Chapter 13
1846 Words
"Turn the car around," Mickey orders, his voice sharp and final.
Axel tightens his grip on the steering wheel and shoots a skeptical glance into the rearview mirror. "Uh, boss, you sure about that? We’re halfway to the airport."
"Did I stutter?" Mickey’s tone is ice, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously.
With a grumble, Axel swerves the car into a hard U-turn, earning them a few honks from impatient drivers. "All right, fine. Back to the penthouse it is. Not like we had a tight schedule or anything."
Mickey doesn’t respond, staring out the window, his jaw tight with barely contained frustration.
Axel, never one to let silence reign for too long, clears his throat. "Okay, so you want to clue me in on why we’re going back? Or are we just playing ‘mysterious mob boss’ today?"
Mickey’s gaze doesn’t waver from the passing city lights. "I need to think."
Axel snorts. "Think? You were thinking just fine on the way to the airport. What's changed in the last ten minutes?"
"Axel," Mickey warns, his voice low and deadly.
"No, seriously," Axel presses, glancing at him briefly. "This about that woman? The one in the photo?"
Mickey’s silence is all the confirmation Axel needs.
"Look, I get it," Axel says, throwing one hand up in mock surrender. "She’s got you twisted up, and that’s rare. But come on, boss. You don’t even know her name. She could be anyone—a spy, a con artist, hell, maybe even working for your enemies. Why are you so hell-bent on protecting her?"
Mickey’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t reply.
Axel lets out a low whistle. "Wow. She must’ve really done a number on you during that one-night stand. What, did she sprinkle magic dust on you or something?"
"Drop it," Mickey says, his voice like a blade.
Axel sighs dramatically. "Fine. But I’m just saying—this feels personal. And personal gets messy. Messy gets people killed. You sure you want to go down this road?"
"Axel," Mickey says, finally turning to look at him, his eyes like twin storms. "Do as you’re told. That’s all you need to worry about."
"Right," Axel mutters, rolling his eyes. "Do as I’m told. Because that always works out so well."
When they reach the penthouse, Mickey steps out without another word, leaving Axel shaking his head in the driver’s seat.
"Good luck with your ‘thinking,’ boss," Axel mutters under his breath.
---
Inside the penthouse, Mickey pours himself a glass of whiskey and sits in the dark, the city skyline sprawling before him. His mind churns with possibilities, each one more dangerous than the last.
He knows Axel is right—getting involved is a risk. But walking away isn’t an option. The photo, the threat—it all points to someone playing a game, and Ziana is the pawn.
No, not a pawn. She’s the queen. And in his world, queens are always under threat.
Mickey sets the glass down and stands, his decision made. If he wants to protect her, he can’t do it from the sidelines. He needs to be where she is, watch her every move, keep her safe without her ever knowing.
The military.
It’s reckless. Insane, even. But it’s the only way.
---
The next morning, Mickey strides into a recruitment center dressed in plain clothes, his tattoos hidden beneath a crisp button-down shirt.
"Name?" the officer behind the desk asks, barely looking up.
"Mikaelson Morningstar," he says evenly.
The officer glances up, raising an eyebrow. "Morningstar, huh? You sure you’re in the right place? This isn’t a modeling agency."
Mickey smirks. "I’ll manage."
The enlistment process is grueling. Physical tests, psychological evaluations, endless paperwork. Mickey breezes through it all, his years of discipline and combat training giving him an edge.
During the interview, a no-nonsense officer stares at him across the table. "Why enlist now, at your age? Most recruits are younger."
Mickey leans back in his chair, his expression calm. "I’ve got something to prove."
The officer eyes him skeptically. "You’re not running from something, are you?"
"Not at all," Mickey says, his smile cold. "I’m running toward something."
By the end of the week, he is accepted into the program, his performance too exceptional to ignore.
---
Late one night, as Mickey packs his bags in the penthouse, Axel storms in.
"You’re really doing this?" Axel demands. "Joining the military? Do you even know what you’re getting into?"
Mickey doesn’t look up. "I know exactly what I’m getting into."
Axel shakes his head, exasperated. "This is crazy, even for you. She’s not worth it, boss."
Mickey’s hands pause over his bag. "She is."
Axel’s eyes narrow. "Why? What is she to you?"
Mickey turns, his expression unreadable. "She’s everything I need to protect."
Before Axel can respond, Mickey’s phone buzzes. He picks it up, his eyes darkening as he reads the message.
Welcome to the team, Morningstar. Report at 0600 sharp.
Below it is a second message, from an unknown number.
You’re getting closer, Mickey. But so am I.
The attached image shows Ziana, asleep in her bed, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.
Mickey’s grip tightens on the phone, his resolve hardening.
"You still think this is a waste of time?" he asks Axel, his voice deadly.
Axel swallows hard, the color draining from his face.
Mickey doesn’t wait for a reply. He grabs his bag and walks out, the weight of the decision pressing on his shoulders.
