Eternally

MADISON

The champagne flute was a prop. A cold, slender thing of crystal and condensation that Madison held for the same reason other guests clutched designer clutches or their date's arm—to have something to do with her hands. She didn't drink. Not tonight. Not ever, really—she'd never seen the point. The glass was armor, a barrier between herself and the suffocating sameness of it all.

The charity gala at the Atrium was a symphony of low chatter, clinking glass, and the subtle, oppressive scent of money and gardenias. She was adrift in it, a beautiful accessory in a sea of silk and tuxedos. Madison's face stared back at her from a dozen passing phones—girls who'd spent hours and fortunes to replicate the engineered perfection she'd been born with. But her eyes were darker than theirs. Deeper. And right now, they were searching for something that wasn't there.

That's when she saw him.

He stood apart, not in distance, but in essence. Near a table laden with untouched desserts and towers of wine glasses, he held his own glass with a casual disregard that bordered on contempt. He wasn't drinking either. He was observing. His tuxedo was impeccably tailored, but it sat on him like a uniform, or a disguise. His eyes—black as onyx, not the blue she'd first imagined in the dim light—scanned the crowd with a detached, analytical calm that made the forced laughter around her feel hollow.

Private security, she decided. Too intense for a guest, too still for a waiter. He was interesting. A puzzle piece that didn't fit the picture of the bland, wealthy evening.

The thought was just fading when the world shattered.

The grand doors were shoved aside, not by guests, but by the heavy thud of a breach. Two guards fell in quick succession—silent, heavy drops that cut through the music like a knife through silk. There was no struggle, just the clinical efficiency of a surprise attack. The illusion of safety didn't just break.

It vanished.

Four men in generic black masks stormed through, their guns terrifyingly specific. The symphony of the gala choked into a ragged inhale, then splintered into gasps and whimpers.

"Hands up! Everyone put your hands up!"

The commands were barked, sharp and metallic. The crowd moved as one, a terrified animal sinking to the polished floor. But Madison's eyes caught something strange—a counter-rhythm in the chaos.

Him.

The man from the wine table. He didn't flinch. Didn't scramble. With the unhurried grace of someone who had all the time in the world, he placed his champagne flute precisely on the table—away from the tower, she noticed, as if protecting it—and slowly, with a nonchalance that bordered on insolent, raised his hands.

A masked man gestured with his gun. "Come on!"

He walked. Not rushed. Not scared. Just... walked.

They shoved her next. A rough hand grabbed her arm and propelled her toward the same group. She stumbled and landed hard on her knees, her back colliding with something solid and warm.

Him. They were back-to-back.

Her breath hitched in her chest, a tight, painful band squeezing her ribs. Breathe. Just breathe. But the air was thin, laced with panic. Hyperventilating. Perfect.

Then his voice came from over his shoulder, low and steady—a counterpoint to the jagged fear sawing through the room.

"You okay?"

The simplicity of it punctured her panic for a second. "A little frightened," she managed, her voice a shaky whisper. Then honesty broke through. "Okay, a lot."

"Don't worry." His gaze, she could feel it, was tracking the room even as he spoke to her. "Everything will be okay. They won't hurt you."

It was the kind of empty reassurance people gave. But he said it with a certainty that felt factual. Like he was stating the weather. It irritated the fear right out of her. "You don't know that," she shot back, a spark of defiance in her whisper.

ROCKY

Four hostiles. Entry via main doors. Two guards down—non-fatal, just unconscious. Firearms: one handgun with secondary AK-47 slung, one rifle, two handguns. Amateur stance. Priority: neutralize threat without collateral. Civilian density: high. Target: Madison. Status: panicking. Proximity: back-to-back. Heat of her spine against his. Scent of gardenias in her hair. Her breathing—shallow, upper chest, needs to slow or she'll faint.

Rocky Maps catalogued the threat with a mind trained by his Japanese grandfather, who had taught him and his brother, Henry, that true combat wasn't reaction—it was prediction. Years of Ninjutsu discipline had sharpened his senses to a razor's edge, but it was the other gift—the curse—that truly set him apart.

