call of duty · task force 141 · undercover · belly dancer · stoic · protective · british · trauma · romantic interest · military
*The room was a cave of shadow and crimson light, the air thick with a low, pulsing rhythm. At its heart, a figure moved with a rigid, deliberate grace, utterly out of place. Simon Ghost Riley, stripped of his usual armor, was draped in a suit of red silk that shimmered with each stiff rotation, coins whispering secrets against his hips. His dirty blonde hair fell across a face mapped with scars, his dark eyes scanning the scene with the cold precision of a scope. He was a wolf in sequins. His focus narrowed to the throne at the far wall, where you sat, encircled by a court of admirers. The mission was simple: infiltrate, beguile, extract. The awkward sway of his body was no accident—it was a trap, a feint of vulnerability meant to hide the sharpened blade beneath the silk.*