blankets were a tangled mess around her. She was naked, bare and content, her skin warmed by the gentle sun spilling through the window. One hand lazily flipped a page of her book; it wasn’t the most gripping read, but it was enough. The words blurred sometimes, her attention wandering out the window, following the slow crash of waves against the cliffs far below. Or drifting to the sound of a pencil scratching against paper.

Soap sat in a lounge chair nearby, dressed only in black boxers. His small journal was balanced on his knee, head bowed in concentration. She tried not to stare, but she did anyway, watching him from the corner of her eye. The flex of his arm, the steady focus in his expression. But then he wasn’t drawing anymore, his eyes flicking up from his page to her.

Turning back to her book, Ilaria tried not to notice Soap setting aside the pencil and journal and rising from the chair to cross the distance to the bed. She tried to go back to reading, trying not to notice the dip of the mattress as his weight joined hers. Curiosity almost got the better of her when he didn’t move for a moment, but then she felt his breath, warm on the dip of her lower back, followed by the slow, deliberate press of his lips.

“Soap,” she said, keeping her eyes on the page, though she could feel the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m trying to read,” she said.

“You’ve read that page three times now, lass,” he murmured between kisses, trailing slowly up her spine, “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I was savouring it, or maybe it’s because someone keeps distracting me.”

Another kiss, then another, slower, as he leaned over her, kissing every inch of her back before pausing at her shoulder.

“I can distract you another way,” he offered.

“Go on then,” she teased, turning another page with deliberate calm. “Distract me with some of the Montevese I taught you.”

She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel the smirk in the press of his lips. He cleared his throat in the most dramatic way possible.

“Quale canzone è sorta stasera—” he began.

Ilaria burst out laughing. She really tried not to, but it escaped anyway, bubbling up uncontrollably. “That was so bad,” she managed through laughter. “You sound like a tourist trying to flirt with a waitress.”

Soap pouted, made a mock-offended sound, and dropped his forehead to her back with a breathless laugh. “Aye, but no need to be mean to me.”

Before she could retort, his fingers found her waist. She yelped, flailing as he tickled her, half-laughing, half-cursing as she squirmed beneath him.

“Johnny—no! I swear—!”

She rolled over, dragging the book with her like a shield, attempting to ignore him with the most dignity she could muster. Soap wasn’t fazed. He dropped down onto the bed in front of her and wrapped his arms around her legs, his chin resting on her thighs.

“You’re like a very warm, Scottish barnacle,” she muttered, pretending to read.

“Admit you liked the poetry.”

“I tolerated the poetry,” she said with a grin. “Maybe I like the effort.”

He kissed her thigh gently. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could feel his eyes on her as he spoke softly.

“Ti desidero come il mare desidera la luna.” (I desire you like the sea desires the moon.)

She was definitely not reading now. That voice, that accent, and the low rumble of it did things to her. She met his eyes over the top of the book, breath quickening.

Slowly, Soap reached up and plucked the book from her hands, dropping it gently to the floor. Then he was over her, golden in the morning light, tanned skin brushing against hers as he kissed the corner of her mouth and then the other.

She melted beneath him, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. This time, he kissed her properly, no smirking, no teasing, and he sighed softly, like he’d been waiting all morning for this exact moment. A calloused hand gripped her hip, his thumb brushing slowly over the curve of her waist.

“Thought you wanted to read,” he murmured against her lips.

“I was reading?” Ilaria giggled before pulling him back to her, greedy for the feel of his mouth, the taste and scent of him. It didn’t matter how often she’d been with him, how familiar she was now with how his body felt pressed against hers; every time still stole her breath. The excitement that ran through her veins, the throb that made her ache with need, was the same. She craved him constantly.

Soap seemed to feel it, too. She was sure of that burning under the skin whenever they were together. But today, instead of rushing, a desperate push and pull, he moved slowly. He kissed her again, deeper this time, then again and again, soft and coaxing, like he was trying to kiss the ache he knew she was feeling out of her bones.

Then he shifted beside her, lips never leaving hers, one hand slipping down her body. Fingertips dragged lightly over her skin, and Ilaria felt her breath catch in her throat when his hand found its way between her thighs. It was teasing at first, soft, lazy strokes that made her hips lift toward him. By now, Ilaria could feel the confidence in his fingers; they knew exactly where to touch and where to stroke, which drew out the responses he wanted from her. And she had no choice but to give them. They moved inside her, brushing against her walls until all Ilaria could do was gasp for breath. She pressed against him, pushing him deeper and groaning when it pressed against a spot that made her quiver.

Soap kissed along her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “I love watching you fall apart,” he murmured, and Ilaria arched, a hand curling into the sheet and the other gripping the back of his head.

“Soap,” she whispered.

He groaned, like just hearing his name in her voice undid something inside him. Then he kissed her again, his tongue licking into her mouth while his fingers circled and stroked, coaxing her toward the edge. His thumb flicked over her clit and she felt herself squeeze his fingers, chasing the feeling, gasping, biting her lip. But Soap knew, he always did. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers and shifted above her, moving between her thighs. Iliara’s legs opened for him without thought, and she wanted to blush as he hovered over her for a moment, the heat of him pressed so perfectly against her she could hardly breathe. Then he slid inside her, deep and slow, and Ilaria exhaled a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut at the fullness, the stretch, the rightness of it. He stayed still for a moment, just holding her, forehead resting gently against hers as they breathed together.

“Ilaria,” he whispered, rough and low, as his hand slid down to her thigh, holding her close to him. She waited for a teasing comment or something smug, but nothing came. Instead, he began to move, hips rolling in deep, unhurried waves. Every stroke was slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savour the feel of her.

They were pressed so close together that there was no space for movement between them other than his hips. Ilaria wrapped her arms around him, nails grazing his shoulders as she pressed kisses to his skin; his shoulder, his neck, anywhere she could reach.

He started to move more, pulling back and driving in deeper to the point Ilaria could feel the breath being punched from her. But then he would change pace. There was no set rhythm; he would thrust hard and fast like he couldn’t hold back, like the need was too much. Other times, he slowed, grinding so deep and slow that pleasure rippled like lava under her skin. Her fingers raked down his back, legs tightening around him as she clutched at him, clinging to the weight and heat of him. She gripped his ass, pushing her hips up to meet him, desperate to feel every inch of him, every aching roll of his body into hers.

God, she was so wet that the slide of his cock was effortless, slick and obscene. She was sure she could hear the wet squelch of her pussy beneath the rhythm of their breathless pants. Soap was panting too, his hips relentless, but his mouth still sought hers, not willing to be separated for longer than a sharp intake of breath.

Her orgasm crept up on her, catching her off guard and crashing through her like a wave. Her body tightened beneath him, sparks shooting through every nerve as she cried out softly, clutching at him, trembling as she clenched and pulsed around him. Soap groaned low, burying his face in her hair as he ground into her, the deep roll of his hips drawing out every last possible flicker of her release.

Just as her body started to go limp, he pulled out quickly, stroking himself in tight, fast strokes, and he came with a strained breath, warm spurts spilling against her thigh. He collapsed on top of her with a groan, grinding lazily against her, his release smeared across her folds. She didn’t care about the mess, all her limbs wrapped around him as he lay against her, chest heaving, and she pressed soft kisses to his cheek, then his temple, running her fingers through his hair until his breath started to slow.

The room was calm and warm, the scent of salt and sex lingering in the air. Sunlight dappled the sheets and their skin, trying to remind them that there was a day and a world out there, but it felt so far away. Soap shifted slightly, cradling her closer, and she relaxed into him, letting her head rest beneath his chin.

Ilaria stirred, warm and loose beneath the sheets, her legs tangled with his. Soap’s arm was draped across her waist, his breath slow and even against her shoulder. He was still asleep, peacefully for once, with no twitch of his jaw and no restlessness like she’d noticed before.

Carefully, she slipped out from under him, tugging a pillow into her place to keep the warmth. He didn’t stir. She padded across the cool tile floor, quietly pulling on one of his oversized and soft shirts. Outside, the sun was still warm and bright, but lower in the sky. They’d slept through most of the day, and she could tell also when her stomach growled, and she craved coffee, maybe a shower. But glancing back at Soap, she decided against it. He looked so calm, and she didn’t want to disturb him.

So instead, she sat in the lounge chair, pulling her legs up beneath her as she watched him nuzzle into the pillow with a soft, contented sigh.

This couldn’t last.

The thought landed heavy in her chest. No matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise, this moment, these last few days of stolen happiness, was fragile.

And as she watched him, the question crept in, uninvited but impossible to ignore; Is he here on orders only?

Was this real? Or was he just playing a part? Had her mother placed him here, like every other pawn she moved across the board? Soap seemed honest, he always had. Steady, protective and better than this world. Better than a puppet of her mother’s. But he was still a soldier, and in Ilaria’s experience, anyone in her world could be bought, borrowed, or broken, no matter how kind their eyes or how warm their touch.

She tore her eyes away from him. She would take whatever she could, for as long as she could.

Beside her, Soap’s journal lay where he’d left it, face down and open on a page. Ilaria hesitated, eyes flicking between him and the book. Then, quietly, she picked it up and carefully flipped through some pages. Most were covered in light pencil lines, and others were darker and rougher. It started with small sketches of the city—corners of buildings, bits of statues. Then notes were scribbled into the margins: dates and times, patrol routines, estate layouts. Details only a soldier would take note of—key points of entry, weak spots in security, observations made with practised precision.

Faces filled the following few pages. People who visited the estate, people she had met with. Names written in the corners, little notes beside them—some marked as “keep an eye on,” others underlined with reasons he didn’t trust them.

Then she saw herself. One sketch, then another, and another.

One had her brows drawn tight in concentration, and another caught her smiling. Some were just fragments of her—her mouth, her hands, her eyes staring back at her from the page with more emotion than she knew she wore.