The mental chatter of the room washed over him. A chaotic torrent of ohgodohgod and mymoney and pleasedon'tkillme—a noise he'd learned to filter in childhood, when the voices of an entire palace staff had nearly driven him mad. His grandfather had taught him to build walls. To breathe through the storm.

But from the woman pressed against his back, there was only the ragged sound of her breathing and a profound, unnerving silence.

Her mind is quiet.

It was always quiet. A perfect, soundproof room in the middle of the psychic hurricane. It was the first thing he'd noticed about her years ago, and the one thing that had never changed, even when everything else had been taken from her.

The plan was simple: comply, observe, don't engage. He was here as an ordinary person. A prince incognito, not a protector. His grandfather's voice echoed in his memory—"The true master wins without fighting, Rocky. But when fighting is the only path, walk it without hesitation."

But as she hyperventilated against his back, a primal part of his brain, the part that was still her husband, screamed at him to act.

She's scared. Fix it.

He shoved the impulse down. "Don't worry," he said, layering his voice with that practiced, soothing cadence. "Everything will be okay. They won't hurt you."

Her retort was a welcome flicker of her old spirit. "You don't know that."

I could end this in three seconds. I could make sure of it. The thought was a tremor in his carefully maintained control. He kept his hands visible, his posture non-threatening.

But then the lead robber made his fatal error.

"Okay, listen up!" the man barked. He stomped over and yanked Madison to her feet. She gasped. The sound was a physical blow to Rocky's composure. The robber—handgun in one fist, AK-47 hanging from its strap—pressed the barrel to her temple.

A second robber grabbed Rocky's shoulder and hauled him up, shoving him forward until he stood just behind Madison, close enough to see the tremble in her shoulders, the quick flutter of her pulse at her throat. A rifle barrel pressed cold against the base of his skull.

"If someone tells me nothing, I'll start with her!"

Behind Rocky, the second robber's rifle kissed the back of his skull.

No.

The word was absolute. It bypassed strategy, secrecy, royal protocol. It was the bedrock truth beneath all his identities: Prince, Ninja, Superhero. Husband.

He didn't think. He moved.

Time didn't slow. It clarified. His grandfather had drilled a thousand sequences into his muscles until they became instinct—"The body must know what the mind hasn't yet decided."

A half-step back and sideways—the rifle's muzzle slid past his ear, harmless. His elbow drove into the second robber's solar plexus. A satisfying whoosh of air. Before the man could crumple, Rocky's forearm whipped up, the back of his fist connecting with the masked face in a spray of blood from a broken nose.

In the same fluid motion, his hand dipped to the robber's gun pouch, extracted the handgun, and pressed it to the man's temple.

All of it—less than two seconds.

The first robber was still turning his weapon from Madison to Rocky when he found himself staring at his partner being used as a shield, a gun against his head, and a pair of black eyes that held no fear at all.

"Let her go," Rocky said. His voice was calm. Absolute.

The robber laughed—a nervous, grating sound. "Ha. Ha. Ha. Buddy. This isn't the movies."

Rocky's head tilted, just slightly. A flicker of something almost like disappointment crossed his features as he realized. "You're right."

He shot the robber in the knee.

The man dropped with a scream, his leg buckling. The AK-47 clattered to the floor. Rocky released his hostage and stepped toward the fallen leader, but paused. For safety. He shot the second robber in the knee too. Another scream joined the first.

The leader, writhing on the ground, found his voice. "Oh, you son of a—!"

The sentence ended in a wail as Rocky shot the same knee again.

The two remaining robbers—stationed at a distance, their machine guns pointed at the ground in shock—finally raised their weapons. In response, Rocky hauled the leader up by his collar, using the screaming man as a shield, his handgun once again pressed to the man's temple.

"Put 'em down."

The robbers hesitated.

"Don't put them down, you idiots! Shoot him!"

Rocky's voice was quiet, almost conversational. "They'll miss." A pause. "And hurt more people."

