Under His Watch

Chapter 6: The Algorithm of Intimacy

[LYRA VELEZ]

The meeting was my idea, but the location was his.

I chose a quiet, exclusive art café tucked away in a São Paulo gallery district. A place where the clientele valued silence and surveillance was discreetly managed by my own contacts. Ethan had simply texted the coordinates, proving he knew exactly where my security was strongest.

I arrived exactly seven minutes late. No need to follow the old, predictable schedule anymore.

He was sitting at a corner table beneath a massive, abstract canvas that looked like someone spilled rage across linen. He wasn't fiddling with his phone or scanning the room; he was simply waiting, nursing a coffee. He looked like a wealthy architect enjoying a quiet afternoon, except for the controlled tension in his shoulders that only someone trained like me would recognize.

"You look well, Neighbor," I said, sliding into the chair opposite him. My smile was polite, dazzling, and felt entirely fake.

His eyes lifted slowly to meet mine. They were calm, clear, and utterly lethal. "The internet connection was excellent, thank you. You have a very secure firewall, Lyla."

Razor-sharp underneath.

"I try," I countered, picking up the small, porcelain menu. "I hear it's bad business to leave vulnerabilities exposed. Especially after a sudden system breach."

He leaned back slightly, crossing one long leg over the other. The movement was slow, deliberate. "Breaches are often inevitable when the security protocol is... enticing."

A waiter appeared, gliding silently to our table.
"Just a cold brew, thank you," I told the waiter, maintaining the polite, detached façade.

Ethan nodded. "A cold brew for the lady. And I'll stick with this. The espresso here is phenomenal."

We were discussing coffee, but we were really discussing the explosive night in Rio. The heat in my face betrayed my carefully constructed calm.

"So, Ethan," I continued, dropping my voice just enough to ensure the surrounding chatter muffled our words. "Let's skip the small talk. You moved into the house next door because of a text message you knew I'd see. Are you here to guard the asset, or liquidate the asset?"

He picked up his espresso cup, testing the weight. "A little of both, perhaps. Liquidation is messy. Guarding is boring. I prefer to maintain controlled contact."

"Controlled?" I laughed, a short, sharp sound that sounded normal to anyone else, but was pure venom to him. "You showed up on my front gate with a lie about Wi-Fi. That's not control, that's desperation."

"Desperation is an assessment," he corrected calmly. "My objective was proximity. Your objective was escape. You failed to escape. I succeeded in achieving proximity. I'd call that a tactical win."

His fucking annoying. I said in my head as I try not to roll my eyes. My jaw tightened. He was playing the algorithm perfectly, refusing to let emotion touch the conversation.

Power Shift Moment. Time to make it personal.

"You're right. I failed to escape," I conceded, leaning forward until my elbows rested on the table, mimicking the intensity we shared in that penthouse room. "And I know why. It wasn't just the message, Ethan. You're here because of him."

His control faltered. Just a flicker. His thumb, rubbing the rim of the coffee cup, went still.

"Who are we talking about, Lyla?" he asked, his voice low, a flat demand for information.

"The bunker," I whispered, the word cutting through the quiet café air. "The bunker and the eleven empty cans. You didn't just sleep with the spoiled heiress, Ethan. You slept with the daughter of Antonio Velez. And you know exactly what he was truly protecting."

He set the espresso cup down with a soft, final clink. His mask was back in place, harder than before, but the heat in his eyes was undeniable.

to engage. And trust me, for both of us, that
And yet, as his sharp, dark eyes held mine, filled with a tension that was purely mutual and highly dangerous, I realized my own truth:

It might have started as professional curiosity, but after that night, there was no going back. He wasn't just the target's assigned handler; he was becoming my obsession

"And you think that's the story?" he countered, his words slow and measured, aimed straight at my core. "You think you've figured out the final move?"

He then did something completely unexpected. He smiled not the fake smirk from the bar, but a genuine, cold smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"The night in Rio," he continued, leaning across the table until the space between our faces was agonizingly small. "It wasn't a breach, Lyla. It was never 'off book.' You and I were always destined to engage. And trust me, for both of us, that night was very personal."

The statement hit me like a physical blow. The sex, the explosive chemistry, the loss of control—it hadn't been an improvisation or a seduction technique. It had been part of the mission plan. But staring at him now, I felt the sharp, unwelcome realization: I don't want him gone. I just want him off-balance.

He saw the realization hit. His gaze softened just slightly, an imperceptible change that made the air feel suddenly thick with acknowledgment, not professional aggression. He's no longer neutral, I realized. He's protecting me when he shouldn't.

"The game is messy now, Ethan," I whispered, the admission forcing its way out. "Your people want answers. My people want silence. And we just burned the bridge between the two."

He nodded slowly. "We did damage. Which means we need a temporary adjustment."

He reached across the table, not to touch my hand, but to gently push my empty coffee cup two inches to the left—a small, defining move that re-established his dominance in the physical space.

"New rule," he stated, his voice absolute. "You don't run, and I don't engage anyone else. We contain this between us. One piece of truth from you for one piece of safety from me. We work this out next door."

I held his gaze, measuring the risk, the attraction, and the sheer necessity of his proximity. He was the only one who understood the coded threat my father left behind.

"One move," he said, holding my gaze steady, challenging me to refuse.

I finally gave a sharp, definitive nod. "Fine," I replied. "But don't confuse that with trust."