Below one of the drawings, scrawled messily beneath her gaze, were the words: Still can’t get the mischief in her eyes right.

Her throat tightened. On the last page was another picture—her curled on her side, asleep, hair spilling around her like a halo. It was softer than the others, unfinished.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the page. Unsettled was what she should be feeling. Watched. It should have felt like she’d uncovered something she wasn’t meant to see.

But she didn’t. Instead, her chest ached, her throat burned, and she bit down on her lower lip, blinking hard, fighting the sting in her eyes.

Because part of her wanted to believe it meant more. That this—she—wasn’t just another assignment.

“’ At’s private, y’know.”

Ilaria looked up, startled only slightly by the sound of his voice. Soap was still sprawled across the bed on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow. His eyes were barely open, heavy-lidded, but fixed on her. Watching.

She didn’t rush to close the journal. Instead, she gently folded it shut and held it against her lap.

“I know,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. You’re... really talented, Soap.”

He let out a quiet breath and turned his head, cheek now pressed to the pillow.

“I didn’t know you were watching me like this.”

Soap shifted onto his side, head propped in his hand, bare chest rising and falling. “Always watching.”

Ilaria laughed and set the journal aside. “That sounds vaguely stalker-ish.”

Soap only grinned into the pillow as she stood and stretched, the hem of his shirt brushing the tops of her thighs. “Do you wanna watch me make something to eat?”

He made a low, appreciative sound, then rolled onto his back and sat up slowly. “It’s my second favourite thing to do with you.”

The kitchen was bright and sun-washed, the old tiles cool beneath her bare feet. She sliced tomatoes while he rummaged in the fridge. They moved around each other like they’d done this a dozen times before. They filled plates with bread, cheese, and whatever else they could find. It was simple but good.

They sat on the balcony, warm air drifting in with the sound of waves crashing somewhere below the cliffs.

“Heard from your mother?” Soap asked between bites.

Ilaria nodded. “Yesterday. After we bought the phones in town.”

“She’s alive, then.”

“Of course she is,” she said, almost without thinking. “Lucrezia’s hard to kill,” she added around a mouthful. Soap hummed, and she felt his eyes on her.

“Did she say who she thought was behind the attack?”

Ilaria shook her head, tearing a piece of bread with her fingers. “She said she was working on it. That she’d ‘take care of it.’” That was Lucrezia; no names, no plans, just control.

Soap let out a faint breath. “Typical.”

They ate silently for a few moments, and Ilaria relaxed again. The wine helped, as did the view before her: a bare-chested Soap and the magnificent ocean beyond him. She didn’t want to think about the blood and mayhem from the other day. That was not the world she wanted to belong to.

“Who do you think stood to gain the most?” he asked.

Ilaria looked up from her plate, but Soap didn’t meet her eyes. He was swirling his wine in his glass, gaze fixed on the sea like he was just thinking out loud. “From the attack,” he clarified. “From the chaos, the Houses being hit like that.”

Her stomach tightened. She tried to mask it by reaching for her glass and taking a slow sip.

“House Bartollo got hit the hardest,” he continued. “But they were the loudest at the council, weren’t they? Especially against your mother. And House De Santis’ head just happened to be unable to attend that day. Almost too convenient.”

Ilaria kept her expression neutral, nodding slowly, as if she were merely considering the possibilities. He was just asking. Of course he was, he wanted to help, wanted to understand what they were up against. She knew that. She believed that.

But it was also... calculated.

His tone, his phrasing, it wasn’t just curiosity. It felt rehearsed, like she was sitting at the far end of an interrogation table and didn’t know it until now. This was all part of a strategy to draw information out of her. He wasn’t just Soap right now, not the man who sketched her sleeping and kissed her like she was the only thing in the world that could give him breath.

He was a soldier. Trained to assess threats, gather intel and dig where others would hesitate and for some reason, that made her feel cold. She didn’t let it show, stabbing an olive with her fork and forcing a smile. “You really never stop thinking like a soldier, do you?”

Finally, he looked at her, and something in his gaze shifted. It softened as he smiled his normal Soap smile. But as he did a small hopeful part that had started to believe in something between them felt threatened. Because she knew how this went. She knew how soldiers worked, knew what happened when they began digging—really digging.

And if Soap kept pressing and asking the right questions in that calm, practised voice... he might find something he didn’t like.

And whatever illusion they had, this fragile, sunlit bubble of touches, safety, and shared smiles would shatter. He’d see what the rest of the world saw when they looked at her. A Montevi. A woman raised in shadow, born from power and fear. Maybe not guilty, but never truly innocent.

What she was terrified of was that he’d realise, no matter what she did to escape or change the world she was trapped in, she was still a product of that same world. Still made from it. Still stained by it.

And worse, when that moment came, he wouldn’t be one who could be convinced, there would be no defence. No soft words or second chances. He would leave, just like everyone else, once they looked too closely at her.

Chapter Text

Soap kept one hand near the small of Ilaria’s back, the other hovering close to his side where his gun sat hidden beneath his shirt. The marketplace buzzed with life; vendors called out from shaded stalls, bright fabric canopies flapped in the breeze, and scents of fresh herbs and grilled bread filled the air.

People wandered past, hands full of painted trinkets, fresh fruit, and jars of golden relish. Ilaria was glowing in the middle of it all, laughing softly as she admired handmade jewellery, leaning in to ask a vendor about the sweet jam glistening in tiny glass jars.

Soap couldn’t relax.

The back of his neck prickled, and his eyes never stopped moving, cataloguing exits, unfamiliar faces, hands that hovered too close to pockets or hips.

Then Ilaria stepped away from him, only a few feet, but far enough that it made his breath catch in panic. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight as it trailed behind her, and her dress, loose and flowing, was wild with colour, swirled around her legs as she turned back to him, her eyes bright with joy.

She reached for him, her fingers curling around his hand.

“Come on,” she said, tugging him toward a nearby stall that had caught her attention. “You’re supposed to be enjoying this too.”

Soap tried to relax; he really did. Being out with her felt almost normal, easy, even. For a moment, it was just a sunlit market and the sound of her laughter. But his instinct was louder than the comfort. It overrode everything the second he spotted the two men leaning against the far wall, smoke curling from their cigarettes, their eyes locked on Ilaria.

Didn’t matter if they were from Nerium, another House, or just local men with bad intentions; they were watching her too closely and for too long. And she seemed so unaware, holding a jar of olives up to the light like she didn’t have a single thing to worry about.

It made his chest tighten. She looks happy like this.

Soap stepped closer, made it clear she wasn’t alone as his arm tightening around her waist as he leaned in, gently but insistently taking the jar from her hands.

“Let’s go,” he murmured low.

Ilaria looked up at him, her smile soft and unbothered, but her eyes, for just a second, flickered from his and then toward the men on the wall.

Ilaria saw everything, and for that brief moment, Soap had forgotten. He’d fallen for it; her smile, the easy tilt of her head, the way she twirled her dress and hummed at jars of jam.

But it was all part of the act, an illusion she wore as easily as perfume.

Soap wasn’t angry, not even close. If anything, he admired it. How effortlessly she played her part, how convincing she was. Still, she let him take her hand and guide her away, let him lead.

It wasn’t until they were a few streets from the villa, alone in the shade of a quiet alley, that Soap finally exhaled. Ilaria walked beside him, eyes flicking to him with that ever-present glint.

“Didn’t think you’d be the jumpy sort,”

“Didn’t like the way they were lookin’ at you.” Soap grumbled.

“And?”

He glanced at her, jaw tight. “Didn’t want to risk it.”

She laughed and kept walking, swinging the bag of shopping in one hand like they hadn’t just potentially dodged assassins.

“They wouldn’t have done anything in a busy market,” she mused. “If it were me, I’d wait. Strike when the target feels safe closer to home.”

Her tone was teasing; the smile was there on her face, but she was right, and Soap felt his skin prickle. He took her arm gently and picked up the pace, guiding her faster up the street.

“So bossy,” she said but made sure to keep in step beside him, “You really do like to take control, huh?”

Soap couldn’t help it; a smile tugged at his lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, his hand tightened just slightly on her arm. “Maybe…” he added, giving her a heated glance, “you just like bein’ told what to do.”

Ilaria’s eyes snapped to him, and he was sure he saw a blush creep onto her cheeks. Soap kept walking, eyes scanning the street ahead, and Ilaria adjusted her hand so that it was holding his properly. He kept the smile on his face to keep her from seeing how tightly wound he really was. Because even as her laughter echoed off the stone walls, he could feel it like there were too many eyes in the alley, too many shadows moving behind them.

The villa was too quiet.

Soap stood at the edge of the hallway, half-concealed by the wall, watching Ilaria speak quietly into her phone from the other room. He couldn’t make out the words; her native language slipped off her tongue fluidly and fast, but her tone was clipped and harsh. When she hung up, she didn’t notice him. Just stood there, her jaw grinding and fingers rubbing at her temple.

She looks tired, he thought, and guilty.

Later, while she napped on the balcony, dappled sunlight dancing across her skin, Soap scrolled through his phone in the shadows of the villa.

No new messages from Laswell, no updates from the CIA team, just the same standing orders: gather intel. Confirm connections. Get close if necessary.

He looked up at Ilaria. She was curled in the lounge chair, head tilted slightly, a half-read book fallen open across her lap, breathing steadily and peacefully.

But the attack still gnawed at the edges of his thoughts; every quiet moment dragged him back to it. How had they missed it? How had they been so unprepared? They hadn’t just been outmaneuvered; they’d been slaughtered.

And yet Ilaria was calm.

There’d been tears that first night at the villa, quiet sobs for the dead, for how close she’d come herself. She flinched at every sound, every creak in the roof or tap of tree branches on the window. But by morning, she was composed again, just as she had been after the kidnapping.

