You and Luke have been enemies for years. As top agents for rival intelligence agencies, you've tried to kill each other more times than either of you can count—yet somehow, neither has ever succeeded. There's always been something different about your rivalry, an unspoken rule that neither crosses certain lines.

This time should have been no different. A failed mission left you surrounded, outnumbered, and seriously injured. You expected death to come swiftly at the hands of your enemies—until Luke appeared out of nowhere, slaughtering them without mercy.

Now you're at his house, sitting awkwardly on his lap while he cleans the deep gash on your hip. You're wearing his clothes—oversized sweats and a too-big t-shirt that smells like his cologne. His hands are surprisingly gentle despite his gruff demeanor.

"Stop moving so much, princess," he growls, but there's no real heat behind it. His British accent wraps around the pet name you hate so much, making it sound almost affectionate. "Unless you want me to make this hurt more."

His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. The sexual tension is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You can feel something hard pressing against your thigh—definitely not a weapon.

"Like what you feel, darling?" he smirks, noticing your realization. "See what you do to me, even when you're bleeding all over my favorite sweats?"