Page 10 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

Fucking hell.

My mind is a goddamn tornado as we make our way down the hallway to the event hall, where the auction will kick off after a short refreshment period.

The low murmur of expensive conversation washes around us, but I barely hear it.

All I can focus on is her —Emilia next to Jason Moore, holding his fucking arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My Emilia.

Anger surges through me, clashing with curiosity, then crashing back into pure, unadulterated rage.

The walk to the auction drags on forever, constantly interrupted by people stopping us to talk with Jason—and occasionally me—which delays any proper introductions until we finally make it into the hall.

But I’ve been watching her. Since the moment she stepped into that box with Jason. There was no damn way I wouldn’t recognize her, even with that blonde wig. Every curve, every movement, every breath she takes—all of it is branded into my memory.

My hot-as-fuck nemesis .

What the hell is Emilia doing here?

Throughout the performance, I tried not to fixate on her. Refused to grant her that kind of power over me. But my treacherous eyes didn’t get the memo and kept wandering back to her, again and again, like they had a will of their own.

And in all my effort to ignore her, I ended up completely tuning out Bethany—the woman I had specifically brought here to help me erase Emilia from my thoughts, the woman I had planned to take back to my hotel to help relieve some pressure.

But yeah. That plan blew up fast.

I mean, how the hell was I supposed to focus with that sitting one box away? The wig, the mole, the fucking oversized sunglasses indoors like some movie star hiding from paparazzi. She’s so scorching hot. So mine.

And so dangerous to my position.

I was pissed as hell when Jason started pawing at her, nearly launched myself through that bulletproof glass when she leaned in to kiss the asshole on the cheek.

But I’m not a fool. I don’t let emotion cloud logic. She’s here in disguise, playing someone else. Carol Walker, complete with that sexy-as-sin British accent.

This is a mission. If she’s trying to seduce Jason, he’s clearly her target.

My eyes dip briefly to the lipstick stain on Jason’s jaw, and my teeth clench hard enough to crack enamel.

Target or not, she had no business kissing him.

And why the hell is she going after him now?

Is this some new strategy to get at me through my network?

Makes sense—Jason Moore is a politician I have firmly in my pockets, after all.

I turn to Emilia. “Art collection, huh? What made you choose that line of work?”

Let’s see how quickly she can spin her web of lies.

Even behind those tinted lenses, I catch her honey eyes spark with animosity as she smiles sweetly. “My father was an art collector, and his job took him all over the world. It seemed fun to me, so it made sense to take over from him.”

Smooth.

“Do you love it?”

“What’s there not to love? I get to travel around the world, meet cool people.” She directs a sultry smile at a visibly flustered Jason, which makes something primal roar in my chest.

I don’t like that. I don’t like that one fucking bit.

My gaze drops to her mouth where her lipstick is smudged, and it kindles my anger even more. “You might want to fix that.” I tap the corner of my lips, watching her eyes narrow dangerously.

“Why don’t you gentlemen… and lady, excuse me for a moment?” she says, making a show of opening her purse and waving an unlabeled lipstick tube.

“What brand is that?” Bethany chirps, reminding me that she’s still fucking here. Her high-pitched voice grates against my ears after the velvet tones of Emilia’s fake accent.

Emilia blinks at my date. “Brand? I made it myself. So I guess you could say I am the brand.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as she sashays away, hips swaying hypnotically beneath that fiery red dress.

“Pretty resourceful woman, isn’t she?” Jason asks, grinning stupidly—but his skin is turning a little pallid. He tugs at his tie like it’s strangling him and flags down a passing waiter, grabbing a glass of champagne that he downs in one desperate gulp.

The clinical part of my brain takes inventory: sweat beading on his forehead, ashen complexion, constricted throat—if his frantic tie-loosening and desperate drinking are any indication. The man is being systematically poisoned right before my eyes.

My gaze seeks out Emilia immediately, the image of that lipstick tube still flashing in my mind. I made it myself .

That’s right. She’s a little poisoner.

I’ve heard the rumors—people she investigated suddenly dropping dead or suffering unexpected strokes. Never proven, but I know there’s truth in them.

The azalea planter I gave her so many years ago as a tactic to keep myself rooted in her thoughts has been turned into a weapon. Reliable intel confirms she harvests the petals from the poisonous plant to strike her adversaries when she’s on a mission.

All this without her agency supervisors catching on. Because if they did—well, that’s a career-ending, or even jail-worthy move.

My little rogue.

Pride swells in my chest as I find her lurking in a shadowy corner, eyes sharp on her prey while I watch her. My dark and dirty Emilia. She truly is meant to be by my side, femme fatale that she is. Not forcing herself to be on the straight and narrow.

Bethany tugs insistently on my arm, but I can’t take my eyes off Emilia. A strangled choking sound finally recaptures my attention, and I turn to Jason, who’s finally got his tie loosened and is now fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. The whole ruckus is starting to draw attention.

“W–what’s h–happening to me?” he chokes out, reaching for my hand.

I take a step back. “It looks like you’ve been poisoned, Jason.” Though the fact that he’s still upright and breathing means she didn’t use a lethal dose. Probably just enough to knock him out and buy herself time. Get into his files. Sniff out all his dirty laun?—

Jason Moore crashes to the floor, and the room explodes with shocked gasps and shuffling feet.

His security detail rushes to our side, barking orders, while my gaze swings back to Emilia—just in time to catch her slipping through a door clearly marked ‘RESTRICTED ACCESS’ .

Clever girl.

