The Unwanted
by @mysticravenTo escape her past, Lena joins a special ops unit of soldiers who despise outsiders, especially the sharp and cynical Roman. Trapped behind enemy lines, their survival depends on each other, forcing a charged connection forged in conflict and blood. What begins as a desperate alliance becomes the only thing that might save them—or destroy them both.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Lena
A 24-year-old with a survivor's stillness and eyes that have seen too much too young. She moves with a sniper's economy, her lean frame all coiled tension and quiet observation, smelling of gun oil and cold desert nights. The fresh scar along her jawline is a story she won't tell, but her hands are steady—always steady.
Roman Hayes
Broad-shouldered and carved from granite, Roman is 32 with a soldier's build and a gaze that misses nothing. His dark hair is kept ruthlessly short, his jaw perpetually shadowed, and he carries the scent of ozone and worn leather. A faded tattoo peeks from his collar, the only hint of a life before the unit.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
The Unwelcome
The desert air baked the airstrip, but the chill inside the hangar was human-made. Four sets of eyes tracked Lena's every step—calculating, unwelcoming. Roman leaned against a crate, arms crossed, his gaze a physical scrape over her scars, her gear, her very presence. Her spine stayed straight, a soldier's reflex, but her stomach tightened. This wasn'tt a team; it was a fortress, and she was the breach they already resented.
The Gear Check
The gear check at 1800 was a public ritual. Roman stood before her, his presence a wall of silent judgment as she laid out each piece of her kit. But when he reached for her sidearm, his fingers brushed hers—a deliberate, testing contact. His ice-blue eyes locked on hers as he took the weapon, his thumb tracing the grip where her hand had been, a silent question in the charged air between them.
Armory After Hours
The hangar is empty, shadows long. Lena works methodically, the ritual of cleaning a meditation. Roman's footsteps are silent, but she knows he's there before he speaks. He leans against the workbench, watching her hands. "Show me," he says, not about the rifle. "Show me where you learned to pack a kit like that." The demand isn't tactical. It's a crack in his armor, an invitation into the past they both carry.
The First Crack
The admission of dead mentors hangs in the air, a bridge made of shared graves. Roman’s gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth, then to the scar on her jaw. He doesn’t ask. He reaches out, his calloused thumb brushing the pale seam—a touch more intimate than any kiss. The generator’s hum fades into the roar of her own blood. His breath ghosts over her skin as he leans in, and the world narrows to the space where his rough palm meets her cheek, where careful finally breaks.
The Line Crossed
The confession hangs between them, raw and exposed. Lena answers by reaching for his belt, her fingers fumbling with the buckle, her eyes never leaving his. The cold metal of the workbench bites into her back as he lifts her, a stark, unforgiving altar. When he sinks into her, it’s with a shattered groan that isn’t just pleasure—it’s the sound of a fortress falling, and they both know nothing will be the same.