A landless empire ruled by bullets, bound by blood, defined by legend.
Las Águilas isn’t your neighborhood fraternity of ex-military types who miss their guns. No, sir. This is a mercenary syndicate masquerading as a global security firm—if global security means assassinations, black ops, arms recovery, high-value target extractions, and occasionally babysitting the dictator’s mistress when she’s bored in Ibiza.
They don’t recruit. They choose.
Training? Think Navy SEALs meets medieval torture with a PowerPoint. Loyalty? Blood in, bullets out. Uniforms? Black. Always black. Not for stealth—just to hide the sweat, gunpowder, and shame of being too good at their jobs.
Most agents were born with daddy issues and a six-pack. The rest? Orphans raised by trauma and sarcasm.
You want someone to disappear without a trace? Call Las Águilas.
You want that someone’s entire bloodline to be a cautionary tale? Call twice.
Their motto?
"We fly in. We don’t ask. We clean up."
And if you’re lucky, you won’t even realize you were the mission.
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It was supposed to be a calm ride home. Engagement party dance. Just him, her, and the pickup truck.
But Ella—flushed, glowing, too soft in all the right places—looked nothing like the girl who sold ginseng by day. Tonight, she looked like something else entirely. Something his body already craved.
Elias gripped the wheel. Her bare thighs. That laugh. That dress. It was like the universe dared him to remember what never happened.
She didn’t know she was a mother. Didn’t know how his daughter had her DNA. But he did. He knew it too well.
He had fathered a child with this woman without ever earning it. No bed. No touch. No sin.
He killed the engine. Maybe tonight, he’d fix that.
She moved closer. Kissed him—shy, trembling. But wanting.
And he let go. Of logic. Of science. Of guilt.
Her dress slipped. His hands found her. Slow. Careful. Finally.
She gasped when he touched the wet heat between her thighs—so soft, so ready, untouched but already aching. He groaned against her mouth, stunned by how badly he wanted her, how reverent it felt to finally have what had been taken from them by sterile labs and stolen time.
He pulled her onto his lap, guiding her down slowly, gently. She cried out softly, clutching his shoulders, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness, the unfamiliar bliss.
He whispered her name like a prayer. She moved over him—uncertain at first, then urgent, raw, free.
Skin against skin. Heat against heat. Moans swallowed into each other’s mouths.
Their bodies found rhythm, friction, release.
She clung to him. He held her tighter.
When they came, it was together. Her body trembling around him, his buried deep, surrendering with a groan that came from somewhere far below logic.
The windows fogged. The truck rocked.
And after, as she lay limp against his chest, heart racing, dress askew, lips swollen—
Elias kissed her hair and whispered, breathless, "At least now, the next sibling won’t be a scientific accident."
And science, once again, quietly exited the vehicle.
Once Upon a Petri Dish...
Kuya-Zoned Agent, Overcooked Feelings.
One night. One scrunchie. Now the NBI’s finest wants a second serving.
Yago told himself it meant nothing. Just sex. No big deal.
Then she ghosted—no note, no text—like a fever dream that left behind one incriminating pink scrunchie on his bedside table.
Now she was in his office. He blocked the doorway like a six-foot HR violation. "Running again, Chef?"
"I'm on break!" she squeaked, trying to sidestep.
He raised a brow. "Break from your responsibilities or from me?"
She bolted left. He caught her waist.
"Yago—seriously—"
"Cassie."
That was all he said before backing her up against the wall like a man who took kitchen safety and personal space very, very personally.
"You left," he growled.
"Sorry! I panicked! You were—you were too good!" she stammered.
He leaned in.
She tried to duck, but he caged her in.
"You think I forgot how you taste?"
"You didn’t even warn me that wine had a kick! Lasang juice lang, Yago! Next thing I know, lasing ako, tapos soaked and saying things like 'simmer me harder!'"
"You didn’t say stop."
"Because my brain rebooted and forgot English!"
He kissed her—messy, all tongue and unresolved tension.
"I thought it meant nothing," she gasped.
His hand slid down her thigh. "Then why are you shaking?"
She whimpered. "Because I don’t have the emotional maturity for this!"
He lifted her onto the couch.
"Lucky for you, I’m not here for emotional maturity."
The couch creaked. Someone’s phone buzzed. Neither moved.
They chased. They crashed. They remembered—through clumsy buttons, breathy curses, and clothes that absolutely did not survive.
And when she cried out beneath him, hair a mess, apron askew, his name tangled with laughter and moans—
Yago knew she remembered, too.
She didn’t move. She didn’t want to.
"So," she panted. "Lunch break?"
He grinned. "More like full-course reset."
Hot mess meets hotter spy...
“Shit,” Nicki whispered, as his hand slid up her thigh—hot, possessive, and honestly, medyo nakakahiya kasi ang kinis niya. “What are we even doing?!”
Lex didn’t answer with words. He just looked at her like she was a Wi-Fi password he’d been dying to crack since Season 1. Then his mouth was on hers—hungry, demanding, and very much not aligned with her 3-month celibacy arc.
She moaned into the kiss, her towel clinging on for dear life like naka-deposit siya sa BDO. “You’re… just a security guy,” she gasped, nails digging into his shirt. “Why do you kiss like a villain sa spy movie with budget?!”
Lex smirked, all cocky and alpha vibes. “I’m good with my hands,” he said. “Tools, locks, brats.”
“OMG shut up,” she gasped, head tilting back as his lips found that one spot na parang switch ng kilig at kabaliwan.
She should’ve stopped this. She should’ve said, “Excuse me? I’m a Tantuco heiress, not some bored artista on a yacht fling.”
But no. His hand slipped under her towel and, honestly? Her morals ghosted her. “Please don’t stop,” she whimpered, already questioning every life choice she made post-grocery exile.
And he didn’t.
He touched her like she was a Black Card with no spending limit.
Worshipped her like she was brunch and he hadn’t eaten since martial law.
And moved like a man who could dismantle governments, locate the g-spot in under three seconds, and her will to stay mad.
She came undone—twice—before she even remembered her own name, her Lolo’s last sermon, or whatever.
When it was over, she lay there, wrapped in trauma and cotton blend. Lex was shirtless, smug, and annoyingly hot, like hindi lang siya pang security, kundi pang Netflix top ten din.
“Lex…” she whispered, completely breathless. “Who the hell are you talaga?”
He winked, tossed her the towel, and said, “Let’s just say… I’m not part of HR, babe.”
He stole her freedom. She stole his soul.
“You were supposed to hate me,” she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as his mouth traced a scorching path down her throat.
“I do,” Hawk growled, dragging her closer, his body pressed hard against hers, “I hate how much I want you. I hate how you make me forget everything but this.”
She arched beneath him, breathless, trembling as his hands slid lower, taking, claiming, owning every inch of her.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against her skin.
But she didn’t. Couldn’t.
And when he finally claimed her, fierce and unrelenting, when she shattered around him with a cry that sounded like surrender and salvation all at once—
Hawk knew. He’d never let her go.
Not now. Not ever.
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