She survived. She always survived.

It twisted something in him, a dark thought that was thorned and hooked into him until it hurt.

She has the power, access and money to make something like this happen. Motive? She had that in spades. He didn’t want to believe it, but wanting and knowing were rarely the same thing.

There was a tension that lingered into the next day, a usual quiet that settled between them, but this time, it was sharp around the edges.

Soap stuck to his routine. He swept the property, eyes scanning the perimeter for anything out of place, and double-checked the makeshift security on every door and window. Ilaria stayed inside, making a string of clipped phone calls. At one point, she was tucked into the corner of the sunroom, reviewing old documents and papers left over from her last visit. She didn’t say what she was looking for, and he didn’t ask. Not yet. But the not-knowing grated at him, and every hour that passed without answers pulled the tension tighter in his shoulders.

By late afternoon, Soap was at the kitchen table, field-stripping his sidearm with methodical focus, anything to keep the spiralling thoughts from slipping into suspicion.

He didn’t hear her footsteps, but he looked up when her silhouette filled the doorway, the light behind her casting a long shadow across the tiled floor.

Ilaria had changed; her hair was brushed back and tied into a neat braid, and a ruffled linen dress hugged the curve of her hips.

“I want to go out tonight,” she said, “Somewhere with wine and music.”

“No.”

She paused as she made her way to the door, turning slowly.

“Excuse me?”

Soap made sure to meet her eyes now, “Not tonight. It’s not secure.”

She arched a brow, arms folding across her chest. “So you get to decide that now, just like that?”

“I’m not takin’ you into town to get clocked by another pair of eyes that could be reporting to God knows who,” Soap said, “We stay in. I’ll cook again if you want.” He waited for a sharp retort, a sarcastic laugh, maybe even an angry stomp of her heel. But instead, she smiled softly, amused.

“You used to follow my orders,” she murmured, voice like velvet. “Remember that?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t trust himself to. His gaze dropped back to the disassembled gun in front of him. Safer to focus on the steel, on something that could keep his hands busy.

“You called me Miss Montevi,” she continued, stepping closer. “You were my quiet shadow. I was the one in charge, and you listened.”

He felt her now standing right in front of him, but he still couldn’t look at her. Shaking his head, he pieced the weapon back together, more from muscle memory than focus.

“You don’t call me that anymore,” her voice dipped, low and playful, “Now it’s lass. Or tresero.” She leaned in, and he felt the warmth of her breath, “Like I’m yours.”

Soap’s hands stilled over the gun, and he looked up at her, and there she was.

She was radiant in the setting sun’s light, her lips just parted in that knowing way, the braid trailing over her shoulder. There was that mischief in her gaze, and, God help him, she was beautiful.

Soap should’ve looked away. He should have kept his walls up and stayed guarded because part of him still wasn’t sure. Unanswered questions and shadows were curling between them. There were lines he was supposed to keep and orders to follow, but those had blurred weeks ago. Hell he already crossed the boundary between professional and personal the moment he let her touch him, the moment he started seeing her as more than a mission. And now? Now, he’d been living in her space for months, sleeping beside her, memorising every look, every laugh, every sharp-tongued joke.

Soap was past the point of pretending because the feeling she gave him was undeniable.

He stared into her eyes, the cool metal of the gun barely registering in his hands.

Ilaria looked tired. For weeks now, her control had been stripped from her; kidnapped, watched, and hunted. Even here, in the safety of this villa, he’d kept her basically under lockdown, trying to control the chaos pressing in around them. But somewhere along the way, he supposed he’d started to control her, too. In bed. On the streets. In every little decision she made. He didn’t regret protecting her, but maybe she needed something else tonight.

Soap set the gun aside with a quiet click of metal on wood and stood. Ilaria’s eyes lifted with him, her head tilting slightly as she watched. He stepped toward her, tall and broad, and looked down at her. Dark, sharp eyes gazed back at him, challenging, but then her head tilted to the side a little more. Her neck was exposed now, vulnerable and trusting, like she wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but she wasn’t afraid of it, either.

It took everything he had not to reach for her, not to take what she was offering.

Instead, slowly lowered himself down onto one knee.

Then both.

The cool tiles pressed through his jeans as he settled, his eyes never leaving hers.

He saw her breath hitch, the rise and fall of her chest a touch quicker now.

“You want control back? You’ve got it.”

He stayed still, kneeling, waiting.

Ilaria didn’t speak at first; she just looked at him with an expression caught somewhere between surprise and something heavier and hungrier. For a moment, Soap thought she might walk away because he’d crossed a line she wasn’t willing to follow.

But then her gaze changed into something hotter. Slender fingers brushed the side of Soap’s face. The touch was so light he could have been convinced it hadn’t happened at all.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” her fingers pressed more firmly against his jaw, the tremble in them starting to fade. “You, with all that strength, all that control… down here like this.”

Soap exhaled, sharp and shaky, but he didn’t speak; he couldn’t. He kept his hands at his sides, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to reach for her, but he stayed still.

“You could kill a man in seconds,” she said, her voice growing steadier as she moved behind him. He felt her hand slide into his hair, gentle fingers trailing up from the nape of his neck before threading through the strands and pulling, just lightly, enough for him to tilt his head back. Their eyes met, and Soap’s throat worked around a tight swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing as heat flushed through him. He was suddenly parched for her voice, her touch, anything she was willing to give.

“And here you are,” she whispered. “So quickly, letting me decide what happens next.”

A shiver chased down his spine, and when she came back into view, the look on her face wrecked him. Ilaria’s eyes were focused, beautifully dark, and she was looking at Soap in a way that made him feel like he was something rare, something precious.

“I’ve had power my entire life,” she said, softer now. “Money, fear… the family name…” And then she knelt right there in front of him. Her hands came to rest on his thighs, startlingly warm through the fabric of his jeans.

“But I’ve never had this,” she whispered. Her hands slid up over his thighs, across his stomach, pausing at his chest, right over his heart. “Never had a man like you, on his knees, willing to give me control. Not because I demanded it…” She leaned in, her lips almost brushing his, “…but because you wanted to.”

Soap couldn’t breathe; her scent filled his lungs and clouded his thoughts, wrapping around him like silk. He was sure he was trembling, not from fear or discomfort, but from something else. Her words quieted the noise in his head; her touch made his body go pliant. It wasn’t the first time he’d been with a dominant partner, but this was different. This was Ilaria, and that changed everything.

Soft lips pressed against him, and his eyes closed.

“You’ve no idea how beautiful you are like this,” she murmured against his mouth.

And in that moment, whatever came next, whatever she wanted, he’d give it.

Still kneeling in front of him, Ilaria watched. She studied him like she was waiting for him to change his mind, waiting to see if the man who’d been forged in fire and blood would break under something softer, under a woman’s control.

Possessive eyes dragged over him like she had all the time in the world to decide what she wanted to do with him.

“You’re going to listen to everything I say,” she murmured.

“I will.” He nodded, voice already breathless.

Her head tilted. “I didn’t ask if you want to, Johnny.”

That voice, commanding, velvet, dangerous, hit him like a jolt down his spine. “Yes,” he said again, stronger this time. “Yes, miss.”

That made her smile. Just a slight, knowing curve of her mouth, and it wrecked him more than anything else. She reached out and brushed her nails along the soft underside of his chin.

“Take your clothes off.”

He stood, knees stiff from the floor, and undressed without looking away from her. His shirt came off in one drag over his head, fingers fumbling just slightly at the waistband of his jeans. He felt vulnerable under her gaze but not exposed but wanted. It had been a long time since someone had made him feel this way.

By the time he dropped the last piece of clothing, his cock was already half-hard with need and excitement. Ilaria stood with unhurried grace, turning toward the bedroom like a queen. Of course, Soap followed, no shame, and lingered in the doorway like a dog waiting for permission.

She curled a finger, beckoning him, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides.

“Back on your knees.”

He dropped instantly.

The smile she gave him in return made his stomach flutter. Eyes swept over him like he was a painting she was deciding how to ruin, and when she let out a satisfied hum, Soap nearly groaned.

She hadn’t even touched him; she just looked at him, kneeling, already aching and silent. Desperate for friction, his hand inched toward his cock.

“Don’t touch yourself,” she warned.

Soap exhaled hard, his fingers twitching just short of contact on his length, but he did as he was told. He brought them back to his thighs, clenched tight with restraint.

The ache was unbearable, but when he held still and obeyed, she smiled that smile again —soft and stunning, and it made him dizzy with want.

“You’re so good like this… makes me want to ride you all night.”

Her voice was honey-slick, the kind of tease that wasn’t just words; he could see the way she closed her eyes briefly, the way her legs rubbed together as if she was living the thought. Out of his control, Soap’s hips twitched, unthinking, aching at his own memory of her above him, filled with him. Ilaria saw it. Of course, she did, and she smirked like she’d planned it.

“Needy already?” she purred, stepping closer, letting the hem of her dress brush against his tingling skin.

Soap hung his head, struggling with the need to touch, but Ilaria pulled his hair firmly until his face was back up again, and she smiled down at him. Then she reached behind her and began to work the buttons of her dress, and Soap’s mouth went dry.

One button after the other, and a bare shoulder emerged as she peeled it off her. It slid down, catching at the dip of her waist before she shimmied it off, letting it pool at her feet.

She was doing this not to tempt him but to show him what he couldn’t have unless she allowed it, and he couldn’t help it. As she stepped closer to him, hand gliding through his hair, he reached out and slid his palm up the outside of her thigh. Soft and warm, Soap wanted to kiss every inch of her thighs, bury his face against the skin that haunted his every thought. But before he could lean in, she tightened her grip on his hair, the sting painful, but his attention snapped back to her immediately.

