Where would I even begin?
I press my forehead against the cool tile and breathe.
She’s a journalist. She’s here to write about me. She’s probably reporting everything I tell her back to someone—her editor, her magazine, maybe someone else entirely. I should be keeping her at arm’s length, not fantasizing about choking her while I fuck her from behind.
But I can’t stop.
Ever since that first night at the gala in London, she’s been under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out. Every conversation, every glance, every accidental touch—it all feeds into this hunger I’ve spent years trying to bury. The particular hunger Julia knows about, that she’s ‘calibrated’ more times than I can count. The part of me that wants to dominate, possess, consume.
The part of me that’s terrified of what I might do if I ever really let go.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and scrubbing myself dry, harder than I should, like I’m trying to slough her away. In the mirror, I look the same as always—strong jaw, blue eyes, the body of a weapon—but underneath, something is shifting. Cracking.
She’s doing this to me. Mia. With her sharp tongue and her sharper eyes and the way she looks at me like she can see straight through to the monster I keep caged.
Maybe she can.
The gala is in a couple of nights. A presidential fundraiser, all the usual suspects. I’d asked her to be my date before I could talk myself out of it, and she’d said yes, and now, I’m going to have to spend an entire evening with her on my arm, smiling for cameras, pretending I’m not thinking about bending her over every available surface.
I pull on sweats and walk to the windows, staring out at the city I’ve sworn to protect, knowing she’s out there. Maybe, with any luck, she’s thinking about me.
CHAPTER 13
MIA
I thinkthe dress might be a mistake.
I stand in front of the hotel mirror in nothing but my knickers, holding the red silk up to my body and wondering what the hell I was thinking when I bought it. The neckline plunges lower than I remember, the back is practically nonexistent, and the fabric is the type to cling to every curve like it’s been painted on. It’s the kind of dress that demands attention—the opposite of everything a spy should want.
“You’re breathing weird,” Bayo says in my ear. “What’s happening?”
“I’m having a crisis.”
“About?”
“This bloody dress.” I turn sideways, examining my reflection. “I think it might be too much. Yes. It’s too much.”
“Describe it to me.”
“Red. Silk. Shows off my tits. Barely any back. Definitely can’t wear my knickers or a bra with it.” I pause. “I look like I’m trying to seduce someone.”
“Aren’t you?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
The past few days have been a blur of intel and confusion. The data from the Queens facility sits heavy in my mind. The subject logs with failure rates that make my stomach turn, phrases likeneural degradationandconsciousness fragmentationthat sound less like genetic enhancement and more like something out of a horror film. And Kapoor.Access revoked. Kapoor Incident. See restricted file.He found something. Something worth killing for.
Then, there’s the Paragon competition. Last week, I stood in that crowd and watched Vanguard push himself past his limits, watched him win by three bloody seconds against that black-armored machine. I practically melted at the genuine smile he flashed me when he landed.
Then, I was at Vanguard’s penthouse, and he made me grilled cheese and I called him Nate and he didn’t tell me not to. Maybe because he was busy, literally about to jump off his balcony, but still.
The way I can’t stop thinking about him, even when I should be thinking about the mission, is getting a bit worrisome.
“Put the dress on, Mia,” Bayo says gently. “You bought that dress for a reason. You’ve got a job to do.”
I nod, step into the silk, and pull it up over my hips, sliding my arms through the thin straps. The fabric is cool against my skin, whispering over my body as I adjust the neckline, pull out my knickers from underneath so they don’t leave lines, and smooth the skirt.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger, all curves and exposed skin, the red silk catching the light like liquid fire. My collarbones look sharp, my neck impossibly long, my earrings sparkling. The dress leaves my back bare from shoulders to the base of my spine, a sweep of golden skin that feels almost obscene.
