Chapter 4
2204words
The Legion HQ | Tactical Deployment Bay
Early Morning
They were stationed in Sub-Level 3—the Tactical Deployment Bay. To Raven, it was more than concrete and steel. It was focus distilled into architecture: no windows, no softness, just function. The walls were reinforced and bare, the scent of oiled metal and cold air pressing in like memory. Modular armories stood like sentinels along the edges, weapons and gear in calculated order. Above, the low ceiling throbbed with the hum of fluorescent lights and exposed conduits—nothing hidden, everything accounted for.
It was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions. It expected precision. And for someone like her, precision was home.
Ash and Vex were already suited up, checking their weapons and tactical comms as Raven triple-checked the deployment files, everything as meticulous and unforgiving as the inner structure of her thoughts. It was her first time being deployed as a bodyguard instead of an assassin, and it wasn’t the skill set that bothered her—it was the restraint. Protecting meant holding back. That was what would be difficult.
She adjusted the clasps on her gear with mechanical precision, her fingers quick and practiced. The corridors of The Legion’s HQ buzzed with early activity, the metallic hum of weapons testing and low voices echoing off reinforced walls. She walked with purpose, boots striking concrete with a steady rhythm, flanked by Ash and Vex. This was the first official assignment that would draw her out of the shadows and into the public eye—an eye that was already skeptical. She was twenty-six, just 5’6”, slender but sharp-edged with training. And she knew exactly how that looked to men twice her size and half her control.
She didn’t need to be told they would talk. That the moment they saw her, they would think unfit, unqualified. But Maxim trusted her. That was all that mattered.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Private Entry Road
Before Noon
The vehicle rolled to a smooth stop along the circular drive, the estate’s marble steps and towering glass doors rising before them like a quiet challenge. Raven’s eyes scanned the perimeter before the door even opened—security guards posted at key points, surveillance nested in the stonework, and high ground that could double as both defense and vulnerability.
The door clicked open. She stepped out.
A man was already waiting—tall, composed, and sharper than he let on. Raven recognized him instantly. Eli Voss. She had studied his file—Lucian’s most trusted second, known for his restraint and precision. And right now, he was watching her.
His expression barely shifted when she stepped out, but she caught the subtle flick of his eyes—the way they swept over her posture, the cut of her jacket, the silence that followed in her wake. He didn’t look surprised. Just… attentive. Recalculating.
He didn’t speak right away. Neither did she. Silence was a language she knew better than most.
Ash stepped forward instead, voice steady, professional. “We’re the assigned team. I’m Ash. This is Vex,” he said, gesturing toward the man beside him. “And that’s Raven.”
Eli’s gaze returned to her then, holding for just a second longer. Raven. Not a real name. But he didn’t question it. The name landed like it was meant to carry weight—and he heard it.
“I’m Eli Voss,” he said, tone smooth but guarded. “I work for Lucian. This is Harold Sinclair.” He gestured to the older man approaching from behind.
She didn’t need the introduction. She’d memorized everything in his file—from his military history to his recent health evaluations. She could predict the exact shade of outrage he would wear before it even surfaced.
And there it was—the slow furrow of his brow, the instant flash of disappointment in his eyes, followed by the subtle lift of his chin. He didn’t speak, not yet, but she felt the judgment coil in the air like static.
Then Eli asked what Harold wouldn’t.
“Only three of you? And—” his eyes flicked back to her, “—a woman?”
Ash didn’t flinch. “She’s the one keeping him alive. We’re just the support.”
The silence that followed wasn’t unfamiliar. It was the same kind that came before resistance. Before doubt.
Harold’s voice cut through it first. “She’s what?”
Even Eli blinked. “What?”
Raven didn’t react. Not externally. But she felt it—that familiar flicker of tension under her ribs. The one that came not from fear, but from the quiet fury of being underestimated. Again.
But she didn’t rise to it.
She didn’t need to prove anything. Not here.
She was the answer. Whether they liked it or not.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | The Living Room
Late Morning
Of course Maxim had sent her. That thought alone probably amused the old man.
Lucian watched from the grand terrace, high above the entryway. The woman—Raven—hadn’t looked up once. But she didn’t need to. The weight of her silence moved differently, and from where he stood, he could feel the tension ripple outward the moment she stepped from the vehicle.
Harold had already stormed back inside, fuming, cane striking the floor in harsh rhythm as he disappeared through the main doors, muttering things Lucian didn’t need to hear to understand.
Below, Eli turned to the trio still standing in the circular drive. “You’d better come in,” he said. His voice wasn’t impatient, but it was edged with weariness. “We’ll get you situated.”
Lucian saw it clearly—the way they moved. Not rushed. Not deferential. Just precise. Ash and Vex moved like they’d done this a hundred times. Raven was the still center—calm, unreadable. Unshaken. Completely in control.
They passed through the doors without a word. The quiet clicked shut behind them.
Lucian hadn’t meant to move. Not yet. But the air shifted when she walked past—as if the house itself was listening.
He set the cold coffee cup down on the terrace railing. His jaw tightened.
Then he turned, left the terrace, and began to descend the stairs.
Lucian caught the shift in the air before he even reached the base of the stairs. From the grand terrace, he'd watched the exchange unfold—the sharp crack of Harold’s disapproval, Eli’s careful diplomacy, the team’s silence. And her.
She never looked up. Not at the estate. Not at him. But he felt it—her awareness. Not performance. Presence.
Now, descending the staircase with practiced ease, Lucian let his gaze pass over the team. Ash. Vex. Then her. He lingered, not consciously, but inevitably. She stood like she belonged there, tension coiled beneath stillness. Unflinching. Unapologetic.
Then Harold’s voice tore through the atmosphere.
