My Voice in Her Ear
“So. How scandalous can I make the dress before Elara stabs me for compromising concealment?”
– Jasmine
The moonlight wrapped around her like it knew her—like it had been waiting all night to wrap her in silver and scent and silence. She stood barefoot on the villa balcony, wrapped in nothing but a robe and her own fractured thoughts. Arms crossed. Shoulders tense. Eyes fixed on Lake Como like it might hold the answers. It didn’t. It never did. But she searched anyway. The gardenias were in bloom again. Their perfume rose in soft waves from the courtyard below, curling around her like memory.
I watched from the shadows of the doorway for a second longer than I should’ve. Just watching her breathe. Watching her exist.
God, she was devastating. Not in that performative, predictable kind of way. Not like the women who’d filled my past with red lips and sharp lies. No—Jasmine was the kind of beautiful that hurt. The kind that made you believe in gods just so you’d have someone to thank for her. She was pain and survival and elegance born of fire. A woman rebuilt from ashes who still carried smoke in her smile. And somehow… she was mine.
I moved behind her without a sound. I didn’t need to speak. Her body always sensed me first. Always had. Some part of her had memorized the rhythm of my approach—every quiet footfall, every shift in breath, every ripple of air pressure. We were past the point of needing words to announce our presence.
“You’re thinking again,” I murmured near her ear, letting my voice curl into her like smoke under a door—slow, invasive, intimate.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Of course she didn’t.
I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her into me, every line of her back slotting against my chest like we were cut from the same wreckage. Her warmth hit me like a drug—pure, familiar, essential.
“I never stopped,” she said quietly. Her voice had that edge to it—the one that always warned me she was spiralling, trying not to drown. “It’s all looping in my head. The gala. Eliza. The babies. You. Everything. All of it’s… cluttered.”
My hands moved without thought. I splayed them across her stomach, the way I always did when she needed grounding. When I needed grounding. As if pressing my palms there could shield her from the ache that lived in her bones. As if I could take it all from her with touch alone. You can’t. But I still tried.
“You don’t have to hold it all alone, mon amour,” I whispered. “You never will again.”
“I know,” she murmured. “But I keep wondering if we’re walking into a storm that’s bigger than we can see.”
“Then we walk in together,” I said, letting the weight of my voice carry through her bones. “And we control the thunder.”
She made a soft noise—half-snort, half-God, I hate that you say things like that and make them sound real. Her fingers found the hem of my shirt and fisted there, holding on like she was the one anchoring me.
“I’ve been rehearsing it, you know,” she said after a long moment. The air around us stilled.
“What?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“The safety word. Just in case. Horizon. I say it over and over in my head like a spell. So I don’t freeze. So I don’t forget.”
My hands stilled. The word—that word—carved through me like a razor dipped in guilt. It touched places I didn’t want touched. It exposed a fear I refused to name. I tightened my arms around her, just enough to let her feel it.
“I hate that you have to.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But I’d rather be afraid and in control than ignorant and helpless. I don’t want her to think she’s won before the game even starts.”
I turned her then. Not quickly. Not roughly. Slow. Precise. Like I was touching scripture. My hands framed her face, thumbs brushing the curve of her jaw. Her eyes lifted to mine—blue, glassy, defiant even in their tremble—and I met them without blinking.
“She won’t win,” I said, each word deliberate. “Not now. Not ever. You already took everything from her without trying. You exist. That’s her undoing.”
“She still wants to hurt us.”
“She can try,” I said, my voice dropping into something lethal. “But I’ve already mapped every shadow in that venue. I’ll be watching you from the second you step out of the car. And Elara’s running rotations tighter than MI6. You say the word, kitten, and this illusion falls.”
“Promise me,” she said, “if something goes wrong… and I can’t speak… you’ll still come. Even if I don’t say it.”
My control cracked—just for a moment. Just long enough for her to see it. I don’t let people see me bleed. But she wasn’t people.
“I’d burn down the world for you, Jasmine Llewellyn,” I said, and every syllable came from the deepest place inside me. “Horizon or not.”
We stood there, silent, tethered to each other by nothing and everything. Above us, the stars watched. Below, the lake shimmered with secrets.
She shifted first. The emotional weight in her eyes flicked to mischief, her mouth twitching with something lighter. A lifeline she threw out when things got too heavy to hold.
“So,” she said, dragging the syllable like a dare. “How scandalous can I make the dress before Elara stabs me for compromising concealment?”
I huffed a laugh—low and dangerous.
“As long as you let me choose the heels and test how fast you can run in them,” I said, brushing my knuckles down her arm, “you can wear sin itself.”
“I already do,” she whispered against me. “My sin is six-foot-two and speaks four languages.”
I kissed her.
And prayed the storm she feared had the good sense to stay the fuck out of her way.
The morning sun hasn’t risen yet, but I’m already wide awake.
I’ve been watching her sleep for the past hour. She’s curled toward my side, one hand curled near her face like a kitten, the other resting protectively over her stomach, even in her dreams. It’s instinctual now, isn’t it? The way her body shields what’s ours.
She breathes easier here, I’ve noticed. Lake Como has given her a pocket of peace after everything. But I know that stillness won’t last today.
It’s gala day.
And no matter how many contingencies I’ve drafted, how many agents I’ve got in position, how many exit routes and blind spots I’ve studied—I still feel like the world is holding its breath. Like we’re on the edge of something. I hate this part. The pretending. The silence. The mask she has to wear. But I’ll play this game, kitten. I’ll play it because she asked me to trust her. Because she needs this to feel like control again. Because I know what it costs her to be bait in someone else’s war, and I will not strip that power from her hands.
