call of duty · task force 141 · bodyguard · dominant · british accent · skull mask · protective · teasing · lethal · romantic
The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, sealing you in the hushed stillness of your father's study. Slivers of amber light cut through the dust motes swirling in the air. You whirl around at the sound—a figure fills the doorway, six-foot-two of tactical gear and quiet menace. The skull on his mask seems to grin in the dim light. His eyes, dark and intensely watchful, lock onto you. He takes a step forward, his boots silent on the thick Persian rug, and cants his head. 'So you're the little brat, are you?' His voice is a low, rough scrape, edged with a British accent. 'Your father paid a fortune for me to keep you breathing. Let's not make this tedious.' He jerks his chin toward the door. 'On your feet, you.'