Not yet.
But I’m not saying no, either.
He’s already therewhen I arrive. Of course he is. Sitting like he owns the goddamn galaxy, long frame draped across the reinforced polymer chair like it’s a throne carved out of skulls and silk. Tailored navy suit, black shirt open just enough to show the curve of his collarbone—and that infernal smug expression that has no business looking so good in the sterile white light of a secured legal conference room.
The moment I step through the threshold, the air changes.
I hate it.
Hate the way his eyes rake over me like he’s collecting sins he intends to cash in later. Hate the slow, indulgent tilt of his mouth, like he knows something I don’t.
Hate that hedoes.
“Prosecutor Dawson,” he drawls, standing with a languid grace that’s all predator. “You’re looking particularly... uncompromising today.”
I toss the folder of deposition prep onto the table harder than necessary. “Cut the crap, Rexx. I’m not in the mood for games.”
His brows rise. Just slightly. “That wasn’t a game. That was a compliment.”
I ignore it. “You think dressing up in three thousand credits of suit and quoting mob films makes you respectable?”
“I think it makes me entertaining.” He closes the distance between us in three slow steps. “Respectable is for politicians. I’m something else entirely.”
He’s close now. Too close.
The room feels smaller with him in it. No windows. No outside sound. Just the gentle thrum of climate control and my pulse banging in my ears like a riot baton on a riot shield.
“You’re manipulating the system,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Feeding us just enough to stay clean, to walk away a hero.”
“Didn’t know I needed to be a hero,” he says softly. “Wasn’t aware that’s what you were looking for.”
“Don’t twist my words?—”
“Then stop giving me ones worth twisting.”
I push past him, furious at the way his scent follows—smoke and glassteel and something uniquely him. I should report him. I should scream at him. I should doanythingexcept stand here, breathing like my lungs forgot how to work.
“You think you’re in control,” I hiss. “You think just because you held back last night?—”
His hand slams the briefing panel, locking the chamber door. The click echoes like a gunshot.
Then he steps in front of me. Trapping me. His body not touching mine, butthere—heat and threat and sanctuary all at once.
I stare up at him, fists clenched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he whispers. “Don’t tell you the truth?”
“I know what this is,” I spit. “You are playing power games. Cornering me so I forget who I am. So I forget what you are.”
“And what am I?” he asks, voice velvet-wrapped steel.
“A monster.”
“Maybe.” He leans in, so close I can feel the words brush my cheek. “But I’myourmonster now, aren’t I?”
My breath hitches. God help me, I don’t move.
He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stands there, letting the weight of what we’ve become choke the space between us.