He didn't wait for their decision. In an instant, he fired—two shots, precise, surgical—and both distant robbers crumpled, clutching their shoulders. He ejected the magazine from his handgun and tossed it—a perfect arc that struck one robber in the head, knocking him unconscious. The empty gun followed, spinning through the air to connect with the other robber's temple. Another body hit the floor.

Silence.

Then the tinkling of a single, settling glass shard.

Rocky stood in the center of it, his breath even, his heart a steady drum against his ribs. Security had finally found their nerve—guards now held guns trained on the robbers, taking over what he'd started. The psychic noise of the room swelled with a new, sharp flavor: fear of him. They'd seen power—inhuman, precise, devastating—and it unsettled them more than the robbers' generic violence ever could.

A familiar, hollow feeling settled in his chest. Other. Always other.

He moved without thinking, weaving through the recovering crowd until he reached the table where he'd started the night. The tower of wine glasses stood untouched in front of him—fragile, orderly, unchanged by the chaos. His back was to the crowd, to the stares and whispers, to all of them. He placed his palm flat on the white linen, grounding himself.

Two girls descended on Madison.

"Madison, are you okay? Oh my gosh!"

"You're not hurt,are you?"

Madison touched their arms, reassuring them. "No, I'm fine."

Rocky closed his eyes. Just for a second. To breathe. To tune out the static—the overlapping voices, the footsteps, the psychic noise of a hundred rattled minds. To find the quiet center his grandfather had taught him. "The storm outside is nothing, Rocky. It's the storm inside that will destroy you."

The noise dialed down. Muffled. Distant.

Then—a shift in the air. A presence approaching. Familiar in a way that defied logic.

He snapped his eyes open.

Madison stood behind him, having extracted herself from her friends, having crossed the room while everyone else was stepping away. He could feel her presence before he saw her—the silence of her mind pressing against his back.

MADISON

She moved away from her friends, away from the safety of the group, and approached the man who had just rewritten the laws of physics in front of her eyes.

He looked almost shaken. As if surprised by his own actions. He hadn't turned yet, hadn't moved, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands pressed flat against the table like he needed it to hold him upright.

"You just saved my life," she said.

He turned.

His eyes—black, she saw now, deep and endless—found hers with something like wariness. Like she was the dangerous one.

He blinked. The surprise in his eyes was genuine. He hadn't expected her to come closer. No one else had. "Yeah," he said. The word sounded dragged from somewhere deep. Reluctant.

"I'm Madison."

"I know."

The admission hung in the air, charged and intimate. He blinked again, and a flicker of something like panic crossed his features—the most human she'd seen him. "I mean..." he stammered, the cool facade cracking. "I heard someone call you."

It was the truth. He had heard someone call her. Only not at normal human range.

A slow smile spread across her face. "So you had your eyes on me?"

He recovered quickly, the mask sliding back into place, though a corner of his mouth twitched. "Don't flatter yourself."

She laughed. The sound was bright and strange in the trembling room. She couldn't help it. "Have we met before?"

"What makes you think that?" His gaze was intent now, searching her face for something she couldn't name.

"I don't know. You have this..." Familiarity. A haunting, beautiful echo in my mind. She shook her head. "What's your name?"

He hesitated. A fraction of a second, but she caught it. "Roy," he said. "Short for Royalty."

It wasn't a joke. He said it with a flat, simple honesty that left no room for laughter. It was his second name—safer, but still true. Roy. Short for Royalty.

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting her hand out.

He glanced at her hand first—a quick, assessing look—before taking it. His grip was firm, warm.

"Are you part of the security detail?"

He withdrew his hand, releasing it quickly as if touching her was dangerous. "Something like that."

"When'd they start hiring models?"

ROCKY

He let out a short, nervous chuckle at her question. The laugh was real—her boldness was disarming—but it was cut through by a sudden, gentle pressure at the edges of his mind.

Henry.

His brother. A soft knock on a shared door. A quiet, brotherly concern seeping through the twin bond. Henry had felt the spike of warm, genuine feeling—the flicker of amusement and something more tender, more dangerous—and was checking in. It was Henry's way, always looking out for him, trying to steer him from heartache.

