Page 22 of Devil's Azalea

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 eyesspark 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 sayIam 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.