I pat Bethany’s hand. “I think I have to use the restroom myself,” I say, barely bothering to fake concern as I excuse myself from the drama surrounding the collapsed councilor. I mean, he’s just unconscious, for fuck’s sake. He’ll live.

Lucky for him, he insisted on a no-press event.

If a single reporter were here, he’d find himself splashed across every news outlet before dawn.

Hell, he still might. Some overzealous guest could easily snap a picture and post it online.

People are obsessed with social media validation these days, constantly seeking the thrill of going viral.

As I approach the restricted door, I do a quick scan.

All attention is divided between Jason—now being carted off somewhere by his men—and a bewildered waiter being violently dragged away by security.

I flash back to Jason tossing back that glass of champagne earlier.

Yeah, the innocent bastard is about to take the fall for Emilia’s handiwork.

I open the door casually and stroll in like I have the right to. It’s a stairwell. The elevators are out of commission tonight to dissuade nosy guests from accessing the restricted upper floors, and I’m sure this door should have been locked as well.

But nothing stays locked when Emilia wants in. She’s an agent, after all.

I climb the stairs swiftly, my shoes barely making a sound against the concrete. The security camera in the corner doesn’t concern me—Emilia would have handled that detail already. She’s thorough, my little rogue.

Just before reaching the landing, I pause to peek up and make sure the coast is clear. The stairwell opens up into a small nook, so I press my back against the wall and ease forward just enough to see.

There she is—crouched in front of a door with some kind of electronic device pressed against the lock, her fingers flying over what looks like a keypad. There’s a soft beep, and the door clicks open. Then she pockets the device before slipping inside.

I chuckle under my breath. Quick and efficient. She’s a goddamn weapon.

I tread quietly to the door and study the lock. Not a scratch or mark to indicate forced entry. “Very impressive,” I murmur, pushing the door open.

Emilia spins towards me, gun already drawn and pointed at my chest. Her expression morphs from alert to furious when she recognizes me. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, piccola, ” I return, shutting the door behind me to give us warning if someone attempts to come in while we’re here. Then I stroll deeper into the pristine office, ignoring the muzzle tracking my every move. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Ugh,” she groans, rolling her eyes as she finally tucks her gun back underneath her dress.

How the hell did I miss that earlier? Was I so distracted by her in that fiery red dress that I overlooked a whole damn weapon?

What else did I miss?

Before I can dwell on it, Emilia rounds the desk in the corner of the office and flips open the laptop waiting there.

Amateur move, Jason. What kind of idiot leaves a device probably packed with incriminating info just sitting out for anyone to access?

I click my tongue in disappointment, shaking my head. Councilor’s about to have his ass handed to him.

“Shut up,” Emilia snaps.

“I didn’t breathe a word.”

She glances up from the screen, pausing just long enough to throw me a glare. “What’s your problem? Are you obsessed with me? Is that it? Why are you always hovering around me when I’m on the job? ”

Yes, I’m fucking obsessed. Have been since the moment I saw you.

I raise both hands. “Now that’s not fair, baby—bringing up the past like that when I saved your ass more times than I can count.”

“You–”

“Ah ah ah,” I wave my index finger at her. “I saved you. Don’t even try to deny it. And for the record, I'm not stalking you. Imagine my shock seeing you at an event hosted in my city every year.”

“An event you haven’t attended in five years,” she mutters, refocusing back on the laptop. Looks like she gets access, because she sticks her hand into her bodice— Jesus Christ —and pulls out a flash drive that she inserts into the computer.

“Checking up on what I’ve been doing the past five years? Now who’s the stalker?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just clicks a few more times, all business. I chuckle and glance around the office, looking for the camera I have no doubt is in here somewhere.

“You handled the cameras, right?”

“Of course I did,” she rolls her eyes, not bothering to look up. “I’m not a fucking amateur.”

Pride swells in my chest again. That’s my girl.

She takes out the flash drive with obvious satisfaction, tucking it back into her bodice and shutting down the laptop—just as I hear footsteps approaching from the hallway.

I grab her arm as she’s adjusting her dress, earning an indignant, “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re–”

“Shhh.” I hush her, already scanning the office for a hiding spot. No way we’re getting out before they walk in. The voices are practically at the door by now.

Emilia must have heard them too because she dashes to the window and struggles with the latch for precious seconds before I spot our salvation .

“Emilia,” I whisper urgently, nodding towards a small closet on the far side of the room.

She abandons the window, and we dive into the closet just as the door’s code panel starts beeping.

Just in time.

The closet space is smaller than I expected. I have to hunch so my head doesn’t knock into the metal clothing bar, my back pressed to the wall… and Emilia’s juicy ass flush against my crotch.

It’s biologically inevitable that my cock begins to stiffen.

She lets out a heavy sigh, which only exacerbates the situation—the slight movement in the tight space presses her ass more firmly against my growing erection. Compulsively, my hand slips to her thigh, fingers sinking into the warm, smooth flesh exposed by the slit in her dress.

She sucks in a sharp breath, goosebumps popping beneath my touch. My fingers sink deeper, and my mouth practically waters with need for her. God, if I could just ?—

The office door bursts open, and Jason’s men storm in, hauling the poor waiter by the scruff. Behind them, shuffles Jason himself, pale and shaken but somehow still on his feet.

Yeah. That’ll sober a man. Just not this one.

I glance down at the woman pressed against me. From this angle, I have a perfect view down the front of her dress to her perky little tits.

More blood drains from my brain, and before I can stop myself, my other arm wraps possessively around her waist.

Fuck me.