**Chapter 5: Protective**

The rain hasn’t stopped for three days. It drums against the reinforced windows of Cole’s safehouse like a warning. I’m sitting on the edge of the worn leather sofa, knees drawn to my chest, watching him. Ten years. Ten years since he walked out of my life without a word, without a promise, without leaving me a single thread to hold onto. And now he’s back. Living in the same space. Breathing the same air. Sleeping three feet away while I pretend I don’t hear the shift of his sheets, the low rumble of his voice on encrypted radio calls, the way his presence fills a room like a storm front rolling in.

He’s sitting at the kitchen island, back to me, shirtless. The scar across his shoulders maps a history I never got to read. A long, jagged line from his left collarbone down to his ribs, another across his spine, and the older, silvered ones that speak of close calls and survival. He’s cleaning his sidearm with methodical precision. His hands are calloused, steady, scarred. The same hands that once traced my hip in the dark, that let go of me at dawn without explanation. The same hands that have since learned how to kill efficiently.

I should hate him. I tell myself I do. But my body remembers. My skin still buzzes where he touched me. My breath still catches when he looks at me.

The silence breaks with the sound of glass shattering.

Not from the rain. From the back window. A heavy thud. Boots on hardwood. Two voices, low, clipped, speaking a language I don’t know but recognize instantly: mercenary code.

Cole moves before my brain catches up.

He’s off the stool in one fluid motion. The gun disappears into his waistband. His other hand slams the table, and he’s already in motion, a shadow detaching from the wall. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t panic. He just becomes something else. Something lethal.

I scramble to my feet, heart hammering against my ribs. He grabs my arm, his grip iron-tight, and pulls me behind the kitchen island as the back door splinters inward. Three men. Tactical gear. Faceless behind balaclavas. Rifles raised.

Cole doesn’t hesitate.

He fires twice before they register him. Two rounds. Two men drop. The third turns, rifle swinging, but Cole is already moving. He closes the distance in a stride, grabs the man’s wrist, and drives him backward into the cabinetry. A sharp crack. A knee to the spine. The rifle clatters to the floor. Cole kicks it away, steps on the man’s chest, and presses his blade against his throat.

“Who sent you?” Cole’s voice is calm. Too calm. It’s the voice of a man who’s done this a hundred times and won’t flinch at the hundred-and-first.

The man spits blood. Doesn’t speak.

Cole’s jaw tightens. He leans in, close enough that I can see the storm in his eyes. The man’s eyes widen. He whimpers.

Cole presses the blade deeper. A thin line of blood traces the man’s collarbone. “Last chance.”

I’m breathing so hard I can’t think. My hands are shaking. But I don’t look away. I watch him. The man who left me is gone. In his place is a predator who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t forgive weakness in his enemies. He’s protecting me. Not with words. With violence.

The man finally breaks. “Volkov. He sent us. He’s coming for you. He’s coming for both of you.”

Cole’s expression doesn’t change. He pulls the blade free. The man collapses, gasping. Cole doesn’t kill him. Not yet. He drags him by the collar toward the back door, boots echoing on hardwood. I hear a thud. Then silence.

When he returns, he’s changed. The calm is gone. Replaced by something raw, something feral. He locks the door. Checks the windows. Runs a hand through his hair, breathing hard. Then he turns to me.

His eyes lock onto mine. Dark. Heavy. Burning.

“You okay?” His voice is rough, stripped of its military edge, but it’s still Cole. The man I loved. The man I missed.

I nod, but my legs are jelly. “You just killed men.”

“Three,” he corrects, stepping toward me. “And I’ll kill more if they cross this line.”

He reaches me. His hands find my face, calloused thumbs sweeping over my cheekbones. His touch is careful, but his grip is possessive. Unyielding. “You’re safe. I’m not letting them near you. Not ever again.”

I lean into his hands. Ten years of absence, of wondering, of pretending I didn’t need him. It all crashes over me in a wave. “You left,” I whisper.

“I know.” His forehead drops to mine. His breath is hot, ragged. “I’m back. And I’m not leaving.”

The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, making my skin hum, my pulse race. The fear is still there, coiled tight in my stomach. But beneath it, something else wakes up. Something desperate. Something hungry.

I kiss him.

He groans against my mouth, one hand sliding into my hair, the other gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him. His body is hard, tense, vibrating with restrained power. I feel every scar, every ridge of muscle, every years of discipline warring with raw need. He tastes like rain and blood and me.