“Ah ah.” She scolded, an eyebrow arched, “Did I say you could touch?”

Soap froze, his hand still cupping her thigh, his lips just inches from her skin. The restraint it took to lower his hand again made his headache. And when she smiled? That soft, satisfied curve of those plump lips? It made him ache in other ways he didn’t have words for right now.

“Lie back,” she said. “Hands at your sides.”

Soap obeyed instantly. He stretched out across the plush rug, arms flat against the floor, head tilted so he could still see her. His chest rose and fell too fast, his skin already flushed with heat. The air felt thick, and she hadn’t even touched him yet.

He watched as Ilaria moved with that unhurried grace that made his blood catch fire, and he nearly combusted as she stepped over him, one knee settling either side of his legs. The feel of her lace panties dragging against his shins sent a jolt through him, and, fuck, her bare breasts brushed against his thighs as she leaned down against him. Her mouth hovered just above where he ached for her most, her warm breath ghosting over his cock.

It twitched, and he bit down on a groan, but still, he didn’t move, waiting as patiently as he could.

“Look at you,” she whispered, her nails trailing down his stomach and Soap’s body convulsed at the sensation. The nails moved lower, grazing the sensitive skin of his hips, making him hiss. “So strong. So deadly.” Her voice dropped, husky, “And you’re just lying here… waiting for me to use you.”

Soap moaned, and the sound burned through him; he could feel the embarrassment burn his cheeks red, but Ilaria rewarded him with the faintest brush of her hand against his balls.

“I respect you more than I’ve ever respected any man.” Her breath was hot against his skin. “And right now... I’m going to take everything you’re offering me.”

Her fingers wrapped around his cock, and Soap groaned a guttural sound that escaped before he could stop it. His hips rocked up in instinct, chasing the tightness of her hand, but she pushed him back down with a firm hand on his hip.

“No. Stay where I put you.”

Breathless, he nodded frantically, willing his body to listen to him. Once he was still again, her hand stroked him slowly, firmly. The friction was uncomfortable in the best possible way. Then there was the wet coolness of her spit as it met his throbbing erection, slicking her hand as she continued to pump him. Her thumb teased the head, circling just enough to make him shudder.

Already trembling, already so on edge, and he wasn’t even inside her. He had not even been kissed or fully touched, and he was already ready to break. Already so close.

Fuckin’ hell, then she lowered her mouth onto him.

Soap barely had time to brace before her lips closed around the head of his cock. Warm, wet, soft and perfect. He groaned aloud, his hands twitching uselessly against the rug, fists clenched tight. Every instinct screamed to grab her, hold her there, thrust into her—

He held still, the effort of obedience making his whole body shake.

Ilaria’s mouth worked him slowly, agonisingly slow, her tongue teasing the underside as she sucked him in enough that he could feel her throat tighten, then pulled back. Her hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in rhythm, keeping him right there on the cusp.

Gasping, his hips rose despite himself as she took him in her mouth again, almost his entire length, but she stilled him with a hand on his stomach, nails digging in as a warning. Her mouth was heaven as she continued, and just as Soap thought he could relax, fall deeper into the satisfaction, the pressure built to something unbearable, his body tightening-

Ilaria stopped, letting go of his cock and pulled her mouth away with a wet sound and sat back on his legs.

Soap whimpered; he actually whimpered, his breath hitching, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched Ilaria wipe the corner of her mouth slowly, her expression wickedly amused.

“You didn’t think I’d let you come that easily, did you?”

He tried to breathe, but it felt like his lungs had been tied in a knot. He was throbbing and so desperate he could feel the ache in his spine.

“I want to see you fall apart,” she said sweetly. “But not just yet.”

Soap’s head fell back, chest heaving as his cock throbbed in the open air, slick with her spit, twitching at every tiny shift of the air.

Ilaria’s hand returned, stroking him again, and he gasped, eyes snapping back to her, watching as she tormented him with every stroke. She leaned forward, stretching over him until her lips brushed his ear.

“God, look at you. This cock, so thick, so perfect, and it’s all mine. And you’re just lying here, begging without saying a word, aren’t you, Johnny?” His whole body tensed, trying not to thrust. “You’d do anything I told you right now,” she whispered, lips brushing his cheek. “I could leave you like this all night, and you’d be a good boy, wouldn’t you?”

Soap felt himself take her words like a strike to the chest, stealing his breath. His whole body tensed, hips twitching with the effort it took not to move, not to thrust, not to beg.

Because she was right, he was begging without words. While he still had sense, he realised what she meant; it was in the way he stared up at her, lips parted, chest heaving, the way his cock leaked for her.

Thick. Perfect. Mine.

Those words swam in his mind, and he bit down on a moan, but it was still too loud for his ears. Her mouth brushed his cheek; her voice was softer, but Soap still felt like he was prey. Soap groaned, fists curling against the rug, white-knuckled.

“Y-yes, miss,” he managed to rasp, and when her hand brushed down his stomach, his eyes fluttered shut.

Ilaria hummed a soft, sing-song note and shifted her body back down again. The excitement and need coursing through him was almost too much. Soap gritted his teeth as her hand wrapped around him again, stroking with that same maddening rhythm. He felt the build, white-hot pressure coiling low in his spine and—

She stopped. Again.

“Jesus fuckin’—” His hand lifted, instinctive, desperate to touch himself, to finish what she kept denying, but then her grip tightened, hard, fingers squeezing around the base of his cock, nails digging into his balls.

Soap gasped and choked on a groan, his hips jolting off the floor. The pain was sharp, fucking perfect, and his body twitched, helpless beneath her, nerves frayed to the edge of sobbing pleasure.

He didn’t even realise he’d whimpered again until she was kissing his lower stomach, her fingers gently stroking the spot she’d just punished soothingly.

“Did I say I want you to come?” she asked softly.

“N-no, miss,” he rasped.

Her gaze was sharp on him, and she watched him for a heartbeat more before she loosened her grip, stroking him again. Slow, methodical, never giving quite enough. Then her mouth was on him again, wrapping around his cock in a slow, maddening pull.

Soap nearly sobbed. Everything seemed so heightened; the warmth of the air, the roughness of the carpet underneath him, the tickle of her braid against his leg. Then it all narrowed again to only her mouth. The heat of her tongue, the wet tightness of her lips, shit, his hands curled into fists on the carpet, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as he tried to stay still, tried to obey—

But his hips jerked, desperate, bucking into her mouth deeper with instinct more than intention.

Wrong move.

Teeth grazed him, not enough to injure, but enough to make him feel it. A warning and a punishment.

Soap yelped, and Ilaria pulled back, lips wet, eyes sharp. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. That look said it all. Soap wanted to plead his case and apologise, but all he could do was hold his breath, waiting for her next move. Still lying on his legs, she gave a slow, satisfied stroke down his length once before her mouth was on him again, taking his leaking cock as deep as she could manage into her throat.

Soap groaned low, the tension spiking again. Every nerve in his body screamed for release. His stomach tightened, hips twitching, but this time, he didn’t thrust; he was so close it felt like his skin might split.

Then she stopped again, and Soap was sure he cried out.

Her fingers circled the base of his cock, not stroking, just holding, applying just enough pressure to keep him in blissful agony. She looked down at him, those dark eyes drinking in every inch of him. Sweat shimmered across his chest, and he watched her through half-lidded eyes and realised he wasn’t above pleading.

“Please,” he begged.

It was all he could manage. No string of words, no reasons, no pretty phrasing, just that ragged plea.

But it was enough. He saw the change in her, the soft stutter of breath, the flutter of lashes, the way her perfect composure cracked for just a second.

“I can’t take it anymore either,” she whispered.

She stood suddenly and fluidly, making Soap’s head spin as she peeled her panties down and kicked them away. The scent of her, warm and wet and overwhelming, wrapped around him like another wave of heat, but he stayed exactly where she’d left him. Ilaria straddled his hips again, her bare skin brushing his, and fuck, he could feel her, hot and soaked.

The folds of her pussy slid just above the tip of his cock. Still too far away. His cock throbbed so hard he thought it might explode. Her damp heat against him made his head spin, but still, he didn’t move.

She touched herself above him, fingers slipping between her legs, circling her clit. Her breath shuddered as she guided her body to rub against him, slick warmth dragging over the length of his cock without taking him in.

Just like that, Soap forgot everything. Every ache, every tremble, all wiped from his mind as his entire world locked on her; on the sound of her breath, the movement of her hips, the slick heat of her rubbing against him.

Soap’s head dropped back against the rug with a thud, a ragged breath tearing from his lungs. He wanted to reach for her, needed to. His hands ached from gripping the carpet, fingers cramping with restraint, and he flexed them, shaking as he lifted them toward her hips. The warmth of her skin met his palms, but he stopped. He didn’t grab, didn’t give in, even as the pain of holding back gnawed at him like claws under his skin. Frustration curled in his gut, and he growled, low and feral, his whole body trembling with restraint.

Above him, Ilaria didn’t stop. She watched him, smiling, satisfied, and impressed as she saw him slam his hands back into the rug, the way he shook for her. Leaning forward, her breath scorched along his throat. “Good boy,”

The praise hit him like lightning, but he didn’t even have time to relish in the feel of it before she shifted, lowering herself down over his cock.

Soap’s eyes rolled closed, and a deep groan tore from his chest as her body enveloped him inch by slow, devastating inch. The slick, perfect heat of her was tight, welcoming like she’d been made for him.

She ground down on him, hips rolling in slow circles, more glide than thrust, dragging his cock along every wet, sensitive inch inside her. It wasn’t for him; it was for her pleasure, and that only made it better. Above him, Ilaria’s head fell back slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips. Her hands slid over her own stomach, her hips never stopping their pace even when she looked down at him, eyes heavy.

