Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 4
And watched him believe it.
3
THE RELUCTANT PROTECTOR
VIKTOR
The sound of my fists against the training mat was the only rhythm I trusted.
Impact. Breath. Reset.
Everything else was noise. Chaos pretending to be order. Lies dressed up as loyalty. Men calling themselves soldiers when they'd never tasted smoke or held a dying comrade while his blood turned the snow red beneath them both.
But this. This I understood.
The training hall at Ravenswood stretched out in all directions, polished floors reflecting fluorescent lights that made everything look sterile. Clinical. Like a morgue where the bodies could still move. High windows lined the far wall, rain streaking down the glass in patterns that reminded me of somewhere else. Some other storm. Some other life I'd left bleeding in the dirt where it belonged.
I didn't think about it.
Thinking was dangerous.
I moved through the combinations Adrian had drilled into me years ago, back when I was still raw from the military, still flinching at loud noises, still waking up with my hands around invisible throats. He'd taught me control. Discipline. How to turn rage into something useful instead of letting it burn me alive from the inside out.
Impact. Breath. Reset.
My knuckles were already split, blood seeping through the tape I'd wrapped too thin this morning. I didn't care. Pain was clarity. Pain was the only honest thing left in the world, and I'd take honesty over comfort any day of the week.
“You're slowing down, old man.”
Dom's voice cut through the rhythm, and I couldn't help the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. Didn't break stride, though. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept moving, kept breathing, kept my focus on the heavy bag swaying in front of me like a pendulum counting down to something inevitable.
“I heard you the first time,” I said, accent thick around the consonants. “Also heard you trip over your own feet coming through the door.”
“That was tactical repositioning.”
“That was you being clumsy British bastard.”
He circled me like a wolf testing prey, but there was a grin splitting his face wide open. The kind he always wore when he thought he was being clever. We'd worked together for five years. Bled together. Killed together. Gotten drunk exactly twice and never spoke of it again. He was the closest thing I had to a brother, which meant I knew exactly how to hurt him if he pushed too hard.
It also meant I knew how to make him laugh when everything else went to shit.
“I'm graceful as a fucking gazelle,” Dom said, still circling. “You're just jealous.”
“Gazelles do not smell like cheap cologne and poor decisions.”
“This cologne is expensive, thank you very much. Some of us care about personal grooming.”
I stopped mid-strike, letting my fist hover inches from the bag. Turned to face him with one eyebrow raised. “Is that why you use more hair product than Noah?”
“Noah doesn't use hair product, he's naturally gorgeous. Unlike some of us who look like we crawled out of a Serbian war zone.”
“I did crawl out of Serbian war zone.”
“My point exactly.” Dom's grin sharpened. “Now are we going to talk about our feelings, or are you going to let me hit you?”
“You could try.”
“Oh, I will.” He was closer now, just outside my peripheral vision. Testing boundaries. Waiting for me to react. “Question is whether you're still fast enough to stop me.”
I turned fully to face him, and that's when he moved.
Fast. Trained. He came in low, aiming for my ribs, and I shifted my weight just in time. Caught his wrist mid-swing. Our eyes met for a split second, his blue ones bright with challenge, and then I used his momentum against him. One smooth pivot. One sharp pull.
He twisted mid-fall, refusing to go down easy. Typical. His free hand shot out and grabbed my shoulder, taking me with him. We hit the mat together, hard enough to knock the air from both our lungs. I landed on top, forearm pressed across his chest, my knee between his legs for leverage.
Dom was already laughing even as he gasped for air. Blood trickled from his split lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, still grinning like an idiot who'd just proven his point.
“Christ, Viktor. You could at least pretend to break a sweat.”
“Why?” I could feel his heartbeat against my forearm. Rapid. Alive. His chest rose and fell beneath me, and I realized how close we were. How easy it would be to apply just a little more pressure. How vulnerable he'd made himself by pulling me down.
Trust. That's what this was.
“Because normal people do. When they fight. When they feel things.” He pushed up on his elbows, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that saw too much, dug too deep, refused to let me hide behind the walls I'd built so carefully. “You know. Human shit.”
I should have moved. Should have gotten up. Instead, I pressed down harder, testing his defense. “You want me to feel things? I feel you about to tap out.”
“Bold words from a man whose knee is in a very delicate position.” But he didn't tap. Didn't yield. Just held my gaze with that infuriating smirk. “I could end your bloodline from here.”
“You would have to catch me off guard first.”
“Pretty sure I'm the one on bottom, mate.”
“And yet you are still talking instead of fighting your way out.” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “This is your problem. Too much mouth. Not enough action.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Challenge accepted.
He moved fast. Bucked his hips up while grabbing my wrist, using the momentum to roll us. Suddenly I was the one on my back with Dom straddling my chest, his thighs locked tight around my ribs. His hands pinned my wrists above my head, and he was breathing hard now, grinning down at me like he'd just won something.
“Still think I'm all talk?” he panted.
