Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 5
My thumb traced his hip bone again. Pressing. Directing. He ground down harder. Following instruction perfectly.
“In the dark,” I gritted out. “Where it belongs.”
“Where it belongs,” Adrian agreed. Watching. Always watching.
Noah leaned forward to point at something. My hands guided his return. Pulled him back firmly against my chest. Against my now fully hard cock. He gasped. Soft. Barely audible.
“The palace security budget is substantial,” Noah continued. Voice slightly strained. My hands encouraged another roll of his hips. “If we can prove our worth—“
He broke off. My hands had guided him into a harder grind. Deliberate. Controlled. Showing him exactly what I wanted.
“I know the fire,” Adrian said. “The King needs someone who understands protection.” His gaze pinned me. “So do you.”
My jaw locked. “This is different.”
“Is it?” Adrian leaned forward.
Noah's hand came to rest on my thigh. Grounding. My hands on his waist pulled him back. Encouraged another grind. He obeyed beautifully. Moving with the pressure. Learning the rhythm.
“How long,” I managed.
“Temporary,” Adrian said. “A few months. Then you come back.”
Noah shifted. Turned slightly. My hands guided him through the movement. Keeping him balanced. Keeping him grinding. His eyes were warm. Darker than before.
“You'll do well,” he said. Then, without warning, he slid off my lap.
I expected him to stand. To move away.
Instead, he dropped gracefully to his knees. Disappeared under the desk like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Adrian's smile widened. “Noah has a point to make, it seems.”
I felt hands on my knees. Pushing. Spreading my legs apart. Noah settled between them. I could see the top of his dark head below the desk edge.
“We should continue,” Adrian said. Calm. Controlled. “Where were we?”
“Back to your side,” I forced out. Noah's hands were on my thighs now. Sliding up. “Where I belong.”
“Where you belong,” Adrian agreed. “You are my best man.”
Noah's hands reached my belt. I heard the buckle click. Felt him working my zipper.
“The data supports the contract,” Noah's voice came from under the desk. Slightly muffled. “Sentinel Network's reputation grows with successful high-profile assignments.”
My cock sprang free. Hard. Aching. Noah's breath ghosted over it. Hot. Deliberate.
“You cannot serve the crown and the underworld forever,” I said through gritted teeth. “Eventually someone makes you choose.”
“I will choose what keeps us alive,” Adrian said. His eyes were dark. Heated. Watching his husband work under the desk.
Noah's mouth closed over the head of my cock. Hot. Wet. Perfect.
I bit back a groan. My hands gripped the armrests. Adrian watched with the same intensity he brought to everything.
“The legitimacy angle is strategic,” Noah said, pulling off just long enough to speak. Then his mouth was back. Taking me deeper.
“I see Noah is making his case,” Adrian observed. “He's very thorough when he wants something.”
Noah hummed agreement around my cock. The vibration made my hips jerk.
“Just providing tactical support,” Noah said, stroking what he couldn't fit in his mouth. “The data is compelling.”
His mouth worked me with increasing confidence. Long pulls. Gentle suction. Tongue working the underside of my shaft.
I wanted to call it a mistake. But I had chosen Adrian once and I would choose him again.
And right now, that loyalty meant enduring Noah's very thorough argument while pretending to focus on business.
Adrian slid a sealed folder across the desk.
“When do I start.”
“Tonight,” Adrian said. “A car will be waiting.”
Noah's mouth worked faster. Harder. Taking me deeper. His hands gripped my thighs.
“Do not make me regret it,” Adrian said.
I nodded. Could not speak. Could only feel Noah's mouth. His tongue. The heat and pressure building.
Noah pulled off. Looked up at me from between my legs. Eyes bright. Mouth wet. “Good luck with the prince. Try not to fall in love.”
Then his mouth was back. Working me until I came hard down his throat with Adrian watching and the storm raging outside and a folder with a prince's name waiting on the desk.
Perfect weather for drowning.
4
PRINCE AND THE SHADOW
SEBASTIAN
Iwas adjusting my cufflinks in the gilded mirror when Élodie walked in without knocking.
“You look miserable,” she said, setting down a tea tray I hadn't asked for.
“I look princely.” I tugged at the collar of my shirt, perfectly tailored and perfectly suffocating. “There's a difference.”
“You look like you're about to bolt.” She came up beside me, fixing my collar even though it was already perfect. Her fingers were gentle, familiar. The way my mother's used to be. “Another guard. Another lecture about safety. I know you're thrilled.”
I caught her eyes in the mirror. “When have I ever been thrilled about guards?”
“Never.” She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. There was worry there. The same worry that had been growing for months now, ever since the attacks started getting bolder. “But this one's different.”
“They're all the same. Serious. Professional. Utterly convinced they know better than me.”
“Try not to flirt with this one.”
I laughed despite myself. “I don't flirt with my guards.”
“You flirt with everyone, Sebastian. It's a reflex at this point.”