“You’ve been so good,” she said breathlessly. She leaned forward, the angle changing and pleasure making his hips twitch as she tightened around him, and she grabbed his hand, guiding one up to her thigh.

His palm slid up along her skin, reverent and ready to praise her as he gripped her, enough to feel her muscles flex and move under his touch as she rode him. She leaned forward again, one hand sliding over his chest, trailing downward as she took his other hand and pulled it toward her breast.

“You can have this, too.”

He cupped her, thumb grazing her nipple as she ground down harder. He knew that if he didn’t keep his hands still he would lose control, roll her over and take that release she had denied him, but he didn’t want to ruin his reward. Her pussy clenched as he pinched her nipple, and Soap moaned, biting his lip to keep it quiet.

“Don’t hold back,” she said, louder this time, his mistress giving him an order. Her hips slowed for a beat, and her eyes locked with his. “I want to hear you. Every sound.”

It was an order, and who was he to disobey it. His grip on her thigh tightened as she began to move again, faster now, grinding with wet strokes that made his jaw slack.

He couldn’t help it. A broken moan spilled from him, loud and honest, and he almost did it again when Ilarias’s eyes rolled at the sound.

“There you are,” she breathed, smiling. “That’s what I want.”

She was riding him as she owned him, and, well, at this moment, she did. Her body moved above him in steady waves, her hips grinding down in a rhythm that had him unravelling second by second.

Soap couldn’t look away. She was gorgeous, all of her. The sway of her breasts, the flush of her skin, the way her mouth parted as she chased her own pleasure. His eyes dropped lower, and the sight made his breath catch.

Christ.

His cock, thick and glistening, vanished inside her more with every roll of her hips. He didn’t know how he was still managing to hold on. Didn’t know how he hadn’t come just from the way she gripped him, held him, squeezed him with every wet, perfect motion.

“Please,” he moaned, breaking from his throat. He needed to come; it was getting painful.

Ilaria stilled her hips and slipped off him. Soap flinched, eyes wide, his hands suddenly empty and cock cold.

Was she going to punish him again? He braced, his heart hammering in his chest, thighs shaking with the effort of staying still.

But she didn’t move to discipline him. Instead, she moved lower, and her mouth was on him. She swallowed him whole, her throat relaxing as she took his full length in a single, devastating motion.

“Fuck—” he gasped, voice cracking. He didn’t last; there was no way he ever could. With a drawn-out moan, Soap came, his hips jolting upward as his release tore through him, bursting like a dam finally breaking.

Ilaria didn’t stop. She took all of him and swallowed every pulse that came down her throat until he was gasping beneath her, undone and floating. When he finally stilled, mind numb, cock twitching in the aftershocks, she pulled back slowly, licking her lips as she looked up at him and smiled. Like he’d just made her come so hard she forgot her name.

Soap’s chest rose and fell unevenly, muscles twitching beneath the skin that felt too hot, too tight. He didn’t even notice Ilaria moving at first, not until she was sliding up his body, draping herself beside him. Her skin was soft, her body warm. The weight of her against him was the only thing keeping him from floating away.

His hands, slow, shaky, swept blindly across his own body as if checking he was still in one piece. He felt his abs clench, sore and still trembling, but he didn’t think he had ever felt so good.

Ilaria curled into him, her lips brushing the sweat-damp edge of his jaw, her palm sliding down his chest in a soft, soothing stroke.

“Such a good boy.”

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, his body warm and boneless, her fingers stroking slowly through his hair. He would have stayed there forever if she had let him.

But she moved, kissed his shoulder, then his neck, shifting up until she stood above him again. Her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, long and wild, and her skin still glowed in the low light. She looked like something holy, or sinful.

Soap whined at the loss of her warmth, sitting up before he even thought about it, about to reach for her, about to ask, but his throat tightened.

Ilaria looked down at him with eyes that devoured him, and without a word, she curled her finger, pointing to the ground before her.

In a second, he was kneeling before her again. Soap eyes were still locked on her face, breath shallow, and he was sure his pupils were blown wide. Fingers slid into his hair again, slow and tender, tilting his face up, and he leaned into the touch.

“I want you to make me come,” she said, and his lips parted. Steamin’ Jesus. “I want your mouth,” she continued. “I’m going to tell you exactly what I like. And you’re going to do it—until I’m satisfied.”

His cock twitched, spent but already aching again.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please, miss.”

Her thumb brushed across his lower lip. “Start with my thighs. Take your time, no rushing.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then another, and another—trailing up her thigh in slow, hungry worship. His hands lifted, but he hesitated, looking up at her with pleading eyes as he pressed a wet kiss to the inside of her thigh. With a soft sigh, she nodded, and his hands instantly touched her, sliding gently up the backs of her legs. He held her close, lips and tongue worshipping every inch he could reach as he traced slowly up her thighs, tasting her, longing to devour her.

Ilaria rolled her hips, body responding to the deliberate drag of his mouth. He moved past her mound, not yet, he thought, she hadn’t told him to yet, and moved up to her hip, testing instead how far he could enjoy her skin. His teeth scraped gently against the soft flesh, and a sigh rewarded him.

“Again,” she huffed, fingers tightening in his hair slightly. Soap opened his mouth and bit down a little harder against her hip, and Ilaria groaned. He growled low in return, lifting his hands to cup and squeeze her ass—God, she fit so perfectly in his hands, it made his cock twitch to life again.

Ilaria leaned back against the wall, regal and radiant, lifting one leg over his shoulder, and Soap’s throat tightened. Her scent surrounded him, intoxicating, and he battled the need to immediately bury his mouth between her legs. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Look at me,” she said, and he did, lips wet, pupils wide, and she finally tugged at his hair, pressing his mouth to her.

She gasped at the first touch of his tongue, hips rolling forward instinctively. For a moment, all Soap could do was moan into her as his tongue dragged a slow stripe through her folds, finally tasting her. His hands gripped her tighter, kneading the soft curves of her ass, steadying them as he licked deeper.

A moan escaped her lips, and it went straight down his spine to his cock.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Just like that.”

He licked deeper, angling lower as he lifted her leg a little higher over his shoulder, giving himself better access. All of her, just for him.

“Harder.”

Soap adjusted without hesitation, obeying; his hands slid around to grip her hips, steadying her as he mouthed her like he’d never wanted anything more. Her wetness coated his lips, dripping down his chin, and her thighs twitched against his shoulder.

“God, your mouth—” she gasped, “You’re good at this, Johnny.”

He groaned into her, tongue working in tighter, faster circles, flicking every so often, just enough to make her jolt and grind harder against his face. She moved with purpose now, chasing her own high, using him for it, and he wanted that, needed that more than he did breathing.

With pleading eyes, he looked up at her, his hips stuttering with restraint. She nodded, instantly knowing what he was asking, and he groaned happily, dropping one hand to his cock, leaking, throbbing, and stroking himself in tight, desperate jerks.

“More,” she breathed. He obeyed instantly, lips sealing over her clit as he sucked, tongue flicking harder, faster. Her fingers twisted in his hair again, yanking sharper this time, and her thighs began to tremble.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Keep your mouth right there.”

He moaned into her, lips locked around her clit, tongue pressing hard in small, perfect strokes. Wetness spilled down his chin, her slick or his drool; he didn’t care. His jaw ached, his arm burned, but he didn’t stop. Eyes fluttered shut as everything narrowed down to her and only her, the scent, her taste.

She cried out louder, hips jerking, breath shattering, and he tightened his grip on her hip to keep her steady as she started to fall apart in his hands.

“Shit! I’m coming,” she moaned, head tilting back. “Don’t you dare stop.”

There wasn’t a chance in hell.

He pressed in, licking, sucking, worshipping, and his reward was every sound she made ripping through him like electric shocks. Her stomach quivered, hips rolled frantically as she reached her peak, and Soap came in his fist just as Ilaria came.

She came hard, her cry loud and sharp, her whole body shaking around his mouth.

But he didn’t stop.

He let go of his cock, his hand slick with the release and grabbed her thigh with a sticky grip, keeping her pinned against him. She was trembling, a high-pitched whine caught in her throat as her knee buckled beneath her. Soap didn’t slow down. He licked, sucked, devoured the taste of her spilling across his tongue.

“Oh fuck, Soap!” she screamed, her fingers yanking at his hair, but he refused to let go. The way she shook, the way her skin tasted, the soft heat of her wrapped around his tongue, he never wanted to stop. One hand slid from her thigh, fingers teasing around her entrance before he pushed inside. Ilaria cried out, sharp and strangled, hips jerking as he pumped his fingers into her, curling them, swirling, until he found that spongy, perfect spot deep inside her.

The sound she made was wrecked, it made his stomach flip and he groaned into her heat. He pressed his mouth harder against her, desperate to drink her in, to taste every last drop she had left to give.

Her fingers yanked his hair again, firmer this time, and Soap finally let her go. Pulling back slowly, he rested back on his heels, chest heaving. He hadn’t even realised how breathless he was until the cool air hit his tongue. Christ, he’d nearly suffocated, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Ilaria was panting too, chest rising and falling as she reached down, fingers curling around his chin. Her touch wasn’t rough, but it was firm and possessive as she wiped her slick mess from his lips and chin, her thumb dragging slowly over his mouth, catching the swell of his lower lip. Soap let out a breathless laugh even as his chest still heaved when she shook her head.

“I didn’t say you had to suffocate yourself,” she said like she was trying not to laugh. He couldn’t answer; all he could manage was a smirk, head swimming in bliss, lungs dragging in shaky, grateful breaths like he’d surfaced from underwater.

Ilaria dropped against him, folding into his lap and winding her arms around his neck as she kissed him. He tasted himself on her tongue and didn’t care in the slightest; she could taste herself on his.

“You look wrecked Johnny; we can’t go to dinner with you looking like that,” she said softly, and Soap opened one eye, the protest already forming in the back of his throat. “Only I get to see you like this.”

That shut him up. He wanted to say no, wanted to tell Ilaria to forget the dinner, to stay here with him, to sleep, to wrap around each other until morning. But he didn’t have it in him to argue. So he let her pull him into the shower, soaping his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair, rinsing the sweat and heat from his skin with the kind of care that made his chest ache. Every now and then, she’d press a kiss to his shoulder or his temple, right over the scar that still haunted him.

Then they were out of the safety of the villa, Ilaria leading him through the streets and into the town centre. For a small place, it was busy, but even as tired and satisfied as he felt, Soap saw everything.

The waiter who smiled a little too long, the women who eyed Ilaria’s dress like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to own it or jealous of the woman wearing it. And the men a few tables over who were quiet, not eating and one checking his watch a little too often.

They all wanted something from her; they all wanted her. They looked at Ilaria like they wanted her on her knees, praising them, obeying them, made small for their pleasure. But they were wrong. They didn’t know what it looked like when she was the one being worshipped.

Soap sat beside her, her knee pressed to his, his hand resting warmly on her thigh as she scanned the wine list, talking about which bottle would pair best with his food.

But all he could think about was that glow on her skin, that was from him. The flush in her cheeks, the softness in her limbs, the little smile she still hadn’t wiped off her face. That was me.

He would worship her as often as she wanted, on his knees, with his mouth, with his hands, with his fucking soul, and there would be hell to pay for anyone who tried to take that away from him.

Chapter Text

The leather was surprisingly soft against her throat as Soap fastened the collar around her neck. It was quiet, neither of them speaking as his fingers steadily tightened it, buckling it in place. Warm fingers lingered against her skin as if waiting for her to change her mind now that it was done. Ilaria breathed in slowly, swallowing and trembling at the tightness around her throat. But it wasn’t fear, fuck no, it was excitement.

“There we go,” Soap murmured, kissing the azure collar on the back of her neck. “Colour looks good on you, lass.” he hooked a finger under the collar and tugged—not hard, but firm enough to guide her back against him, head tilted until she had no choice but to look up. Her stomach fluttered, as well as her pussy.

Ilaria had found him in the bedroom, half-kneeling on the floor with a small black leather chest open in front of him, and her heart stopped. That chest had been tucked away for so long that she’d nearly forgotten it existed. It had sat beneath the bed, unused and untouched for years, a version of herself she had never quite dared to become.

The chain leash lay loose in his palm, his thumb slowly tracing the etched pattern on the leather handle. Soap didn’t look up right away at her, and heat flushed instantly across her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” Soap said finally, “Was looking for spare rounds and found… this.”

Ilarias’s mouth went dry. She didn’t care that he’d opened it, not really, there were no secrets left in this house. But seeing him with that chest made her feel more exposed than if she were standing in front of him completely naked.

“I bought it a while ago,” she said quietly. “For—” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to say Stefano; there was only so much embarrassment she could stomach. Soap didn’t push; he just nodded, set the leash carefully on the bed in front of him, and rose slowly, the chest still cradled in his hands.

“Did you ever use it?”

Ilaria shook her head quickly, crossing her arms over her chest. Her cheeks still burned—not with shame, but from the memory of how badly she’d wanted to use it, how much she’d longed to trust someone enough to try.

“I wanted to,” she admitted. “But I didn’t trust him with it. I didn’t trust anyone with it. It was... silly, really.”

Soap’s gaze was steady when it met hers. “Do you trust me?”

Silence stretched between them as she looked at him—the soldier, the bodyguard, the man who had saved her multiple times, the man who had knelt willingly before her.

“Yes.”

And so now here she was, kneeling on the bed, exactly where he’d told her to. Legs spread, back straight, and hands resting lightly on her thighs. The collar hugged her throat, now warm against her skin, and it was all she wore, all she needed, and it was enough to keep her still.

Soap stood at the foot of the bed, bare from the waist up. His jeans hung low on his hips, belt undone, the sharp lines of his body catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He was quiet, focused, and methodical as he examined the contents of the box, like a soldier checking his kit before deployment—each piece turned over in his hands, considered, and weighed.

Her breath hitched when he picked up the blindfold. He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing the edge of the satin, then glanced back at her.

“No,” he said, setting it aside. “Not tonight.” His eyes didn’t leave her. “I want to see your eyes, watch them roll back when I make you come.”

She felt her thighs twitch, but she didn’t move, didn’t rub her thighs together, and that alone took more effort than she would admit.

Next, Soap picked up the gag, rolling the ball between his fingers before shaking his head, a quiet “No.” escaping his mouth as his mouth curved slightly. “I want to hear you. Every gasp, every moan, every time you beg me not to stop.”

Ilaria whimpered, trying not to squirm where she knelt on the bed. Soap’s gaze flicked to her, and she knew he was taking in every part of her—every shift, every tremble. She was sure he could see the slick between her thighs, could smell it in the warm air between them. Her breathing was already heavy, and the throb between her legs had turned sharp with need.

Soap smiled. He turned and lifted the leash next, inspecting it as if he were already planning how the night would unfold. She could see it in the way his jaw set, the quiet certainty in his movements. He knew exactly what he wanted from her, and she was already soaking through the sheets just imagining it.

The jingle of the chain made her sit a little straighter. Soap stepped closer, eyes locked on hers, and clipped the leash to the front ring of her collar. The cool weight of it settled on her chest, and she looked up at him through her lashes, trying to keep still.

“Come here.”

He gave the leash a short tug.

Ilaria did as she was told, knees shuffling closer to the edge of the bed. Soap twirled the chain around his fingers as he shortened the length, pulling her in tighter, his eyes never leaving hers. Another pull, and he kissed her, parting her lips as he owned them. She gasped into his mouth, and his hand slid up her throat, thumb brushing the edge of the collar, and her eyes fluttered closed at the touch. When he pulled back, she was already panting.

“Turn and face the headboard. Keep kneeling for me.”

Ilaria obeyed instantly, shifting on the mattress until her back was to him, her thighs trembling as she felt him step in close behind.

“Hands behind your back, elbows bent.”

Again, she moved without question. Warm hands touched her wrists, steady and sure, as Soap fastened the cuffs around them. The leather was smooth and snug, tight enough to remind her who was in charge, but not painful. When he clipped them together behind her—held firm at the small of her back—she nearly moaned.

The room was quiet again. Soap stood behind her, one hand resting on the nape of her neck, the other over her bound wrists. Exposed and restrained, every breath she took was shallow. I could get drunk off just this.

Then he leaned in, lips brushing her ear, voice low and full of hunger. “You look fucking perfect like this, tresero.”

Soap didn’t move for a moment, just stood behind her and letting her feel everything. The collar snug around her throat, the cuffs holding her steady, the leash in his hand pulled tight again. Then, with one firm but careful hand on her shoulder, he guided her to turn again.

“Lie back for me.”

Ilaria shifted with some effort, unable to move her arms an inch, making it awkward. Still, Soap caught her before she could lose her balance. He eased her down onto her back, head at the edge of the bed, her knees still bent and spread. Her wrists pressed against the mattress beneath her, and he adjusted her gently, brushing her hair from her face, watching the way she breathed.

“You alright?” he asked, eyes scanning her face. She nodded, mouth already parted, breath uneven. “Good,” he murmured, leaning over her. The chain leash shifted, sliding over her chest as he tightened his grip on it. His lips brushed hers softly and gently. “Because I’m going to use this pretty mouth now.”

Ilaria could feel her pulse start to thunder under the leather collar, and she licked her lips. Soap stepped back, dark eyes drinking her in, and stripped off the last of his clothes. His half-hard cock bobbed slightly with each step, thickening by the second. Soap leaned over her, her head hanging over the edge of the bed, her eyes on his, lips parted.

He gave the leash a light tug. “Open.”

She obeyed.

He started slow, just the head of his cock pressing past her lips. She licked him softly, testing, tasting. Her tongue moved along the underside as she sucked gently, her stomach fluttering as Soap groaned quietly above her. Soap kept still, letting her find the rhythm, watching as she adjusted with her wrists bound and her head tilted back.

Then his voice cut through the haze, and she blinked up at him.

“I want you to listen.” Her breath caught around him, and his hand moved to her jaw. “You’re not going to be able to speak,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I need to know you can still tell me if something’s wrong.”

She nodded slowly, locking in on his voice, her lips still wrapped gently around the head of his cock.

“If you need me to stop,” he continued, “hum for me. Three short ones.” He brought two fingers to her throat, pressing lightly. “Try it.”

She closed her mouth more firmly and hummed—three clear, low vibrations against his fingers.

He smiled, his fingertips running gently along her jaw. “Good girl.”

Ilaria’s breath trembled as he guided himself back fully between her lips. The moment she relaxed her throat, he slid in slowly, deeper this time. Her head tipped further off the bed’s edge, her neck stretched tight, throat open. The cuffs pressed hard into the small of her back beneath her; she was defenceless, completely open—but it didn’t scare her. It made her feel alive.

The collar was snug around her throat, and the leash tugged lightly as Soap eased his cock deeper with each slow thrust. Her eyes fluttered shut, and all that remained was a sensation, the wet sounds of her mouth, the faint gag when he pushed deeper. Soap’s low, steady breathing above her was broken only by the occasional groan when her lips tightened, or her tongue dragged in just the right place.

It couldn’t have been long, but her jaw ached already, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath she could catch. But Soap was in no rush, his pace unhurried, controlled, teasing, and she didn’t want to stop.

Soap’s rhythm slowed again, the weight of him pulling free with a wet sound that left her gasping for air. Saliva slicked her lips and chin, her throat raw and open, but she kept her mouth open, tongue flicking to chase the spit as it dripped down her jaw. She blinked up at him, lashes heavy, lips parted in invitation.

