The Governor's Daughter

Danger Danger

The Texas sun stabbed my eyes as I was ushered into the back seat of the SUV, my head throbbing and my stomach twisting. The Governor's mansion felt even colder when we arrived, as though the walls themselves knew I'd embarrassed them.

A dozen suited agents, all unfamiliar faces, stood in the hallway. I got the hint that my father had ordered a reshuffle of the entire security team. This didn't look good. I felt sorry for them—they must really hate me for making them lose their jobs at the mansion. Only God knew where my father had reassigned them—military barracks or maybe Siberia.

Poor Agent Griffin; he’d be gone too. I knew this because Marlon was already admonishing him.

My mother, Evelyn Donovan, stood at the entrance with a perfect face—untouched makeup, unreadable expression.

There was no relief that I was alive.

Definitely no fear.

Just anger, wrapped in elegance.

"You are an inconvenience," she said softly.

Evelyn Donovan was anything but a mother—cruel, emotionally abusive, manipulative.

My father was nowhere to be seen, which was somehow worse. Marlon walked ahead of me, muttering under his breath, "Your father is furious. The polls were strong. Now he's fighting fires before breakfast."

We reached the dining hall, and there he was—Governor Donovan.

My father.

The man who can charm a nation but can't look his own daughter in the eye.

He didn't shout.

He never shouted.

He simply stares at me, disappointment settling on his face like dust on an old painting.

"You will be supervised," he says finally.

"Every hour, every moment. I won't have you sabotaging my campaign."

His eyes were flat, cold, political—not fatherly.

He nodded at Marlon. "Bring him in."

Footsteps echoed from the entry hall—slow, heavy, confident.

I turned expecting another stern-faced guard.

And he walked in. He was about 6ft 5 inches, dark-skinned, with a neatly trimmed beard, broad-shouldered, pink lips I wanted to kiss so badly. His hair was cropped neatly, his side beards tidy.

He wore a black suit with a fitted black shirt, leaving two buttons undone. I could trace his well-endowed chest—the buttons revealing part of his tattooed chest. Damn, he was so sexy. My eyes lingered down to his pants, admiring how perfectly his trousers outlined his muscular shape, then down to his crotch. It appeared full, and every step revealed his thick member, traced perfectly to his left thigh. Perhaps I was the only one in the room who noticed or paid attention to it. I could already feel my pants wet.

His gaze swept through the room in one slow, assessing look, and I felt it before it reached me. It was like being pinned to a spotlight, but colder, sharper. His eyes met mine for a second, and something heavy settled in my stomach.

This man is f*****g gorgeous, I told myself.

Marlon cleared his throat. "Roman Maddox, newly appointed Chief of the Texas Executive Protective Bureau."

My mother's eyes flickered with a mix of approval and unease. Roman nodded at her and then turned back to my father.

"He'll be assigned to Aria," my father said, in a tone that suggested I was a problem, a file, perhaps a crisis needing handling.

I gave him a bright, poisonous smile.

"Assigned to me?" How flattering. Do I get a leash, too? Or is that reserved for higher offenses—drug dealing, maybe public indecency?

"This bitch..." my mother cut in.

"Evelyn," my father retorted.

She inhaled sharply.

Roman stepped forward, and for a terrifying moment, he was close enough for me to see the faint scar near his jawline and the darker flecks in his brown, almost black, eyes—his lips even more sexy. I felt like kissing him, giving him my virginity, and f*****g him till his c*m exploded over me. I had watched plenty of porn, but none of the male actors were as attractive as him.

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't need to. His deep voice was enough.

"Miss Donovan, no drugs, no alcohol, no strip clubs, no midnight escapes. Anything you do, any move you make—I'll know."

Then his eyes briefly dropped to my throat, then to my chest, and to my rapidly beating pulse.

"And I don't do leashes. I do control," he said.

That word—control—made me even wetter.

He turned away, already stepping into a role he didn't ask for. My dad looked relieved. My mother looked triumphant, knowing I couldn't ruin their presidential ambitions with this trained, ruthless secret service agent. They thought they had hired someone to contain me. They had no idea they’d just brought a wildfire into my life—no idea what it means when danger has a face, a voice, and hands capable of both ruin and salvation.

And I... I am already wondering what it would feel like to burn.