Page 40 of Under His Command
Rowan’s brows arch up as he pins me with his gaze.
“What about him?”
“Just that it wasn’t his fault. So please don’t be hard on him. I made him promise not to tell you about the incident at my house, which turned out to be nothing, thank God.”
“Don’t worry about it. I already fired him.”
“You… you what?”
Guilt settles heavily on my chest, making me frown.
“He was given an order. And he willingly went against it. So I fired him. Now—”
“No! I told you it was my fault, not his! This is completely unnecessary. Please, Rowan…”
I shake my head, frustration roiling in my gut and wanting to come out, to lash out at him. What if Zain had a family to care for? What if he worked all his life for that job? For Rowan to just take it away from him like that…
“It is not your fault that a grown man who knew the consequences of his insubordination willingly chose to go against direct orders. The safety of the woman I love is on the line, and I am not about to start cutting corners when I know so many things could go wrong while I’m away. So yes, even if it turned out to be nothing, he should’ve fucking told me about what happened. I always need to be in the know.”
The woman he… loves?
Goddamn him and that gifted mouth. Butterflies are already coming to life in my stomach, and it’s really fucking hard to be upset with him. But I don’t think it’s right. Firing Zain was unnecessary. Nothing happened at my apartment. No one was there. Right?
“I’m going to open the door now. And we’re going to step outside. I’ll take your hand and guide you through the crowd. Okay, angel?”
“Fine,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, though I don’t fail to notice the subtle smirk he flashes before stepping out of the car. His hand dips back inside, open and inviting, wanting me to come out with him.
What a prick he is being right now. He’s enjoying this. He wants me to talk back. Almost as if he’s looking forward to punishing me again. Well, if he wants to play that kind of game, I’m all here for it. Consequences be damned.
FOURTEEN
Escaping the paparazzi wasn’t any easier this time. But with Rowan by my side, I felt a lot more empowered—and safe. Hell, I even smiled when someone called my name and I turned my face so they could take my picture. If this is my life now, might as well try to roll with it.
Rowan’s wide palm holds me close to his body as he leads us inside the White House, a trail of men in black suits following a few steps behind. I crook my neck upward to take in the white sandstone pillars, the perfect curves of the balconies, and the detailed garland decorations. It’s a massive structure, and I’ve only ever seen it on TV or from very far away.
To think I’m actually going inside, to visit the President and the First Lady while accompanied by the Commander of the Army is insane. What if I make a fool of myself? Or worse… what if I somehow embarrass him in front of them?
I almost trip on my heels before Rowan steadies me with a hand behind my lower back, flashing me a lazy smile. I look back at him for a brief second. He’s calm. Too calm for this.
“Rowan…” I start, the words stuck somewhere in my throat, unwilling to come out. But the look on his face tells me he already knows what’s on my mind. I love how well he knows me already.
He stops walking to stand in front of me, and everyone else follows suit.
I look around, feeling like I’m under a microscope as staff members buzz across the hallway, each doing their job.
“Lips,” he says, cupping my face and bringing it in toward his. I release a shallow breath, his forehead touching mine as I close my eyes, feeling safe in the small space he created between our bodies. “Give me your lips, pretty girl.”
I inch closer, our lips brushing each other before I press mine to his and I whimper into his mouth, inhaling his cologne and his warmth.
“Don’t even think about it. I brought you here so I can show off with you. There’s no possible way you can embarrass me. So show me your pretty smile, give me your hand, and let me introduce you to my friends. Yes?”
I nod, pursing my lips, with my eyebrows knitted in worry.
“Good girl,” he says, and we start walking again.
“Fucking hell.” Draven Grant—the Secretary of State—approaches with a file tucked under his armpit, hands in his pockets as he grins with perfectly white teeth. “Every time I see you, I ask myself, how is this bastard still alive?”
He laughs, and Rowan snorts playfully, shaking hands with him without letting go of mine.