He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily. “Emma.”

“Cole,” I whisper back.

He doesn’t wait. He lifts me, carries me to the bedroom, and lays me on the bed like I’m something sacred. Like I’m his. His hands are everywhere. Rough, deliberate, claiming. He undoes my clothes with impatient fingers, tearing the fabric where it resists. I don’t care. I want him. I’ve wanted him for a decade.

He strips his own clothes, tossing them aside. The scars on his body are more visible in the dim light. A long burn across his ribs. A bullet graze along his thigh. The jagged line from his shoulder down his chest. He doesn’t hide them. He lets me see them. Lets me trace them.

I run my fingers over the old wounds. “Do they still hurt?”

“Only when I think about leaving you,” he says, voice low, rough. “They don’t hurt when I’m here.”

He pushes my legs apart, settling between them. His hands grip my thighs, pulling them higher. He looks down at me, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “Look at me,” he commands.

I do.

He doesn’t kiss me this time. He just watches. Waiting. Asking for permission. Even after ten years, he’s still asking. Still careful. Still mine.

I nod. “Take me.”

He does.

His cock slides into me in one slow, deliberate thrust. I gasp, back arching off the mattress. He’s thick, hot, perfectly fitted. I’ve never forgotten how he feels. How he fills me. How he makes me unravel. He stills, jaw clenched, breathing hard. “You tight,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “Fucking perfect.”

He begins to move. Slow at first. Testing. Feeling. Then deeper. Harder. Each thrust is a claim. Each grunt is a vow. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin, leaving marks. Possessive. Lethal. Mine.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groans, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “God, Emma. Ten years. I’ve dreamed about this. About you. About feeling you around me again.”

“I felt you,” I whisper, fingers tangling in his hair. “Every night. I never stopped.”

He pulls back, eyes locking onto mine. The intensity in them is terrifying. Beautiful. “Then take it,” he growls. “Take every fucking thing I’ve got. I’m not holding back anymore. Not after tonight. Not after they come looking for us.”

He changes pace. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Each thrust hits me straight in the core, wrapping around my clit, grinding against my most sensitive nerves. I cry out, back bowing off the bed. He catches me, one arm under my shoulders, holding me in place. The other hand slides down, fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles.

I shatter.

It hits me like a wave. My body clenches around him, pulses, trembles. I scream his name. He follows me over the edge, burying himself to the hilt, groaning like a man who’s been starved and finally fed. His body tenses, shudders, and he empties inside me, hot and thick, pulsing with every beat of his heart.

He stays inside me. Breathing hard. Forehead resting against mine. Eyes closed. I feel his heartbeat against my chest. Fast. Steady. Alive.

I run my fingers through his hair. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper. Something final. “Not until they’re dead. Not until you’re safe. Not until I can look at you and know you’re mine.”

I smile, tired but content. “I’ve always been yours.”

He opens his eyes. Looks at me. Really looks at me. The warrior is still there. The edge is still sharp. But beneath it, beneath the scars and the violence and the years of absence, is the man who never stopped loving me. The man who returned. The man who will kill anyone who threatens us.

He shifts, rolling off me but keeping me pinned beneath him. He kisses me, slow and deep, tasting my skin, my breath, my surrender. His hands trace my sides, my hips, my thighs. Reverent. Possessive.

“We need to move,” he says eventually, voice low. “Volkov’s men won’t be the last. They’ll send more. He’ll send more. I need to secure the perimeter. Get you out of here.”

I nod. “Take me with you.”

He shakes his head. “No. You stay safe. I handle this.”

“I’m not a damsel,” I say, sharper than I intend. “You left me once. I’m not letting you leave again. If you’re going to war, I’m not hiding in the dark.”

He stares at me. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at his mouth. “Fuck. You’re still as stubborn as ever.”

“Still as in love as ever,” I correct.

He groans, pressing his forehead to mine. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Then I’ll bury you next to me.”

He laughs, low and rough, and pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, protective, unyielding. I listen to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Mine.

Outside, the rain continues. The night is still dark. The threat is still out there. But in this room, with his arms around me and his scars pressed against my skin, I feel something I haven’t felt in ten years.

Safe.

Whole.

His.

And when Cole finally pulls away to gear up, I don’t flinch. I watch him. The man. The warrior. The man who left. The man who returned. The man who will kill for me. The man who loves me.

I know what I want now.

I know what I’m willing to fight for.

And I’m not letting go. Not again. Not ever.