I could feel his weight pressing me into the mat. The heat of him. The way his legs tightened when I tested his hold. Five years of trust between us, and this was how we spoke it. Through violence that wasn't quite violence. Through competition that was really just checking to make sure the other was still sharp. Still alive. Still here.
“You are straddling me like cheap date,” I said, keeping my voice flat even though my heart was pounding. “This is your victory?”
“This is me proving a point.”
“Point being?”
“That you're not as fast as you think you are.” His grin widened. “And that you're definitely slowing down in your old age.”
I tested his grip. Strong. Solid. He knew what he was doing. But he'd made one critical mistake. He'd gotten cocky.
I drove my knee up hard into his lower back while simultaneously twisting my wrists inward. The combination broke his hold just enough. I bucked him forward, rolled, and suddenly we were grappling in earnest. No more playing. Just instinct and training and the kind of fight that happened when two predators tested each other's limits.
We rolled across the mat, a tangle of limbs and leverage points. His elbow caught my ribs. My knee found his thigh. We were both breathing hard now, sweat making our grips slip, and there was something almost obscene about it. The way our bodies moved together. The way we anticipated each other's moves. The heat building between us that had nothing to do with the workout and everything to do with trust pushed to its breaking point.
I got him in a headlock, but he twisted out of it. He went for an arm bar, but I countered before he could lock it in. We ended up face to face, both on our knees, my hand fisted in his shirt and his fingers wrapped around my wrist tight enough to bruise.
We were both panting. Both grinning now, because this was the most honest conversation we'd had in weeks.
“You give up yet?” Dom asked, breathless.
“Do I look like man who gives up?”
“You look like a man who's about to get his arse kicked by someone younger and prettier.”
“You are neither of these things.”
“I'm definitely prettier.”
“You have blood on your face.”
“Makes me look dangerous.” He was still holding my wrist, still close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Could smell his cologne mixed with sweat and that indefinable thing that was just Dom. Solid. Real. Alive in a way that reminded me I was too.
I shoved him back, not hard. Just enough to break the moment before it became something else. Something neither of us could take back.
He went easily, sprawling on his back with that stupid grin still plastered across his face. “Admit it. I almost had you.”
“You had nothing.”
“I had you pinned for at least ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds is not victory.” I stood, offered him my hand. “Ten seconds is me letting you think you won.”
He took it, let me haul him to his feet. “You're a terrible liar, you know that?”
“I am excellent liar. You would not know truth from me if it bit you.”
“Yeah, well.” He wiped more blood from his mouth, still catching his breath. “You're still slowing down.”
I turned back to the heavy bag, but there was something lighter in my chest now. Something that felt almost like relief. Almost like being human again, even if just for a moment.
“Control is not weakness,” I said, settling back into my stance. “You should remember this.”
“My problem is I talk too much. Your problem is you don't talk at all.” He grabbed a towel from the bench, watching me with those eyes that saw everything I tried to hide. “You should let someone hit you back more often. Might make you feel human again.”
I glanced at the mirror-lined wall across from me. My reflection stared back, all sharp angles and old scars. Pale skin that never saw sunlight. Steel-gray eyes that had forgotten how to hold anything soft. Dark hair cut military-short because anything longer felt like a liability, like something an enemy could grab hold of in close combat.
But there was color in my cheeks now. Heat under my skin. The ghost of Dom's grip still burning around my wrists.
I looked like exactly what I was.
A weapon someone had forgotten to dismantle. But one that could still feel the warmth of a brother's hands, even if only in violence.
“Feeling human is luxury,” I said quietly, more to my reflection than to Dom. “I cannot afford luxuries.”
He opened his mouth to answer, probably to call me on my bullshit the way he always did, but my comm buzzed. Sharp. Urgent. Adrian's voice crackled through, clipped and formal in the way that meant business, not brotherhood.
“My office. Now.”
I pulled the comm from my ear and wiped sweat from my neck with the towel Dom had been using. He made a face but didn't complain. Smart man. He knew when to push and when to shut up.
“Guess playtime's over,” he said, and there was something in his voice now. Concern, maybe. Or just the awareness that when Adrian used that tone, someone's life was about to change.
“Playtime,” I repeated, and couldn't quite keep the edge of warmth from my voice. “Is that what we call it when you make me work for my morning coffee?”
“I call it keeping you sharp.” He tossed me a water bottle. I caught it without looking. “Someone's got to make sure you don't go completely feral.”
“Too late for that.”
“Yeah.” His grin softened into something more real. Something that looked almost like affection. “But at least you're our feral bastard.”
I didn't answer. Just stripped off the training gloves and headed for the door, boots echoing against the polished floor like gunfire. Each step measured. Controlled. The way I'd learned to move through the world after Anya died. After I realized that caring about anything meant watching it bleed out while you stood there useless, powerless, too fucking late every single time.
The door to Adrian's office was already open. I could see firelight flickering inside, smell the cigar smoke and expensive scotch that always clung to the air around him like a signature. He stood by the fireplace, tailored suit immaculate despite the late hour, looking every inch the predator he was. Calculated. Controlled. Dangerous in ways most people didn't recognize until it was too late.