“You defied my request,” the old man barked into his phone, his cane forgotten in favor of furious pacing across the stone-tiled entry. “You sent me three—three!—and one of them is a woman?”
Lucian flinched slightly at the volume. The words weren’t unfamiliar. He’d heard that tone his entire life. But this time, it grated. Not just because of what was said—but who it was said about.
He glanced at her again. Raven—if that was even her real name—didn’t so much as blink. Her expression was unreadable. Composed. But there was a tension there, subtle and sharpened, like a blade resting just beneath skin.
Ash and Vex didn’t react. Eli gave Lucian a small, helpless shrug as if to say, Welcome to the circus.
And she—she didn’t flinch. Didn’t defend herself. She simply was.
A storm, Lucian thought. Waiting to be named.
Eventually, Harold snapped the phone shut, growling curses to no one in particular, the flush in his cheeks betraying just how far off script this had gone.
Maxim would be on his way. Lucian knew it. He could practically feel it in the shift of the wind.
And somehow, knowing that—knowing Maxim Thorne had chosen her—changed everything.
He didn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to Eli. Not even to Harold.
For a fleeting moment, something in her stillness stirred a memory he couldn’t name. Not a face. Not a voice. Just the shape of something long buried—grief, maybe. Or recognition that hadn’t found its name yet.
[Flashback | 17 Years Ago]
Seventeen years ago, it had been a modest gathering—just Harold and Lucian in the library of Thorne’s estate, sipping expensive scotch and listening to a jazz record neither of them had chosen. Business talk. Quiet toasts. Nothing urgent.
Maxim was late. That wasn’t unusual.
What was unusual was the way the doors swung open—not with ceremony, but with weight.
Lucian turned, already half-rising from his chair, when he saw the blood. Not much, but enough to still the room. Ash streaked Maxim’s sleeves. His usually immaculate coat hung askew, wrinkled from haste. And in his arms—a child.
She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t clinging to him like a frightened girl. She was still. Detached. Her face was streaked with dirt and something darker, her small hands limp at her sides.
Lucian froze. Not from fear. From recognition.
He knew that look in her eyes. He had worn it once—years ago—when everything safe had collapsed, and no one had the words to fix it.
Maxim didn’t speak until they were both looking at him. His voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it. Raw and close to unraveling.
“There was an accident,” he said. “Her parents didn’t make it.”
Harold said nothing. For once. And Lucian… Lucian couldn’t look away.
He stepped forward, slowly, and crouched near them. Reached out—carefully—to brush the hair from her face.
She flinched and moved behind Maxim, small fingers clutching the edge of his coat.
Lucian pulled back at once. He didn’t take it personally. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of everything. He understood.
Later, after she’d been taken upstairs—washed, dressed, and silent—Maxim rejoined them, but the girl never came down.
Lucian waited. Long enough to wonder. Long enough to care.
Eventually, he excused himself, carried a tray of food up the wide staircase, and stood outside her door. He knocked once.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “Just… brought some food.”
No answer.
He hesitated, balancing the tray in one hand, and then said quietly through the closed door, “I’ll leave it outside. You should eat. I hope we meet again.”
He was just beginning to lower the tray when the latch clicked.
The door cracked open—just a sliver.
A small face peeked out, only her eyes visible through the narrow gap.
Lucian stilled.
Surprised. Humbled.
And for a single second, the weight of that look—quiet, wary, searching—lodged itself somewhere deep and unmapped in him.
[End of Flashback]
Lucian blinked. The past dissolved. Around him, voices rose and fell—but she remained still. Too still. Familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. The eerie familiarity he couldn’t shake.
But for the first time in a long time, Lucian Sinclair found himself unsure of what to believe.
Maxim arrived without fanfare. No security detail, no convoy. Just a single black sedan and a man who stepped out with the calm of someone who’d never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.
Harold spotted him instantly and stormed down the steps, fury flaring like a match to dry kindling.
“Is this a joke?” he barked. “You call that security?”
Lucian and Eli trailed behind in silence, their presence sharper than any retort. They didn’t try to intervene. They didn’t need to.
Maxim didn’t flinch. He simply raised a hand—not to argue, but to still the room around him.
“She’s the one who saved Lucian,” he said. Flat. Factual. Final.
The air shifted. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was quieter than that. A stillness that pressed against the room like a held breath.
Even Harold blinked.
Not just from surprise, but from something harder to name. A moment of dissonance, maybe. As if what he believed had just been unsettled by fact. His mouth opened slightly, ready to argue—but nothing came out. The sharp retort he’d prepared didn’t fit anymore. It hung useless in the silence Maxim had created.
Lucian saw it too—certainty faltering behind Harold’s eyes, just enough to shift the ground beneath him. And for once, the old man didn’t know how to recover.
“If you doubt it,” Maxim added, “ask Sebastian. He’ll tell you exactly who she is.”
Lucian glanced toward Raven again. Something flickered—half memory, half instinct. The way she stood, the shape of her silence—it stirred something just beneath the surface. And then, the faintest trace of jasmine drifted through the air—too subtle to name aloud, but unmistakable. It caught him off guard. He had smelled it once, years ago, in a hallway lined with old portraits and too much silence. The moment tilted, sharpened. But when he tried to hold onto it, it slipped—like breath on glass. Visible for a heartbeat. Gone the next. And he hated how much it lingered.
“Lucian’s not just protected,” Maxim said. “He’s being watched by someone who never misses a threat.”
Harold’s fury had quieted, but the silence that followed wasn’t peace—it was calculation. No one moved. No one spoke. Not even the wind dared push against the glass.
And somehow, she had been standing still the entire time.
Some doubts break loud—others crumble in silence, when the truth stands taller than the storm.
—To be continued.
