Page 12 of Villainous Intent

“I’m leaving,” I managed to say. “I need to get back to my post.” It was a bold claim, considering my feet were firmly rooted.

He let out a dark chuckle that scraped right down my spine. “Go ahead and run. But don’t think for a second that this is over, Annie,” he said softly.

The sound of my name snapped the paralysis holding me hostage. I turned and ran, my numb fingers curling into fists as my shoes slapped against the flooded pavement. The weight of his gaze burned a hole straight between my shoulder blades, tracking every frantic, desperate step I took.

CHAPTER 4

CIPHER

I calculated the trajectory of the water droplets on the window and tried to ignore the way Ember & Vine’s hostess stared. She’d had her eyes glued to me for exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I’d been tracking her expressions and the slight parting of her lips in the reflection of the window.

Thomas Smith’s face always had that effect. It was a mask of genetic perfection, too symmetrical, too flawlessly constructed. People forgot how to function around it, blinded as they were by the aesthetic trap.

My brain processed the rest of the mundane reality of the restaurant alongside a dozen other concurrent streams of thought. Though one thread had managed to dominate the noise, drowning out the calculations and the baseline hum of my own mind.

Keeper Bishop. Annie.

I almost didn’t recognize her when she stepped onto the observation deck. She was out of her usual prim Keeper attire. But her eyes were unmistakable.

Electric blue. The exact shade of Havoc’s.

Years of exposure to his chaotic energy must have leeched into her, staining her irises, marking her as his. I hated it. I hated that she carried a visual brand of another man’s power. I wanted to burn it out of her. I wanted my own mark on her flesh, deep and permanent.

I took a deep breath, forcing the irrational surge of possessive violence down. Bishop had drawn my attention for years, ever since she took the position as Havoc’s head Keeper. She always stood at his shoulder during Alliance press conferences and appearances.

Initially, I categorized her as irrelevant. She was just an Alliance pencil-pusher, a fragile human navigating a world of gods and monsters.

And still, I watched her instead of Havoc—despite having idolized him since I was a boy watching his fights on television. I had spent decades engineering my entire villainous persona with the singular goal of becoming his Nemesis, of breaking him professionally and physically.

Yet, whenever Havoc stepped into the public eye, it was the small, rigid woman beside him who commanded my focus.

Most people scream when they fall. They flail and beg for salvation. She hadn’t. She had plunged in total, terrifying silence. And when I caught her, when I had her pinned against my chest with the rain slicking over us, she had weaponized her terror. She shoved that cuff against my neck and sent me crashing three stories into a car with enough voltage to stop a human heart.

The hostess’ cheeks flushed a pathetic, mottled red when her eyes met mine in the window’s reflection. I tuned her out, letting my eyelids fall shut for a fraction of a second to block out the rest of the restaurant.

I was back on the rooftop, the rain driving down in sheets, cold and relentless, but all I registered was the warmth from Annie Bishop’s body trapped against my chest.

Her hair had been down.

I had studied her at every press conference and public appearance, she’d always worn it up in tight buns or twists for work. But the dark strands had plastered against her cheeks, framing her eyes.

Then came her scent. She smelled of vanilla and spiking adrenaline. My mouth watered at the memory.

I had predicted a physical struggle. Predicted screaming and scratching. But for a split second before she shoved that cuff into my neck, she’d kissed me back. Her mouth had parted under mine, yielding to me.

The memory alone was a dangerous narcotic. It hijacked my cognitive functions, replacing tactical analysis with a deep hunger.

I wanted to pin her against a wall, wrap my hand around her throat, and squeeze just enough to feel her frantic pulse beating against my palm. I desperately wanted to taste her again and map every gasp and whimper with my tongue.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. A priority notification from the Syndicate. I swiped it away without looking at it.

The Syndicate was the governing body for the League and I wasn’t in the mood for their bureaucracy. Not when I was already marinating in the suffocating skin of Thomas Smith and the hostess’s gaze hadn’t fucking wavered once.

I was about to text Menace to ask where the fuck he was when movement caught my eye through the window. Menace’s unmistakable silhouette appeared, hurrying through the mist with someone beside him.

My shoulders tensed and I prepared my “Thomas Smith” persona, the charming, slightly reserved genius with just enough Scottish accent to seem exotic. The mask I hated most.

The door swung open, and Menace guided in a woman who immediately defied my expectations. She was striking, with vibrant red hair falling in curls past her shoulders and hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled.