Dark Protocol

Chapter 1

Genevieve

Within the walls of the White House, silence never meant peace. It was the suffocating stillness before a storm, slowly creeping beneath your skin.

As we walked the corridors, the weight of history settled across my shoulders. Portraits of former presidents lined the walls, thick carpets swallowed every footstep, and the sterile, untouchable scent of power lingered in the air. None of it held my attention. My posture remained perfectly straight, my stride measured. My tailored black suit fit like armor, concealing every feminine curve that would only be seen as a weakness in this profession. My red hair was pulled into such a tight bun at the nape of my neck that it tugged at my scalp. Perfect. No loose strands. No weakness.

“You can still back out, Shaw.”

David Vance, Director of the Presidential Protective Division, walked beside me. His voice was rough, and the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke volumes about the hell he had endured over the past year.

“I don’t make a habit of backing out, Director,” I replied evenly, never taking my eyes off the hallway ahead.

Vance sighed. “I know. That’s why you’re the best.”

He fell silent for a moment before continuing.

“But the President…” He searched for words that simply didn’t exist. “Roman Crawford isn’t the man we swore to protect anymore. Ever since the accident a year ago, we’ve lost him. Your predecessor was a two-hundred-and-sixty-pound Marine with decades of combat experience. Three weeks in, he threw his badge onto my desk because he nearly punched the President in the face. Crawford does everything he can to shake us off. He provokes people, breaks protocol, drinks. He’s a walking security disaster.”

“My job is to keep him alive,” I answered calmly. “Not to make him like me.”

We stopped outside the private elevator leading to the presidential residence. Vance nodded and pressed the call button. The polished steel doors opened without a sound.

As soon as we stepped inside and the doors slid shut behind us, I felt the air grow heavier. My stomach tightened. An invisible hand squeezed my lungs.

A confined space.

A tiny metal box with nowhere to escape.

My pulse quickened, and the pounding of my heart nearly drowned out the soft hum of the elevator.

I closed my eyes for a single second.

Inhale.

Two… three.

Hold.

Two… three.

Exhale.

For years I had trained myself to suffocate panic before it reached the surface. A single bead of sweat formed at my temple, and I wiped it away with one quick, almost invisible motion before Vance could notice. By the time the elevator stopped with a soft chime, my face had become an impenetrable mask once again.

We stepped into the hallway of the presidential residence.

The sterile scent of power had been replaced by something entirely different. Expensive aged bourbon. Stale cigarette smoke. And an overpowering woman’s perfume that had no place within these historic walls.

This wasn’t the home of a head of state.

It was the den of a grieving beast.

Vance stopped before the massive carved oak door. He didn’t knock. He took a deep breath and turned the handle.

The room lay in darkness. Heavy blackout curtains shut out the late morning sun. An expensive silk tie lay abandoned on the floor, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey rested on one of the sofas. The air itself seemed saturated with the sins of the previous night and a raw, suffocating hopelessness.

Then I saw him.

Roman Crawford stood with his back to the window, lazily turning a crystal glass in one hand. His posture was relaxed, yet the raw dominance radiating from him instantly filled the room. He was taller than I’d expected. Much taller. Broader. More powerfully built than television cameras had ever suggested. His dark brown hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and the top buttons of his crisp white dress shirt were undone, exposing part of his chest.

When he heard the door open, he slowly turned toward us.

His eyes were the most unsettling part.

The blue eyes that had once inspired millions were now empty.

Cold.

Predatory.

Vance cleared his throat.

“Mr. President. I’ve brought your new lead agent. Effective today, she’ll be responsible for your personal security.”

Roman’s gaze barely acknowledged Vance before settling on me. I felt him study me from head to toe with slow, merciless precision, as though I were an insect beneath a microscope. I met his icy blue stare with my emerald green eyes and never blinked.

Not once.

His jaw tightened before a dark, whiskey-rough laugh escaped him. It sounded like sandpaper scraping across steel.

“And who the hell is this?”

He gestured toward me with his glass.

“A Girl Scout?”

Then he turned back to Vance as though I wasn’t even standing there.

“Are you screwing with me, David? I told you to bring me someone who could handle the job. Not some damn babysitter in a suit who’s going to cry the first time I glare at her while I’m getting laid.”

Vance stiffened, opening his mouth to answer, but I spoke before he could.

I wasn’t about to let him defend me.

If I was going to keep the most dangerous man in the world alive, I needed to make one thing perfectly clear from the very first second.

I wasn’t afraid of him.

I stepped out from behind Vance, my voice calm, controlled, and sharp enough to cut through the heavy air.

“I’m Special Agent Genevieve Shaw, Mr. President. I can assure you, sir, that my only responsibility is protecting your life twenty-four hours a day. I’m not here to tolerate your behavior, nor am I here to assist in your self-destruction. If you’ve finished drinking, protocol requires us to leave for the National Security Council meeting in ten minutes.”

The silence that followed became almost tangible.

Beside me, Vance stared straight ahead, barely breathing.

Roman Crawford narrowed his eyes. His grip on the crystal glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. The mocking smile disappeared, replaced by something far more dangerous.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He walked toward me.

Every step belonged to a predator.

I didn’t move. Every instinct screamed at me to shift into a defensive stance, but I ignored every one of them.

He stopped only inches away.

His height forced me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The heat radiating from his body reached me first, followed by the scent of bourbon and, beneath it all, pure anger.

“So,” he whispered. “My protocol.”

The way he said my name sounded like a threat.

“It doesn’t exist in here.”

He leaned close enough for his breath to brush against my skin.

“I’m the only rule inside these walls.”

He was testing me, waiting for me to look away, for my voice to shake, for me to lower my eyes like everyone else before me.

My pulse never changed.

The face I’d spent years forging into ice revealed nothing.

“Understood, sir,” I answered quietly but firmly, never breaking eye contact. “Then we’ll be leaving in nine minutes.”

His jaw flexed.

For one long, silent moment we simply stared at each other.

Two worlds colliding.

His burning, destructive chaos.

My unbreakable order.

At last, a bitter half-smile tugged at his lips. He set the crystal glass down with a hard thud and turned toward the bedroom without another glance.

“Welcome to hell, Girl Scout.”