Adrian Calloway. Scarred face. Ruthless mind. The kind of man who'd burn the world down for the people he loved and sleep soundly afterward because he knew he'd made the right choice.
He'd saved my life once. Pulled me out of the gutter when I was half-dead and fully broken, gave me purpose when I had nothing left but ghosts and guilt and a loaded gun I'd been too much of a coward to use. I owed him everything.
Which meant when he said jump, I asked how high and didn't complain about the landing.
Noah was already there, curled in one of the leather chairs with a laptop balanced on his knees. Dark hair falling into his eyes. Focused on whatever he was working on with the kind of intensity that made the rest of the world disappear. He looked different than when I'd first met him a year ago. Softer somehow. Less haunted. Like Adrian had somehow managed to sand down the sharp edges of trauma without breaking what made Noah himself.
He glanced up when I entered. Smiled. Warm. Real. The kind of smile that made it obvious why Adrian had gone to war for him.
“Viktor. Hey.” He closed the laptop. “Adrian said you were coming.”
“Noah.” I nodded. Respectful. He'd earned it.
I stopped in the doorway, waiting. Adrian liked control. Liked making people come to him. I understood it. Respected it, even.
“Close the door,” Adrian said without turning around. “Sit.”
I moved to the empty chair across from Adrian's desk. Before I could sit, Noah stood.
“Actually, take this one. Better angle to see the files.” He gestured to the chair he'd been occupying.
“Is fine where I am—“
“No, really. I insist.” Noah was already moving, laptop tucked under his arm.
He perched on the arm of my chair. Casual. Easy. Then, without warning, slid directly into my lap.
I froze.
Noah settled against me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Back pressed to my chest. Ass nestled against my thighs. My hands came up automatically. Instinct. Years of training. Steadying. Grounding. My palms found his waist. Held there.
“This works,” Noah said brightly, reopening his laptop. “Adrian, you were saying something about the royal contract?”
Adrian's mouth twitched. His eyes met mine over Noah's shoulder. Amused. Knowing. “Viktor is being assigned to the royal family.”
The words slid between my ribs and settled there like a blade I couldn't pull out.
I did not move. Did not breathe. My hands stayed on Noah's waist. Holding. “No.”
“Not a request, Viktor.” Adrian crossed to the sideboard, poured three scotches.
“We are ghosts,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Not palace décor. You taught me that.”
Noah shifted slightly. My hands tightened on his waist. Steadying him. Or steadying myself. His body heat seeped through layers of fabric.
“Décor does not put a man down from a hundred yards in the rain.” Adrian set drinks on the desk. “That is why they asked for you specifically.”
My jaw ached from clenching. “So this is what Sentinels are now. Suits and photo calls.”
“This is what Sentinels are now,” Adrian said. “Visible where it helps us. Invisible where it matters.”
“Actually,” Noah interjected, scrolling through something. “The legitimacy angle is smart. I've been monitoring palace security protocols.” His fingers moved across the keyboard. “Their current detail is adequate. But not excellent. Too many gaps.”
He leaned forward to point at the screen. My hands guided him. Kept him balanced. His ass pressed more firmly against my thighs. Against my cock.
My grip on his waist tightened. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the lean muscle under fabric. Just enough to guide him back. Settling him more firmly in my lap.
Noah made a soft sound. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a sigh. His hips rolled. Testing. My hands on his waist guided the movement. Subtle. Controlled. A gentle pressure that suggested more than demanded.
He responded. His body moving with my guidance. A slow grind that made my cock thicken.
“Here,” Noah said, voice steady despite the movement. “East corridor. No camera coverage for forty-seven seconds during shift change.”
My hands stayed on his waist. Fingers spread. Holding. One thumb traced slow circles against his hip bone. Encouraging. He shifted again. This time deliberate. Following the suggestion in my touch.
“Which is why Viktor goes in,” Adrian said. His eyes tracked every movement. “To fix what is broken.”
“I did not sign up to babysit crowns.” My voice came out rougher. My hands guided Noah's hips in another slow roll. He followed the pressure. Grinding down.
“You signed up for me,” Adrian said. “For what we are building.”
Noah pulled up another file. “The crown prince has survived four assassination attempts in eighteen months.” His hips moved again. My hands encouraged the rhythm. Gentle guidance that he followed like we'd practiced this. “Someone wants him dead.”
“Or both,” Adrian said. “Which is why we need our best.”
My hands slid slightly lower on Noah's waist. Guiding him in slow circles. He leaned back against my chest. Trusting. Following every subtle pressure. His ass grinding against my hardening cock with increasing confidence.
“This makes us targets,” I managed.
“Everything I do is a calculated risk.” Adrian's eyes never left us.
Noah made another soft sound. My hands tightened on his waist. Guiding him harder. Showing him the rhythm I wanted. He responded immediately. Hips rolling with more pressure. More intent.
“The crown is leverage,” Noah added. His breathing had changed. Slightly faster. “Once you protect the prince successfully, every high-value target in Europe will want Sentinel contracts.”
