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I’m watching his hands. The subtle twitch of his jaw when I reroute a protocol before he finishes describing it.
“I said we’d come at it from the west perimeter,” he says, his tone low, edged with warning.
“And that would be smart,” I reply, not looking up. “If we wanted to trigger every tripwire embedded since 2020. But I found an unpatched exploit in their archival vault from the south conduit. Quiet. Efficient. And invisible—unless you’re actually looking.”
Silence stretches behind me.
I finally glance over my shoulder.
He’s staring at me, his black gaze unreadable. The screen’s glow catches the gold at his throat and the faint scar that traces the line of his collarbone.
God, he’s beautiful. Dangerous. Deadly, even. But fuck, I want to cut myself on all his edges and bleed out my needs.
Right now, though, I catch something else.
And for the first time he looks…uncertain.
“You disapprove of my correction, Mr. O’Driscoll?” I say, and I know how mocking I sound, but I don’t stop. Because if he’s the king of cold control, I’m the queen of exploiting cracks. It’s what’s earned me my name, respect and a nice, fat bank balance.
He tilts his head slightly. “Are you disobeying me, Specter?”
That name. On his lips. A warning. A stroke right between my legs. God. “I’mdisputingyou. There’s a difference. I might be your submissive in the bedroom but you’re my partner in this. Not your puppet.”
He doesn’t speak. That alone is a victory.
I rise from my seat slowly, turning to face him fully. The tension is a live wire between us. I feel it in the quickening of my pulse, in the way his eyes drop—just for a fraction of a second—to my mouth before dragging back up. That too isnew.
He’s always touched me with brutal intent but never looked at me like Imighthave teeth too.
I take a step forward. He doesn’t move.
Another step.
We’re almost toe to toe now, and I can feel the heat from his body, smell the clean, subtle scent of his cologne—leather and something darker, like storm-wet stone. My chin lifts a fraction higher.
“What's the matter, Dante?” I whisper. “Worried I might know what I'm doing?”
Something flickers in his eyes. A warning. A spark.
And then—he rocks back.
Just a fraction of a pace. Barely noticeable. But I see it.
Ifeelit.
Power, hot and electric, floods me. Not the kind you steal through backdoors and data leaks. Not the kind you broadcast through encrypted channels. This is personal.Immediate. This is me, forcing the predator to blink first.
But the moment is razor-thin.
Because he regroups just as fast.
In a blink, he’s in front of me again, hand at my throat—not choking, just holding. Reminding. The collar around my neck hums as if reacting to his touch.
His breath is hot against my cheek, and the way he looks at me now isn’t the same. It’s not cold calculation. It’s need. Frustration. And something else that looks a lot like?—
“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he says, voice low and raw. “And I don’t remember giving you permission to use my name.”
“Maybe I do have some idea what I’m playing with,” I say, breathless. “And also we’re not in a scene. Is that what it’s called?”