I look dangerous. I look like a woman who wants to be noticed.
I want Vanguard to do the noticing.
I sit at the vanity and start on my hair, twisting it up into an elegant knot that takes way too much time and way too many bobby pins. A few tendrils escape to frame my face, softening the severity. Then, makeup—subtle except for my lips, which I paint the same red as the dress. Not like I’m going to be kissing anyone.
“Kat’s already in position,” Bayo tells me from my earrings. “Remember, she’s Elena Varga, freelance photographer, credentials courtesy of yours truly. She’s got comms too—separate channel, but I’m monitoring both. She’ll be able to hear you, but once you mute me, you mute her.”
“Good.” I stand, smoothing my hands over my hips one last time. The silk ripples under my palms, cool and slippery. “Any updates on the Prometheus data?”
“Still decrypting the restricted files, but what we’ve got so far…” He pauses. “It’s ugly, Mia. Whatever they’re doing, it’s not just enhancement anymore. And there’s a reference to something called Phase Five—dated 2038. Same year Vanguard went public.”
“Keep digging,” I say. “I’ll see what I can find tonight.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I cross the room to check it, my heels sinking into the plush carpet with each step.
Vanguard’s texted me.Downstairs. Take your time.
Despite everything—the mission, the intel, the growing certainty that my feelings for Vanguard are borderline inappropriate—I can’t help but smile. Can’t help that my stomach flutters like a net full of butterflies.
“Vanguard’s here,” I tell Bayo. “Going dark on receive.”
“Copy that. We’ll be listening. And Mia?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. There will be a lot of monsters at this event. They often wear the most expensive suits.”
“Got it.” I twist my left earring to the right. From now on, he can hear me, but I can’t hear him—not until I find somewhere private enough and far enough from Vanguard’s ears to risk opening the channel again.
I grab my clutch, check my reflection one last time, and head for the elevator.
The Meridian is waiting at the curb when I step outside, sleek and impossible, hovering three feet above the pavement in a feat of gravity manipulation. The night air is crisp against my bare shoulders, raising goosebumps along my arms, and I’m suddenly very aware of how much skin I’m showing. The doorman stares as I walk past. A woman on the sidewalk actually stops mid-stride to gawk. I have to fake my confidence, but it seems to be working.
Danny, Vanguard’s handler, stands beside the car in a chauffeur’s uniform, and his eyebrows shoot up when he sees me.
“Holy shit,” he says.
“That a good shit or that a bad shit?”
“That’s aholy shit.” He opens the rear door with a flourish and gives me a wicked grin. “Boss is gonna lose his mind.”
I hope so.
I duck into the back seat, careful not to snag the silk, and there he is.
The boss.
Vanguard.
I slide in next to him, his wide, imposing frame taking up most of the spacious car, and suddenly, it’s like all the air has been knocked from my lungs, like he’s too close, and it’s all closing in on me.
Doesn’t help that he looks sexy as sin.
The tuxedo fits like it’s been sewn directly onto his body—black fabric straining across those ridiculous shoulders, the white shirt crisp against his throat, a black bow tie that somehow makes him look both elegant and dangerous. His dark hair is swept back from his face, his beard trimmed close, and when his eyes land on me, they go wide for just a moment before darkening into something that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“Is that a compliment or a prayer?”
