Page 83 of Infamous

His jaw tightens. The muscle there flickers, a small, dangerous tell. “I’m not most guys.”

No. No, he’s not.

Something about him - the steadiness in his eyes, the quiet intensity, the way he looks at me like he already knows all my secrets - it’s both terrifying and intoxicating.

And as I stand there, barefoot in my bathroom doorway with his scent still on my skin, I realize something I don’t want to admit out loud.

I don’t just want him to stay. Ineedhim to. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

50

NADIA

The morning air is crisp when I step out of my building, sunlight catching the glass towers in blinding shards. I tug my coat tighter around me and start walking toward the corner of my block. My body aches - the delicious kind of ache that follows a night of too much, of everything. Every muscle feels wrung out, tender, alive.

I’m starving.

It’s ridiculous, really. After what happened last night, food should be the last thing on my mind. But my body doesn’t care. It’s like all that adrenaline and ecstasy burned through me, left me empty and craving something mundane - coffee, fruit, bread, anything that reminds me the world still exists outside of Jude Mercer’s very skilled hands.

The sidewalk hums with life. A street musician strums an old guitar outside the bakery, his case open for coins. A group of students rush past, laughter spilling in their wake. For a moment, I let myself feel anonymous. Just another woman on another busy street.

Then I hear the low hum of an engine beside me.

A sleek, black town car glides to a slow stop against the curb. The tinted window rolls down, the mechanical whir slicing through the noise of the street.

And there he is.

Senator Roland Graves.

His silver hair gleams under the morning sun, and his smile - wide, practiced, plastic - does nothing to soften the hard gleam in his eyes.

“Dr. Reed,” he says warmly, voice honeyed. “What a coincidence, running into you here.”

I stop walking but don’t move closer. “Senator,” I acknowledge stiffly, knowing there’s probably nothing coincidental about us meeting on a random sidewalk.

“Do you have a moment to talk?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly, the picture of genteel patience.

Every instinct in me screamsno.

People recognize this man on sight. He’s one of the city’s darlings - charismatic, philanthropic, quoted in every paper for his “devotion to reform.” He’s the type of man mothers tell their daughters to trust. And yet as I stand here on this bright, crowded street, all I feel is a thin, sharp thread of unease snake its way down my spine.

It’s strange, isn’t it? That I feel safer in the arms of a man I barely know - someone who wears danger like a second skin - than I do with a politician who smiles for cameras and does weekly photo ops with babies.

I take a step back, keeping a polite distance. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush,” I say. “Was there something specific you needed?”

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something off in it now. Something just a shade too tight. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says. “You haven’t returned my calls.”

So that’s what this is.

I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “Understandable. You work very hard.” His gaze lingers in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I admire your dedicated work ethic. I wanted to check on you personally. You seemed… distressed, the last time we spoke.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “And I don’t think there’s anything more for us to discuss. I won’t be taking you up on your offer of dinner. I think it’s best if you stop calling me, senator.”

Something flickers across his face - a crack in his carefully constructed veneer. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by that polished charm again, but I saw it. The flash of irritation. The entitlement.

“Dr. Reed,” he says smoothly, “you misunderstand my intentions. I have a business proposition for you. One I think you’ll find… life-changing.”