Page 49 of Duty Unbound

“Ethan,” I whispered, not sure what I was asking for.

He answered anyway, lowering his head until his lips found mine. The kiss started gentle, almost questioning, but quickly deepened as I responded. He curled his hand around the nape of my neck, drawing me closer as I wound my arms around his shoulders.

It was everything our almost-moment in the security room had promised—heat and connection and a feeling of being anchored in the present moment rather than lost in worry about the future. I melted against him, allowing myself this moment of pure want without guilt or responsibility.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Ethan rested his forehead against mine. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first day.”

“Even though I was wearing inappropriate footwear?” I teased, my heart still racing.

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Even then.”

He traced my cheekbone with his thumb, his expression growing more serious. “You should get some rest,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

Part of me wanted to protest, to ask him to stay, but exhaustionwas already pulling at my limbs, making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges.

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly.

He stepped back, creating distance between us, though his eyes remained warm. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

And then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me standing in my sitting room with the ghost of his lips still tingling on mine and the unspoken dreams captured in my paintings watching silently from the corner.

Chapter 15

Ethan

Night four of Nova’s tour, and we’d found our rhythm.

Chattanooga’s venue—a restored historic theater with ornate ceilings and decent sight lines—was proving to be a welcome change from last night’s nightmare in Asheville. The head of security here actually understood the concept of perimeter control, unlike that jackass in North Carolina who’d acted like I was personally insulting his ancestors when I pointed out the six different ways someone could bypass his checkpoint system.

The Asheville security chief had puffed out his chest like a peacock. “I’ve been doing this for twenty years.”

I’d walked him to the service entrance, where one of my guys was waiting, dressed as catering staff with a fake ID that wouldn’t have fooled a half-blind bouncer at a college bar.

“Then explain to me how Ty got backstage without anyone checking his credentials.” I held up the counterfeit badge we’dcreated in under an hour. “He could have been carrying a weapon. An explosive device.”

The security chief’s face had turned an interesting shade of purple. I’d taken over after that, shuffling his team around, implementing our own protocols at every entry point. He hadn’t spoken another word to me all night.

Tonight was smoother. The venue’s security team had actually read our advance briefing, implemented the requested changes, and seemed to understand that keeping Nova Rivers alive was more important than protecting their professional pride.

I completed my last sweep of the backstage area, checking in with each member of my team through the comms system nestled in my ear.

“Logan, status?”

“Stage left secure. Crowd’s energetic but controlled.”

“Ty?”

“Main floor and front section clear. About eight superfans in the front row who keep trying to touch the stage, but nothing concerning.”

“Jace?”

“All systems operational. Cameras covering every angle. No suspicious activity on the monitors.”

I nodded to myself, satisfied. This was how it was supposed to work—seamless, professional, thorough. The typical security routine for a performance night had three distinct phases: preshow lockdown, show monitoring, and postshow extraction. We were currently in phase two, my least favorite part. Too much waiting, too many variables, too many people.

Dozens of security guards patrolled the venue—a handful directly hired by Citadel for specialized positions, but most employed by the theater itself. I’d personally briefed them all before the show, making sure they understood our protocolseven if they didn’t technically report to me. So far, they were doing their jobs well.

I made my way down the narrow corridor that led to the backstage green room. The walls vibrated with bass as Nova’s voice soared through the theater, the crowd responding with deafening cheers. Four shows in, and she hadn’t lost any of her energy—still hitting every note, still captivating the audience like she was born to do it.

---