I don’t fuck a woman on a whim. I don’t get entangled in the throes of passion. I don’t entertain anyone inexperienced or those more than five years younger than me.
It holds me accountable. And in turn, I don’t fret over holding them accountable. They sign an agreement—an NDA of sorts. We enjoy our time. And we part ways.
It’s always worked. My parents lost everything—their happiness, their sanity, their lives—all due to love or lust. I refuse to repeat those errors.
Even if I were foolish enough to want that, KORT has very specific rules concerning any type of romantic or sexual relationship. As it stands, they align perfectly with mine.
So, this draw to Zara is irritating. And distracting.
But her skin is flushed from her frustration, her lips are parted with the cutest gasp of indignation, and every one of her toned muscles is working overtime. She usually hides that lithe and lean physique behind sophisticated clothing that is seductive in its own right, but this? I’ll never be able to unsee this—her unschooled temper and her glistening curves on full display. How could I not want to draw out the moment?
“Waiting for what?” She enunciates every syllable, like she’s about to blow. Though even that drips with grace, like her fighting skills. Everything appears poised and effortless under her command.
She makes me fucking dizzy. I want to throw her up against the wall, rip off those workout clothes that fit like a goddamn second skin, and thrust inside her until she never fucking questions me again.
So, I lean close, letting my scruff scrape over her feverish cheek and my breath cool the fiery flesh of her neck, even though my answer will be kindling for her rage. “I’d say that I was waiting for your cheeks to blush a pretty pink, like they did when you were grinding against me, but they already are.”
Her lips pop open with thirst and ire. “Then we should revisit why you’re waiting.”
“Ahh, yes.” I grin, savoring the ability to weasel under her flushed skin even though it’s a recipe for disaster. “For that syrupy politeness you use to get what you want.”
“Please,” she whispers while gulping down hostility, “don’t make me kill you in this hallway so I can use your eyeball and finger to make my way out. If my blushing cheeks didn’t make it clear, I really liked the idea of having some fun with you first.”
The reckless threat aside, I know she’s just trying to nettle me, but she really needs to stop suggesting that I fuck her with such unabashed willingness.
She’s brazen and fearless. It’s possible some of that is due to her naivete and her not fully grasping the gravity of her situation. Her cover isn’t really blown. I don’t know why she’s here, who she works for, or—as far as she knows—her true identity. And she doesn’t know that I’m involved with KORT, though I threw her a bone that day in the city with my threat to report her.
It wasn’t enough to be seen as a betrayal to my KORT agreement—we aren’t permitted to reveal our position outside of our executive administration or family. But it should’ve been a clue for her to realize messing with me or my family was certain death—not just for her, but for everyone she loves. The La Lune Noire empire will go to war over an immediate threat. But KORT will hunt anyone who dares to cross them. There is no hiding.
Since she returned with me, she either didn’t fully comprehend the tip or she foolishly ignored it.
That was also a way for me to gauge whether she knew about my KORT affiliation, though even if she’s working for the people hunting Rena’s family, they may not have explained it was battling against KORT. Few assassins would accept that risk.
With a shake of my head, I pocket my phone and scan my retina to lead her out. “That’s the kind of statement that ensures a person never leaves La Lune Noire alive.”
She follows me into the next passageway, keeping pace. “Why am I different?”
“Maybe you’re not.”
She scoffs. “My beating heart says otherwise.”
I don’t dignify the accuracy of that statement because beating hearts or not, every interaction with her has me digging a grave. I’m just not sure whose grave it is.
Scanning my fingerprint to open another hidden door, I make a quick turn and guide us to the elevator. “We’ve wasted enough time today. And enough days avoiding each other. You were issued a phone. The staff meetings were added to the calendar. You’re expected to meet in my conference room every day from one to three so we can review the translation work.”
“To what end?” she snaps, stepping into the elevator beside me.
“To the end that my worldwide satellite sites are launched soon.”
She grunts in exasperation, far more untethered than she traditionally is. “You keep me here, the translation work is completed, and then what? I’m still not able to leave? Let’s say I am on a mission, like you believe, and I’m not safe outside your protection, when would that change?”
“Maybe never.” I shrug. “Surely you know that a hit on someone in your profession is rarely outrun. Once a liability …” I let the insinuation dangle because this is a problem of her own making.
As the elevator settles on her floor, she shoots me another glare. “And how does me being trapped here solve anything?”
“It’s simple, Miss West.” I hold the door once it opens. “You get to live, and you’re unable to carry out a mission that putsmy family, my members, or me in danger. That sounds like a big win.”
She rests her hand on her hip, making no move to exit the elevator. “Even if I were here on this hypothetical mission you’ve conjured up, I’d be one worker bee. You can cage me, but that won’t stop the queen from sending a whole hive after the honey. So, your altruistic gesture of harboring me is only so you—the guy who boasts of providing a safe haven for the underworld—can imprison me without guilt, preventing me from living my life.”