“It's called charm. Very different.”
“Well, save it.” She stepped back, studying me with that knowing look that meant she saw through every mask I wore. “This one looks like he eats steel for breakfast.”
Something about that description sparked interest. Not attraction. Just curiosity. The way you'd be curious about a wolf that wandered into a garden party.
“Now you're making me interested.”
“Don't be.” She picked up the tea tray again, heading for the door. “He's here to keep you alive, not entertain you.”
“Shame. I could use the entertainment.”
She paused in the doorway, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. “Be careful with this one. He's not like the others.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my reflection and a growing sense of unease.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Golden hair combed back, green eyes bright despite the exhaustion I could feel creeping through my bones. The cut on my jaw from last night's warehouse fight was covered with makeup, invisible unless you knew to look for it. I looked every inch the prince they wanted me to be.
Perfect.
Empty.
I turned away before the feeling could settle too deep.
The reception hall was already filling when I arrived. Press photographers setting up their equipment like vultures arranging their perches. Palace staff moving with that practiced efficiency that came from years of pretending everything was fine while the world burned outside the gates. My father stood near the windows, talking quietly with someone I couldn't see yet, his posture carrying that particular tension he'd worn since Mother died.
Apollo padded up to me, tail wagging, and I knelt to scratch behind his ears. His warmth was grounding. Real. The only uncomplicated thing in my life that didn't demand performance or perfection or blood.
“You ready for this?” I whispered to him.
He licked my face, wet nose pressing against my cheek.
I took that as a yes. At least one of us was optimistic.
The door at the far end of the hall opened, and I felt the shift before I saw him. The way the air seemed to change. Thicken. Like a storm rolling in off the Thames, all pressure and electricity and the promise of violence.
He walked in, and everything else faded to background noise.
Tall. Broader than I'd expected from the surveillance photo I'd hacked from the security files last night. Dressed in black that somehow made him look more dangerous instead of formal, like he'd taken a funeral suit and turned it into armor. His movements were deliberate, measured, the way predators moved when they were deciding whether you were threat or prey.
I watched him cross the hall toward my father, and something in my chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the kind of recognition that felt dangerous.
This was different.
Élodie had been right when she'd warned me this morning. Said the new guard wasn't like the others.
She hadn't mentioned he'd look like sin carved from ice. He looked like winter personified.
He stopped in front of my father, and they spoke quietly. I was too far away to hear the words, but I saw the way my father's shoulders relaxed slightly. Saw the trust there, immediate and instinctive, the kind my father only gave to men who'd proven themselves in blood.
Which meant this man was very good at his job.
Or very good at lying.
Probably both.
My father gestured toward me, and the man turned.
He looked at me and I forgot how to breathe.
I'd seen death before. Had caused it, more times than I could count with arrows that flew silent through the dark. But this man wore it differently. Not like a weapon he picked up when needed. Like a second skin he'd never learned to take off. Like it had seeped into his bones and made a home there.
I straightened, forcing a smile that felt wrong on my face. Too practiced. Too false. The same one I wore for cameras and diplomats and people who wanted pieces of me I'd never agreed to give.
He crossed toward me, and I counted his steps without meaning to. Twelve. Each one perfectly controlled. Not too fast, which would signal aggression. Not too slow, which would signal hesitation. Like he'd calculated exactly how much time he needed to assess the room, the exits, the threats.
Me.
Apollo's tail stopped wagging. He pressed closer to my leg, suddenly alert in that way he got when something felt off. When danger walked on two legs instead of four.
Smart dog.
The man stopped precisely six feet away. Close enough to be polite. Far enough to maintain distance. Far enough that I'd have to work to close the gap if I wanted to.
And god help me, I wanted to.
My father made the introductions, voice warm with relief that made my stomach twist with something uncomfortably close to guilt. “Sebastian, this is Viktor Volkov. He'll be handling your personal security from now on.”
Viktor. The name felt sharp in my mouth before I even said it. All hard consonants and clipped vowels. Russian, probably. Eastern European at the very least.
I extended my hand, keeping the smile in place even though it felt like lying. “Welcome to the circus. Fair warning, the lions are poorly trained and the ringmaster's drunk most afternoons.”
He looked at my hand like I'd offered him a live grenade. Looked at me with those winter-storm eyes that gave away absolutely nothing. Then inclined his head in something that wasn't quite a bow, wasn't quite a nod, was just this side of respectful.
“Your Highness.”
He didn't take my hand.
The rejection was so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed. But I noticed. Noticed the way he kept his hands loose at his sides, ready to move. Noticed the way his eyes tracked everything in the room except me, like I was the least interesting variable in the equation.
Like I was furniture. Fragile, expensive furniture that needed protecting but didn't warrant actual attention.
It shouldn't have bothered me.
It did.