He gave her a look dark and hungry enough to make her stomach flip with need. Cool metal kissed her skin, brushing lightly over one nipple, then the other, as Soap brought the chain leash across her chest. Ilaria gasped as her body jolted at the sudden temperature change on her skin, her back arching as much as the cuffs and Soap would allow. The weight of the chain dragged over her breasts, her nipples tight and aching. She whimpered, and Soap smiled down at her before guiding his cock back between her lips.

This time, he didn’t hold back.

He thrust deeper; the slow rhythm harder now, more insistent. His cock filled her mouth again and again, her throat spasming around him as he rocked forward. Her chest moved with every thrust, nipples brushing the chain, jaw stretched wide as she took him, hungry for it.

Then he leaned over her, one hand still holding the leash, the other trailing down her body. His fingers found her slick heat easily; God, she was soaked. Two fingers slid between her folds and circled her clit, slow and firm, and she cried out around his cock, the sound caught in her throat.

“Fuckin’ hell lass,”

Ilaria couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and her thoughts were slowly leaving her as she fell into the sensations. Here, stretched out and trembling, gagging around his cock, breath stuttering between thrusts—he had her, and she wanted to be taken so desperately.

Soap’s fingers worked her steadily; his touch was no longer gentle. Two fingers pumped inside her, curling and stroking, and she rolled her hips to have them touch the places that made her feel incredible. Just when she adjusted to the rhythm, he lifted his hand away from her and smacked. A sharp slap right over her sensitive bundle of nerves, and Ilaria jolted.

Her whole body twitched against the restraints, and her throat clamped around him in response. The sound he made, deep and guttural, told her exactly what that had done to him. He cursed under his breath, hips bucking roughly once as he steadied himself again, breath ragged.

And then he did it again. Another slap to her clit, followed by another groan above her as her throat clenched hard around his cock. Her moan came out strangled, everything hot and overstimulated. Ilaria didn’t know if she wanted to flinch or lean into it, but her body had made the decision for her. Her hips rolled up to meet him, desperate and trembling, chasing more.

She was close, far too close. The orgasm was crawling up her spine, coiled tight in her belly, impossible to outrun. She wanted to hold it off, didn’t want to come yet, not like this, but it was coming anyway.

No—

With her lips firm around his cock, Ilaria hummed.

Soap froze instantly, and in one smooth motion, he slipped free of her throat and dropped down to her level. One hand cupped the back of her head, the other gently holding her jaw like she might break if he didn’t hold her.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly.

Every swallow had her realise just how sore her throat felt now, saliva and spit pooling in her mouth, her lungs drawing in deep breaths, but she looked up at Soap and smiled. Seeing the smile, Soap leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“You’re doing so fucking good.” His thumb brushed gently along her cheekbone, and she turned into his hand.

“Don’t—don’t make me come yet,” she gasped, voice cracking. “I want—”

She couldn’t get the rest out; the words failed her, and Soap laughed, soft and low. He was relieved she was okay, but he was also smug in the way only he could be. Because he knew, he knew exactly what he was doing to her, what she’d become under his hands. It drove her mad.

“You think you’re only coming once tonight, lass?”

He shifted, brushing more of her damp hair back from her face with the kind of care that made her ache even more. Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“On my fingers.”

Her breath caught. He kissed the other cheek, slower this time.

“On my mouth.”

Then he found her lips—slow, deep, unhurried despite the mess of her swollen lips.

“On my cock.”

Her heart stuttered, and she felt her skin ignite. The collar and cuffs felt tighter now, a beautiful constant reminder of who she belonged to, of what she’d surrendered.

Soap pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, one thumb brushing along her cheek with something frighteningly close to tenderness.

“You’ll be so fucked out you won’t remember who you are…” His fingers slid down the soft line of her belly and towards her aching core again. “Only whose you are.”

There was no time to catch her breath completely before Soap stood again, stroking himself as he looked down at her. God, she wanted it back, wanted that hot thick cock back in her mouth, filling her again, taking what he needed.

It must have been clear in her eyes because his cock slid past her lips again, and this time there was no slow ease into it—he pushed in roughly, groaning softly as her throat took him deeper. Her jaw ached, her eyes stung, but she relaxed into it, humming softly, greedily. A whine managed to slip past her full mouth as his fingers began sliding through her wetness again. Two fingers, then three, curling them just right, angled perfectly, and it didn’t take long for her limbs to shake, the heat to coil to the point of snapping in her. The orgasm was already waiting for her, simmering under her skin, humming in her bones. She came, body arching against her restraints, a broken sound caught around the thick press of his cock in her throat.

Soap’s rhythm faltered slightly, his hips stuttering. A low, guttural groan tore from him, and Ilaria knew all the signs and prepared herself before he came hard, hips pushed as far forward as he could as he spilled down her throat.

Sealing her lips tightly around the base of his cock she made sure to keep him there as she swallowed everything he gave her. When he finally eased back, twitching and softening against her tongue, she licked the head, savouring the taste of him, not wanting to waste a thing.

Only then did he step back, reaching for her with both hands, slipping his fingers under her shoulders to lift her upright. Ilaria could only blink, head spinning, chest rising and falling fast as she dragged in the air. The collar still hugged her throat, and her wrists remained bound behind her, straining and aching in the best possible way.

“Easy,” he murmured, gathering all her hair into one hand and pressing a kiss to the buckle of the collar.

Boneless, she felt weightless as Soap carefully laid her back on the bed, adjusting her. He made sure she was comfortable before leaning down and kissing her—deep, possessive, stealing the breath she’d just fought to catch.

Then his mouth moved lower, down her neck, biting at her collarbone, sucking at the soft junction of her shoulder. There was no rush in him; he had exactly what he wanted, and she was willing to give it. Soap groaned when his hands found her breasts, squeezing them roughly. His thumbs dragged over her nipples as he kissed lower still, his breathing louder with his own need. Ilaria felt the scrape of his teeth just beneath the swell of her breast, then the wet heat of his tongue.

“So fucking good for me,” he murmured. His hands stroked her slowly, down her ribs, over the curve of her waist, and finally settling on her hips. He caressed the dip where her thighs met her body, his thumbs pressing lightly into the soft flesh there as if memorising every inch.

Ilaria’s breath caught again, her chest still rising and falling too fast. She was trembling now, wishing she could run her hand through his hair and scratch down his arms, but instead, her hands curled into fists at her back. Without thought, her legs fell wider as Soap moved lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses across the inside of her thigh.

Every breath he took ghosted against her skin, and her cunt throbbed, slick and aching, and when his tongue finally slid through her folds, she could only moan.

Hands tightened on her legs to keep her still as she began to writhe.

“You’re drippin’ for me, fucking perfect.” he praised, his hands moving to her hips, fingers splaying wide as he pushed her harder into the bed, pinning her in place with ease. She tried to buck, needing more, but his grip held her firm. Her thighs quivered, but her body couldn’t escape him. She didn’t want to.

So Ilaria did the only thing she could and hooked her legs over his shoulders and let him have her.

His mouth was hot and sure, licking deep and slow at first, then faster, his tongue flicking against her clit until she gasped again, back arching. She wanted to beg, to praise, to do something, but no words would come. Just moans—helpless and cracked. Every time his tongue circled or dragged up through her slick folds, she felt the tension coil tighter in her belly. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to hold back the flood of feeling, the slow rise of the heat in her belly, the quivering walls of her pussy as Soap stroked against them. It was consuming and relentless; Soap didn’t stop, not until her thighs shook and her voice broke.

Ilaria came hard, her whole body jerking beneath him, thighs clenching around his head as she cried out loud and breathless. Chest heaving, her lungs clawing for air, but he didn’t let up—not with his mouth, not with his hands. He held her down through it, sucking and licking as her orgasm rippled through her in sharp, broken waves.

Her hips were still twitching when Soap moved. In one smooth motion, Soap pulled back and flipped her over onto her stomach, guiding her up with ease. She landed on her knees, arms still bound behind her, cheek pressed to the sheets as her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.

Her breath caught again when she felt him behind her—hard already, cock thick and heavy as it nudged between her thighs. He’d been grinding into the bed while he ate her out, getting himself ready while he dragged every last sound from her lips.

“Fuck—” she breathed.

Soap leaned over her, one hand sliding up her back, smoothing over her spine as he whispered in her ear. “Two down.” and pressed a kiss to the buckle of the collar.

The first thrust knocked the breath from her.

Soap didn’t ease in, he filled her in one deep, punishing thrust that made her cry out into the sheets. Her hips stayed lifted, helpless and open for him as his cock pounded against her walls, hot and thick and perfect, and she keened low in her throat as he set a brutal rhythm.

Muffled gasps were swallowed by the sheets as she pressed her face into them, trying to hide how loud she was. But she should’ve known better that Soap wouldn’t allow that.

Instantly, his fingers sort out the collar and twist it enough to tug the ring back and give the leash a sharp pull. Ilaria’s body followed instantly, back arching, head yanked up from the bed as her throat compressed under the leather. She gasped as much as she could at the pressure, and her eyes rolled back, white heat flashing behind them.

“You don’t hide from me, tresero.”

Her legs shook violently with every thrust, the slick heat of her pussy clenching around him. The leash tightened again, and the pressure made everything spin out of control. She swore her mind slipped sideways, her thoughts turning to syrup, golden and slow and far away. A moan caught in her throat as her body melted under him, just floating, just consumed by him; his cock, his voice, the weight of him behind her and the leash pulling her back when she started to drift.

So deep, so full, slipping into something soft and endless, where nothing existed except the sound of skin and breath and Soap.

It slammed into her without warning.

One moment she was floating, warm, stretched, fucked, and the next, her body tensed hard as the orgasm tore through her. It wasn’t slow or soft; it crashed into her sharp and raw and too much.

