Salt Kiss – Episode 02
Mark Trevena’s expression did not change when Tristan refused to kneel. “That’s an order.” He spoke with the same calm certainty, as though repetition would transform an outrageous demand into something reasonable. Tristan felt the old instinct to obey collide with a sharper impulse to stand his ground. He had surrendered enough of himself to men who believed rank gave them ownership.
“That’s not the kind of order I take.” Tristan kept his feet planted and his shoulders rigid. He had come to discuss a security position, not submit to some rich stranger’s private game. Whatever his father had promised Mark, it could not possibly include this.
A trace of amusement touched Mark’s mouth. Instead of recognizing the misunderstanding, he seemed intrigued by Tristan’s resistance. “Looks like the bratty little soldier needs to be put through basic training.” His gaze travelled over the uniform with deliberate appreciation, making Tristan feel less like an applicant than an object being assessed for use.
“What the hell kind of job interview is this?” Tristan demanded. The room offered no answer. Everything about it—the privacy, the controlled lighting, the confidence with which Mark invaded his space—suggested rules Tristan had never been told. He hated entering any situation without intelligence, and right now he did not even know what operation he had walked into.
Mark rose and closed the distance between them. “Disobeying your master tells me you need to be punished.” His voice remained almost conversational, but the words set off every alarm in Tristan’s body. Master was not a title he had given this man. Punishment was not a right Mark possessed.
“I don’t know who you think you are.” Tristan barely finished before Mark moved. The billionaire was faster than his polished appearance suggested. He caught Tristan off guard, redirected his balance, and forced him forward against the desk with a practiced efficiency that turned shock into fury.
For one humiliating instant, Tristan was bent over the polished surface, Mark’s control firm at his back. His training screamed at him to counter, yet disbelief delayed him. Nothing in his briefing had prepared him for an employer who conducted interviews with restraints and threats of a whip.
“What the hell is going on here?” Tristan twisted against the hold. “You can’t—”
“No.” Mark’s answer cracked through the room. “Enough. No more talking back.” He handled Tristan’s resistance as if it were part of an expected performance, an insolence to be corrected rather than a warning to stop. The certainty behind it was almost more infuriating than the physical restraint.
Mark leaned close enough for Tristan to feel the heat of his breath. He described exactly what he expected to hear when he took Tristan from behind: not argument, but a plea for more. The explicit promise struck Tristan like a live wire. Rage surged through the shock, burning away the last second of hesitation.
Tristan drove himself upright and broke the hold. Years of combat training took over, clean and automatic. He spun, created space, and drew his sidearm in one fluid motion. By the time Mark faced him again, the muzzle was trained squarely on his chest.
“You have three seconds to tell me what the hell is going on.” Tristan’s grip was steady now. Whatever vulnerability had haunted him at home disappeared behind disciplined focus. A threat he could see was easier to manage than a memory he could not escape.
“Three.” Mark studied the weapon without visible fear. That unnerving composure made Tristan tighten his finger alongside the trigger guard. Either the man trusted Tristan not to shoot, or danger had become so familiar that a gun no longer impressed him.
“Two.” Tristan’s voice hardened. He needed an explanation before restraint gave way to instinct. Mark’s eyes flicked from the gun to Tristan’s face, interest replacing the earlier amusement.
“Looks like I can say the same thing to you, boy.” Mark straightened his cuffs, as though being held at gunpoint were merely another turn in their contest. “I’m not one to kink-shame, but I’ve never had a submissive pull a gun on me before.”
The word brought the entire encounter into sudden, grotesque focus. The command to kneel, the talk of a master, the whip, the assumption that Tristan’s resistance was play—Mark had not been conducting an interview at all. He believed Tristan had arrived for something entirely different.
Tristan stared at him, fury now edged with incredulity. His uniform had apparently been mistaken for a costume, his presence for consent, and his refusal for provocation. The absurdity did nothing to lessen the violation. If anything, it made the pressure in his chest worse.
“I’m not your submissive,” he said, each word clipped and unmistakable. The gun remained fixed between them while realization finally entered Mark’s eyes. “I’m your bodyguard.”