“Just Sebastian is fine,” I said, dropping my hand and pretending the dismissal didn't sting. “We're going to be spending a lot of time together. May as well skip the formality. Unless you're the type who insists on titles during breakfast. In which case, we're going to have problems.”
“I prefer formality, Your Highness.”
Of course he did.
“Formality,” I repeated, letting my smile sharpen into something with teeth. “How delightfully medieval. Should I start wearing a crown to bed? Maybe commission a throne for the bathroom?”
His expression didn't change. Not even a flicker. “If Your Highness wishes.”
I studied him more openly now, letting my curiosity show because subtlety had never been my strong suit. Pale skin that looked like it rarely saw sunlight, like he lived in shadows by choice rather than circumstance. Dark hair cut military-short, practical and severe. Sharp features that could've been handsome if they weren't so aggressively closed off. And those eyes. Cold and assessing and absolutely devoid of anything resembling warmth or humor or basic human connection.
He looked like someone had taken everything soft out of him and forgotten to put it back.
He looked like he'd let them.
“Well then, Viktor,” I said, testing the name on my tongue, feeling the way it sat there rough and foreign and strangely satisfying. “I hope you're prepared. I'm not exactly easy to keep alive. Previous guards have quit, requested reassignment, or developed stress-related drinking problems. One actually joined a monastery. True story.”
“I am aware of your file, Your Highness.”
“My file.” I laughed, and it came out sharper than I meant it to. “And what does my file say about me? Besides the obvious character flaws and tendency toward self-destruction.”
“That you are reckless.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was reading from a shopping list instead of cataloging my failures. “That you disappear without notice. That previous security has failed to maintain protocols due to your lack of cooperation. That you are liability.”
The words landed like stones in still water. Accurate. Clinical. Completely devoid of judgment, which somehow made them worse.
“Liability,” I repeated, tasting the word. “That's a new one. Usually they go with 'difficult' or 'spirited' or my personal favorite, 'willfully problematic.'”
“Is accurate one.”
Something hot flared in my chest. Not quite anger. Not quite hurt. Something dangerously close to both. “Well, I'd hate to disappoint by proving them wrong. Though I should warn you, I don't do well with being handled. Had a bad experience with leashes as a child.”
“I do not handle, Your Highness. I protect.”
“Is there?” I stepped closer, just one step, watching to see if he'd back away. He didn't. Didn't move at all, actually. Just stood there like a stone wall I could break myself against. “Because from where I'm standing, protection looks a lot like control. And control looks a lot like a cage.”
“Cage keeps you breathing.” His eyes met mine finally, really met them, and I felt the impact of it low in my gut. “Breathing is preferable to alternative.”
“Depends on the cage.”
“Does it.”
It wasn't a question. Just this flat statement that said he'd already decided how this was going to go. Already written the script where I was the problem and he was the solution and we'd both play our parts until one of us broke.
I should've been annoyed.
I was fascinated.
My father cleared his throat softly, reminding us we had an audience. Right. The photographers. The staff. The performance we were supposed to be giving.
I could feel them watching, could sense the palace staff pretending not to listen while cataloging every word for later gossip. But all I could focus on was the man in front of me, unmovable as stone, staring at me like I was a problem he'd already solved.
It made me want to prove him wrong. Made me want to crack that facade and see what bled out.
Made me want things I definitely shouldn't want from the man whose job was to keep me alive.
“Well,” I said finally, breaking the moment before it could become something neither of us wanted to name in front of witnesses. “I suppose we should get started then. I have a charity event this afternoon. Photographers. Smiling for cameras. The usual performance art. You'll need to look pretty and intimidating in the background.”
“I will review security protocols first.”
“Of course you will. Can't have the liability running around unsupervised.” I gestured toward the door leading to the west wing, channeling every ounce of princely charm I'd spent thirty-one years perfecting. “My study is this way. We can talk there. Apollo likes you, by the way. He's a good judge of character. Either that or he's desperately misguided. Time will tell.”
I didn't wait for his response. Just started walking, trusting him to follow because what else was he going to do? Refuse? Let me wander off alone through my own palace?
Apollo fell into step beside me, still pressed close to my leg, and I heard Viktor's boots on the marble behind us. Quiet. Controlled. Like even his footsteps were calculated to give away nothing.
The corridor stretched ahead, all gold leaf and priceless art and the weight of centuries pressing down from the ceiling. I'd walked these halls my entire life. Knew every painting, every statue, every place where the floorboards creaked.
But having him behind me changed everything. Made me aware of my posture. My pace. The way my shoulders carried tension I usually hid better.
Made me aware of him. Of the space he took up. The way his presence felt like gravity, pulling everything toward some inevitable collision.
“So,” I said, voice echoing off marble and pretension, “do you talk much? Or is the strong, silent type your only setting?”
“I talk when necessary.”
“And right now isn't necessary?”
“No.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, found him exactly six feet behind me. Still maintaining that careful distance. Still watching everything except me.
