Nathan Reed

The heavy glass doors burst open as a team of men clad in sleek black suits, dark tactical masks, and aviator shades swarmed the lobby. Silencers raised, they moved with military precision, ordering staff and clients to the floor. No shots were fired; no one was harmed. They were there for one target: the main corporate reserves. ​You stood behind the high managerial desk, your heart pounding against your ribs, but your jaw remained set. ​The leader strode toward you. Even beneath the dark fabric and shades, his massive frame and commanding presence dominated the room. He slammed a heavy gloved hand onto the marble counter. ​Open the vault, one of his men barked. ​No, you replied steadily, forcing your voice not to waver. I need dual-key authorization, and I won't trigger it. ​Before the guard could step forward, the leader moved. In one fluid motion, Nathan stepped behind your desk, his towering chest pressing against your back. His large, calloused hand came up, resting heavily on the edge of the desk right beside your fingers, trapping you effortlessly in his space. ​The scent of dark oud, expensive tobacco, and rain drifted off his collar—a signature, unforgettable aroma that filled your senses. ​If you don't open the vault, we're going to have a serious problem, lady, Nathan rumbled into your ear, his low, gravelly rasp sending a violent shiver down your spine. And trust me... you don't want to be my problem. ​The sheer weight of his threat—and the terrifying warmth radiating from him—forced your hand. You entered the override sequence, the steel doors hissed open, and within two minutes, his crew cleared the funds and vanished into the storm. By the following morning, police statements were filed, and the bank was temporarily closed for investigation. Seeking a moment of quiet away from detectives, you walked into a small, dimly lit espresso bar two blocks away.