Rocky's mental walls went up. Not slammed—that would only worry Henry more—but a firm, gentle closing. A door quietly shut. The presence lingered for a heartbeat, then withdrew, respecting the boundary.

Henry only ever wanted to protect him.

It was annoying, the lack of privacy, but it came from love.

He refocused on the woman in front of him, whose dark eyes were sparkling with mischief. She leaned in a little. "Honestly, if I'd seen you sooner, you would've saved me the boredom."

"You don't like it here?" he asked, forcing his focus entirely on her.

"I like it now."

"Because of the robbery?" A challenge.

She paused, letting her gaze lock with his. The room, the echo of Henry's concern, the psychic noise of a hundred frightened minds—it all faded. There was only her. Only the silence where her thoughts should be, and the loud, beautiful presence of her attention.

"Because of you," she said softly. "You were amazing."

Her thumb traced a slow circle on the back of her own hand. Her eyes didn't leave his.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

He held her gaze. "Around."

"Would you like to hang out sometime?"

He broke the stare as if burned. Dangerous. This is dangerous. "Sorry, uh, I'm very busy." His voice was low. Final.

"Oh. Work?" The disappointment in her voice stung more than it should have.

"Yes. Excuse me."

He walked past her, his posture rigid, every muscle screaming at him to stay.

Behind him, she turned. He heard the soft shift of her body, the quick intake of breath.

"Be my bodyguard."

He stopped. Turned. "What?”

The words hung in the air between them, a lifeline and a trap all at once.

Be my bodyguard.

Every cell in his body screamed to refuse. To walk away and never look back, as he was supposed to. As logic and safety demanded. He felt the twin bond stir again—not with judgment, but with a clear, warm pulse of warning. Think about this, Rocky. Think what this means.

I should stay away.

But the strategist in him—the part his grandfather had honed with years of tactical training—saw the brutal, elegant logic of it. This was a solution. A legitimate, paid reason to be her shadow. If the storm he knew was coming ever broke, he would be her first and last line of defense. She would never have to suspect he was anything more than a highly skilled employee. It was the perfect cover. The only way to protect her without breaking the fragile world of amnesia she lived in.

At least, that's what he told himself. That this was for her protection and not his longing. For his wife. For the silence he'd been drowning without for years.

It was also a kind of exquisite hell. To be so close to the sun and feel only its cold, distant light.

He turned to face her fully, letting his expression show only professional consideration.

MADISON

She hadn't meant to say it. The words had come out before she could stop them, pulled from somewhere she didn't know existed. Her heart was pounding, her face flushed. She stared at him—at the way he'd stopped, the way he was looking at her now—and tried to find her voice.

"I've been meaning to get one," she said. "And you're..."

She let her eyes trail over him, a slow smirk curling her lips.

"Perfect."

ROCKY

He felt Henry's presence become a steady, worried hum in the back of his mind. He softened his mental walls, not to let his brother in, but to send a message back: I know the risk. I have to do this.

The hum quieted, replaced by a resigned, supportive silence. Henry might worry, but he would always stand with him.

She was backpedaling now, her cheeks warming. "Perfect for the job! You blend in. You're... surprisingly unassuming. I'll pay you double what you make. You don't have to work twenty-four hours a day."

"There are a couple of people who'd really love that offer, Madison," he said, taking a step back towards her, playing the part of a man considering a lucrative deal. "Why me?"

Her gaze flickered over him. "I've seen the goods."

The double meaning hung in the air. His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. She rushed to clarify. "I mean... I saw what you did. And I don't want my bodyguard to be all obvious and... intimidating."

He just watched her, that faint smile playing on his lips. This was his path. His duty. His only chance. "What's the catch?"

"You just have to treat me normally. Don't treat me like your boss. Oh, and you start tomorrow."

He let the silence stretch, contemplating the abyss he was about to leap into. He saw the worry flash in her eyes that he might refuse. Felt the twin bond, quiet now, waiting. Henry was hoping he'd say no, but would support him if he said yes.