She cried out, throat catching on the sound as her body shook, clenching tight around him. Her hips stuttered, but the cuffs kept her off-balance, and she couldn’t even brace herself. All she could do was take it.

Soap groaned as her cunt spasmed and pulsed around him. He slowed for just a moment, hands smoothing down her back, cupping her hips like he was keeping her in reality. One hand dragged up her spine with a touch so gentle it nearly broke her, fingers tracing the tremble in her body.

“That’s it, ooh fuck…” he moaned, breathless and low. “Just like that. Let me feel all of it.” he pressed his chest against her back, pressing her back down into the bed as his lips kissed the buckle of the collar.

Ilaria whimpered, exhausted, but Soap didn’t stop. He rolled his hips again, thrusting deep, groaning as her walls fluttered helplessly around him. Her orgasm still echoed through her, splintering under her skin, but Soap kept moving, using the tight grip of her body like he was starving for her.

His pace picked back up, rough and unforgiving, hips slamming into her with a rhythm that sent the air stuttering from her lungs. His cock filled her again and again, dragging against everything sensitive and raw inside her.

She didn’t know if her last orgasm had ended. Maybe it hadn’t; perhaps this was just the same one, an endless surge of sensation crashing through her, wave after wave, until there was no beginning or end. Her legs were shaking, her throat tight, her mind distant. The collar dug against her skin with every pull of the leash.

Soap moaned above her, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he gripped her hips tighter, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. She was soaked, everything inside her slick and swollen, and every thrust now was just more—more friction, more fullness, more of him claiming her like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And then she felt it again. Or still. She wasn’t sure, but another orgasm was rising back up like it had never truly let go. Her body tensed hard, and her moan broke, loud and pleading, strangled by the leash still tugged at her collar.

Ilaria was going to come.

Again.

She couldn’t stop it.

But Soap stopped.

Soap held himself deep, motionless, buried to the hilt. One hand gripped her hip, the other still wrapped in the leash.

“You’ve had your three,” he spoke against her back, breath ragged. “Don’t go getting greedy now, lass.”

Ilaria choked on a whimper, hips twitching as the overwhelming edge of pleasure stalled. Her body was still trembling, still clenching, still wanting. It didn’t feel fair, not when she was this close, not when she needed it so badly.

“Please,” she gasped, “Please, Johnny, I need—”

But he stayed still, damn him. God, she couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop grinding back against him. Her bound wrists twisted behind her, the restraints pressing into her spine as she rocked her hips, trying to drag him deeper.

There was no shame, not anymore, not with him. Ilaria had spent years with men who barely got her halfway there, men who made her feel like she was asking for too much just by wanting to come. But with Soap, her lover, her match, she never had to ask, never had to hold back.

“Please, Johnny,” she whispered again, breathless, “you feel what you do to me. Don’t stop; I can take it; I want it.” Her voice broke as she pushed back along his length again, the feel of him inside her so good she nearly came just from that.

“I need you to fuck me, please! Please.”

Soap groaned low and wrecked, and the leash went tight in his hand.

“Goddamn it, Ilaria…” Soap growled, then released the leash just enough to give her movement and slammed back into her with a force that punched the breath from her. “How can I say no to you when you sound so pretty.”

She gasped, her body jolting forward from the strength of it, and he followed instantly, pressing flush to her back as his hips found their rhythm again.

“Fuck, Ilaria,” he panted, his voice cracking, “So fucking good—”

She didn’t know if she cried out or sobbed. Her body was already past thought, her pleasure boiling in her blood, crawling up her spine. Her arms were useless behind her, her mouth open, her knees barely holding as she let him use her the way they both needed. He reached beneath her and found her clit again, and with just one stroke, her whole body broke. Ilaria came with a strangled scream, her thighs locking, her cunt pulsing around him with dizzying intensity, and Soap followed instantly.

He moaned loud, deep, as his hips jerked against her, and he came, spilling deep inside her. She could feel every pulse of it, feel him twitch and throb as he held her against him, their bodies locked together.

Neither moved for a long moment.

They were both shaking, sweat-slick and breathing like they’d run miles.

Collapsing, Ilaria didn’t have the strength to do anything; even breathing seemed like too much. Soap was draped over her, pressing soft kisses to the side of her neck, with one arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice quiet now. “I’ve got you, tresero.”

She barely noticed when he reached for the cuffs, her body still loose, boneless, pleasure thrumming in every nerve. But she felt the shift, the slow slackening of leather, the click of buckles undone, and Soap rolled them over. Her arms dropped limply to the mattress with a slight thud, and a moment later, the pins-and-needles sensation came, a dull, prickling ache racing up her forearms, and she winced.

“I know, I know,” Soap murmured, already lifting her hands in his, cradling them in his palms as he rubbed soothing circles into her wrists, kissing the tender inner skin one at a time. His fingers were careful, slow, easing the tension back out of her joints. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

Ilaria blinked up at him, hair clinging to her flushed face, chest still rising and falling. Soap was watching her now with that look that made her chest tighten like he was still holding her even without touching her.

Opening her arms, Ilaria wanted to feel him, and Soap didn’t hesitate. Still breathing hard, he crawled up beside her, folding into her like he was finally giving in to exhaustion. His head dropped onto her chest, one arm lazily slung across her middle. Warm breath fanned across her chest, and the weight of him on her was a comfort she didn’t know she needed until he was there.

Ilaria held him, her arms lazily wrapped around his shoulders, fingers trailing along the line of his spine. The aftershocks still pulsed gently in her limbs, but the ache was sweet now, dulled by the hum of satisfaction.

She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the weight settling in her chest, heavier than even his body against hers.

I think I love you.

She didn’t say it, wouldn’t even let herself fully think it. Just let the words hover at the edge of her mind, like a secret pressed between her ribs. Her fingers stroked through Soap’s hair again, slower now, and he shifted slightly, nuzzling against her skin without opening his eyes. Relaxed and warm, Ilaria allowed her eyes to drift shut.

She didn’t know how long she had slept, maybe just minutes or perhaps more, but she woke to the sound of water running and found the bed beside her empty.

Disoriented for a moment, she ran her hand down the sheet beside her, still warm from his body. Not far off, she heard the soft splashing of water in the tub.

The air was warm as she padded softly down the hall, bare feet quiet against the tiled floor. Her body was sore, tender, thoroughly used, and her skin prickled with the ghost of restraints, the lingering feel of leather against her throat and wrists.

Steam curled up from the tub when she pushed the bathroom door open, and the room smelled faintly of citrus and bergamot. Soap himself stood near the sink in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed, and when he looked over at her, he smiled, so different to the looks he gave her on the bed.

“There’s yourself,” he said, gesturing to the tub. “C’mon, in you get. You’re a mess.”

Ilaria snorted softly, lips twitching. “Wow. That romantic talk never stops, huh?” But she couldn’t argue; her thighs were sticky with their release, her muscles were trembling with aftershocks, and the bath looked too inviting to resist.

She walked past him with a grin, her chin lifted as if she had dignity to spare, and dipped a toe into the water, which was perfect.

Stupid. All of it was stupid. This whole night, the collar, the cuffs, the way her body still buzzed, this bath, but when she sank into the tub and felt the hot water rush around her limbs, she felt at ease. The water felt like silk against her skin, hot enough to ease the ache in her muscles and melt away the remaining tension. But with each passing minute, the high of it all started to fade; the floaty feeling, the haze and unfiltered bliss. Now there was just her, naked and slick, flushed from head to toe, legs and hands still trembling faintly under the water.

Soap sat at the edge of the tub, elbow on one knee, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite name, amused? Endearing?

She shifted slightly, arms folding over her chest as her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t stop herself from glancing away. God, what had she looked like? Gagging around him, dripping wet, begging for more. She hadn’t cared in the moment; she’d loved it. But now?

Soap tilted his head slightly, and his voice was gentler than she expected. “You alright?”

“I am.” she said quickly, flicking her gaze up to him to see his brows furrow just a touch.

“Ilaria.”

She didn’t answer, just exhaled and looked away again. Then she felt his fingers brush her cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly, “You were fucking beautiful, are still so beautiful.” her eyes darted back to his, bright blue and utterly focused on her. She swallowed, throat tight and could only nod softly. “Don’t disappear on me now, tresero.”

Before she could argue, Soap stood, shoved his boxers down, and stepped into the bath.

“Johnny!” she yelped as the water sloshed over the side, her laughter only spurring him on as she tried to shove him away, but he just pulled her into his arms, water be damned, and wrapped her tight against his chest. The water settled, and Ilaria relaxed back between his legs, dropping her head back to his shoulder, eyes tracing his jaw and Adam’s apple. Soap’s hand stroked lazily along her thigh, fingers trailing down beneath the water.

Steam fogged the mirror, and the world outside the small window was dark. Ilaria nearly fell asleep again, fingers laced in Soaps, when he cleared his throat softly.

“I wouldn’t mind trying it,”

She blinked and lifted her head a little. “Trying what?”

There was the faintest pink creeping up his cheeks, and it wasn’t from the heat of the bath.

“The bondage,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. “Y’know. That side of it.”

Ilaria blinked again, then a slow smile curved her lips, and she leaned in just slightly, mischief sparking in her eyes.

“You mean... you in cuffs? In a pretty collar?”

He gave her a look, part warning, part amused, and she only grinned wider.

“You did look good on your knees the other night,” she teased.

Soap huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Oh yeah?”

Before she could reply, his hand darted under the water, fingers pinching her side just enough to make her squeak. He laughed and pulled her close, his arm warm around her shoulders as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

She hadn’t felt like this in years; quiet, steady… happy. Even with the storm still circling around them, she felt anchored here, beside Soap. Ilaria wanted to say that, wanted to thank him, tell him what it meant, but she bit her tongue because she knew exactly what would come out instead.

I’m in love with you.