He is in deep now. And there is no turning back.
---
Mickey steps onto the training field in standard military fatigues, blending seamlessly with the other recruits. The early morning sun blazes down, but the heat is nothing compared to the fire in his veins. He’s here for one reason and one reason only: to keep Ziana safe.
His first day begins with the standard initiation—a grueling combination of running drills, obstacle courses, and combat training. Most of the recruits struggle to keep up, their bodies not used to the strain, but Mickey breezes through with a casual arrogance that irks everyone, especially the instructors.
"Morningstar," one of the drill sergeants barks, his voice sharp and unforgiving. "You think this is a joke? Pick up the pace!"
Mickey smirks, jogging past the sergeant with an effortless stride. "I thought we were supposed to save our energy for the real fight, sir."
The sergeant’s face hardens, but Mickey is already moving on, his confidence unshaken.
By midday, the recruits are panting, drenched in sweat, while Mickey barely looks winded. He’s used to worse—far worse—and the monotonous drills barely scratch the surface of his endurance.
---
Later in the day, Ziana strides onto the field with her squad. She’s dressed in her combat uniform, her fiery red hair tied back into a tight ponytail. The recruits fall silent as she and the other trainers are introduced.
Mickey freezes the moment he sees her. It’s been weeks since their one-night stand, but he’d recognize her anywhere—her petite frame, the sharp curve of her jaw, the way she moves with quiet authority.
"Recruits," the commanding officer announces, "each of you will be assigned to a trainer for the next phase of your program. Follow their instructions. No questions, no excuses."
Mickey barely hears the rest. His focus is locked on Ziana as her group is assigned. Luck—or fate—places him in her section.
Ziana doesn’t give him a second glance, treating him like any other recruit. "All right, group," she says, her tone brisk and authoritative. "I don’t care who you are or where you came from. Here, you’re all the same. You do as I say, when I say it. Clear?"
"Yes, ma’am," the recruits respond in unison.
Mickey’s lips curl into a smirk. Oh, this is going to be fun.
---
The training begins with a series of combat drills, and Mickey wastes no time in making his presence known.
"Pair up!" Ziana orders, and the recruits scramble to find partners. Mickey deliberately takes his time, waiting until everyone else is paired off before stepping forward.
"Guess that leaves me, ma’am," he says, his tone dripping with mock politeness.
Ziana raises an eyebrow but doesn’t rise to the bait. "Fine. Show me what you’ve got."
They face off, and Mickey moves deliberately slow, his strikes lazy and predictable.
"Are you even trying?" Ziana snaps, blocking his half-hearted punches with ease.
Mickey shrugs. "Didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the others."
The other recruits stifle laughs, and Ziana’s eyes narrow. "Oh, don’t worry about me, recruit. Worry about yourself."
She sweeps his legs out from under him in one fluid motion, and Mickey hits the ground with a thud.
The recruits cheer, but Mickey just grins up at her. "Nice move, Red."
Ziana freezes for half a second, her sharp hazel eyes locking onto his. For a moment, Mickey thinks she might recognize him, but she shakes it off and offers her hand to pull him up.
"Get serious, or get out," she warns.
"Whatever you say, ma’am," Mickey replies, his grin never wavering.
---
Throughout the day, Mickey continues to push her buttons.
During a shooting drill, he deliberately misfires, his shots going wide.
"Are you blind?" Ziana snaps, marching over.
"Just testing the durability of the targets," Mickey says with a smirk. "Wouldn’t want them to break too easily."
During an endurance run, he deliberately lags behind the group, forcing Ziana to come back for him.
"Pick up the pace, Morningstar!"
"Why? You seem to like spending time with me back here," he says, his grin infuriatingly charming.
By the end of the day, Ziana’s patience is hanging by a thread.
---
As the recruits are dismissed, Mickey lingers, waiting until Ziana is alone. She’s organizing equipment, her back to him, and he takes the opportunity to approach.
"Hey, Red," he says casually. He can't call her peaches like he did during their one time stand for that will jog her memory and he definitely doesn't want that.
She stiffens but doesn’t turn around. "That’s ‘ma’am’ to you, recruit."
Mickey steps closer, lowering his voice. "You really don’t remember me, do you?"
Ziana finally turns, her eyes narrowing. "Should I?"
Before Mickey can answer, the commanding officer’s voice booms across the field.
"Montana, report to my office immediately!"
Ziana gives Mickey one last glare before turning on her heel and walking away.
Mickey watches her go, his mind racing. He doesn’t want her to remember—her safety depends on it.
As he turns to leave, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, his stomach tightening as he reads the message.
You’re not the only one keeping an eye on her, Mickey. Stay out of my way.
Attached is another photo of Ziana, this time in the training yard, completely unaware of the danger closing in.
Mickey’s jaw tightens, his resolve hardening. Whoever this is, they just made it personal.
- Writer