"Okay," he said, the word final. "But we keep things strictly professional."

MADISON

"Okay," she agreed too quickly, her heart doing a funny little flip. "You can start tomorrow?" A thought struck her. "Can I see your phone?"

He hesitated. Palpably. He reached into his blazer, pulled out a sleek phone, and stared at the screen. His thumb rested on the scanner as if to unlock it, then he stopped and simply handed it to her.

Locked.

She smirked up at him. "What's your password?"

He smirked back—a real smile, she thought, not the guarded thing from before—and extended his left hand. She placed the phone in his palm. He pressed his left thumb to the scanner. Unlocked. Handed it back.

Left-handed, she noted. A small detail. She was collecting them.

She tapped in her number, called herself so his contact would save, and typed her name. She handed it back, her fingers brushing his.

"Here's my number. Call me when you get home."

He didn't look at the screen. Just slid it into his pocket. "Sure."

He turned and walked away.

"Goodnight," she called after him.

He paused for a second. Then, without turning back: "Goodnight."

He continued walking, and she didn't look away until he had melted into the crowd. She touched her fingers where they had brushed his.

It wasn't about safety. Not really.

She'd hired him because he was the first thing in months that didn't feel like a scripted part of her boring, polished life. He was a lightning bolt in a room full of candles. The thought of him walking away and becoming just another face in the crowd felt like a missed opportunity she couldn't afford.

For the first time tonight, she wasn't just an "accessory" at a party. She was someone who had seen something impossible.

And she wanted to keep the source of that impossibility close.

ROCKY

He was ten blocks away before he let his pace slow from a brisk, agitated walk to a stop beside his car. The vehicle was parked in a pool of shadow between streetlights—a classic Chevrolet Camaro with racing stripes, its yellow paintwork seeming to absorb the scant light and glow with a soft, buttery warmth. It was a piece of American machinery he loved, a silent companion that, for a few moments, made him feel far from the gilded cages of his other life.

Leaning against the driver's side door, he let his head fall back against the cool window. The silence of the street was a stark contrast to the riot still echoing in his mind. He didn't need telepathy to know what his brother would say. Henry's voice was already there, a familiar, protective echo in his conscience.

You're playing a dangerous game, brother.

This is the only way to keep her safe.

You know the cost of being that close.

He could almost see Henry's calm, concerned expression. His brother wasn't cynical, just clear-eyed. He saw the world in terms of risks and consequences, especially where Rocky's heart was concerned. And Henry knew better than anyone what Madison's absence had cost him.

A deep, steadying breath filled his lungs. He wasn't in distress, not the kind that would forcibly broadcast his emotions to Henry. This was a quieter, deeper turmoil—a choice made with full awareness of the personal hell it might become. He would tell Henry himself, face-to-face. He owed him that much.

The cool night air did nothing to calm the storm inside him. The temptation was terrifying in its sweetness. The chance to be near her, to have a reason to stand between her and the world... it was the most selfish and the most selfless thing he'd ever do.

He could still feel the ghost of her hand in his. He could still see the way she'd looked at him—not with the fear of the others, but with awe, and curiosity, and that faint, heartbreaking echo of the warmth that had once been his whole world.

Her mind had been, as always, a perfect silence. But her eyes... her eyes had been shouting.

And he, Rocky Maps, who could hear the thoughts of an entire city but could not hear the thoughts of his own wife, had listened. And he had signed a contract to stand at her side.

He didn't look at the phone in his pocket. He didn't need to see the name to feel its weight.

With a final glance up at the starless city sky, he slid into the right-side driver's seat of the yellow Camaro. It was a setup that felt tailor-made for him; as a left-hander, his dominant hand dropped instinctively to the gear stick at the center console. The door shut with a solid, reassuring thunk, sealing him in the familiar scent of leather and old engine oil. He didn't start the engine. He just sat in the dark, his hands resting on the steering wheel, a prince in a muscle car, a husband in a stranger's skin.

He had just willingly walked back into the heart of his greatest tragedy, and he could only pray he was strong enough this time to be her shield.