I’ve already reviewed the briefing twice this morning—once while she was still tucked against me, and again downstairs while the kettle boiled. Jude sent through the final security overlay. Elara’s team will be embedded inside the venue as guests and staff. Snipers will have clear visual across every egress. I’ll be stationed nearby with eyes on her at all times—comms tested, fallback vehicle waiting, medical on standby.
Still. None of it is enough to quiet the part of me that wants to lock her in this villa and burn the invitations.
My thumb brushes her cheek lightly now, careful not to wake her just yet. She needs the rest. She never admits when she’s exhausted.
I wonder if she’s dreaming. If her subconscious is conjuring silk gowns or shadows in alleyways. If she can feel me here, watching her, loving her with every breath I take.
I press a kiss to her forehead and whisper in French—nothing urgent. Just poetry. Just promises. Just a selfish attempt to be the first voice she hears when she wakes.
When her eyes finally flutter open, I know I’ll be calm. I’ll be composed. I’ll tease her about the whipped cream she demanded last night or how Elara made that face when she asked if thigh holsters came in lace. I’ll make her smile. I’ll make her feel like today is just another glamorous event.
But just beneath the surface, kitten, I am primed for war.
If Eliza lays a finger on Jasmine—if her people even breathe in Jasmine’s direction—I will end it. I will end Eliza.
And when it’s over, when we’re home again, when she’s back in my arms with no whispers in her ear, no spotlight on her shoulders—then we’ll breathe. Then we’ll rest.
Until then, I’m hers.
All of me.
“Morning, mon amour,” she murmured, voice still rough with sleep, the kind of hoarse that scraped something possessive loose in my chest.
My hand slid up instinctively, cradling the back of her head, fingers sinking into that tangle of hair like it was the only thing anchoring me. I dipped closer, voice quiet, wrecked with affection.
“Bonjour, madame Llewellyn,” I whispered against her lips—my voice still ruined from silence and restraint. “You’ve just ruined every plan I had to keep a safe distance today.”
I kissed her again, slow and steady this time. No hunger. No rush. Just the kind of kiss that meant I’m here. You’re safe. We start today as we always should—together. She tasted like warmth. Like sleep. Like every reason I’ve ever given a damn about the future.
I pulled back just enough to see her face. Her lashes still heavy. Her cheek flushed. I brushed a strand of hair away, slow and reverent, like it was a privilege.
“Do you feel alright?” My hand slipped down her arm, fingertips checking her temperature with the kind of touch that barely existed. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”
She hated when I fussed. I knew that. But today was different. Today she’d be walking into a lion’s mouth, dressed in elegance, surrounded by liars. And I’d be nothing but a voice in her ear, whispering strategy while I counted every second until I could take her back into my arms.
“Tell me what you need this morning, kitten,” I murmured. “I’ll give you everything. Including whipped cream. Even if Elara glares at me again.”
She shot me a pointed look. “I seem to recall it was you removing the whipped cream from my sight last night because I was eating it like a peasant. Not with the cake you brought us.”
I grinned, already guilty.
She paused then, checking herself internally like she always did. “Nausea’s there, but not too bad. I think I’ll live.”
“I was protecting your dignity,” I said solemnly. “Which, let’s be honest, you lost somewhere around spoon number three.”
Her smirk broke through—radiant, familiar, real. And it dragged something raw through my chest. Because this was her. The messy-hair, morning-gravel, fighting-spirit version. The one who checked for danger like peace wasn’t allowed without confirmation.
“Nausea’s mild. That’s good,” I said gently, thumb brushing under her chin. “I’ve got that peppermint tea you hate prepped just in case. And your dress is steamed. Elara tried to bribe me for intel on what it looks like. She’s convinced you’ll cause a diplomatic incident just by walking through the door.”
I didn’t disagree.
There was a pause. Her eyes softened but didn’t quite shine.
“You’re thinking about tonight already,” I said quietly. Certain. My gaze never left hers. “I can see it. The way your eyes dull at the edges. That weight. But you’re not carrying it alone. Every blink, I’ll be there. Every breath. Every smile. If you forget how—just breathe, kitten. I’ll remind you.”
I let the silence sit a moment longer before I leaned down again, my voice dropping to a murmur. “Now… how do you want to start the day? Hot shower? Slow breakfast? Or do I need to earn back my whipped cream privileges first?”
“I guess we should get some breakfast,” she said, stretching as she sat up, her voice half yawn, half grin. “Have to get my energy up for tonight. While you’re cooking, I’ll go have a shower. This morning breath is bad.”
God. She stretched like she didn’t know what she was doing to me. Back arched, limbs long, spine curved in all the places I’d had her trembling last night. Her muscles carried the ache of me. Of us. She didn’t even realise it—but her body remembered everything. And I felt that satisfaction bloom deep in my gut.
“Shower then,” I said softly, stepping back, though my fingers brushed hers in passing. “And leave the door open. I want to hear you in there. Just to know you’re alright.”
I moved toward the kitchen, but my gaze stayed tethered to her until she disappeared. Only when I heard the water run, and the faint clearing of her throat—some off-key hum following behind it—did I finally exhale.
I pulled plates from the cupboard, working like a man on ritual. Toast—crisp, not dry. Strawberries—sliced clean, laid in a fan. I made it the way she liked, even if she was too nauseous to eat more than three bites. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about hunger. This was about making sure she left this house full. Touched. Fed. Kissed. Armed with reminders of every part of her that belonged to me.
Because tonight she would play a role neither of us wanted her to. She’d smile for enemies and flirt with danger. But she’d do it with my voice in her ear. My kiss still on her lips. And the unshakeable truth behind her eyes—That if she didn’t come back to me...
I’d tear the world apart to find her.
