Page 112 of Only the Wicked

His lips purse, and after a slight squeeze, he releases my hand. My heart pinches at the loss.

“My word is good. I’ll work with you,” he says. “And you’re right.”

“About?”

“The pressure.” His phone sits silent on the side table. For once, the world isn’t demanding his immediate attention. “I haven’t taken a vacation in years.” His voice carries a weight I hadn’t noticed before.

“Not since you launched ARGUS?” He blinks the slightest confirmation. The admission seems to cost him something.

“Rhodes.” I step closer, drawn by the vulnerability he’s trying so hard to hide. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His eyes meet mine, searching, then drift past me to the window overlooking the city. “Do you understand what I built, Sydney? Really understand it?” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “ARGUS doesn’t just connect databases—it sees patterns humans miss. It can trace a digital breadcrumb from a coffee purchase to a safe house. From a phone ping to an identity. From surveillance footage to…” He swallows hard. “To dead operatives.”

The full weight of his words settles between us.

“Every query that runs through my system has the potential to be weaponized. Every client I trust could be the next one to sell a kill list.” His hand rises to rub the back of his neck—that familiar gesture of frustration, but now I see it’s something deeper. Fear. “I created the most sophisticated surveillance tool on the planet, and I’m only now realizing I can’t control who uses it or how.”

“Rhodes—”

“Everyone who gets close to this world—to me—ends up compromised. Your assets. Your safety. Even this conversation puts you at risk.” His eyes return to mine, and I see the terrible understanding there. “Because if someone can identify CIA operatives through ARGUS, they can identify anyone. Including the people I…” He stops himself.

“Including the people you what?”

“Care about.” The admission seems to cost him everything. “If the wrong hands get access to what I’ve built, no one is safe. Not my employees, not my clients, not…” His fingers barely graze my cheek. “Not you.”

“I knew the risks when I took the assignment.” I’m close enough now to see the exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes. “But I didn’t know I’d care about the man behind the technology.” Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe hope. His hand rises tentatively, fingers barely grazing my cheek.

“Sydney…” The touch is electric, tentative, as if he’s testing whether I’ll pull away. I lean into his palm instead, the position awkward, with him sitting and me standing. “The attraction is real,” I whisper, echoing my earlier words. “Everything else was the job. But this—” I place my hand over his, “—this was never part of the plan.”

He stands then, and for a moment we’re pressed close together, the weight of confessions and tentative trust settling between us. Then his phone rings, the shrill tone breaking the spell. He steps to the side table and swipes. “Daisy?”

He quickly moves to his backpack and pulls out a laptop, flips it open, and sets it on the coffee table before the sofa.

“Describe the unusual activity.”

On the screen, a message window flashes and I read the words “containment protocols” followed by what appears to be a sequence of alphanumeric codes. A red indicator blinks in the corner—whatever this is, it’s classified as critical.

He shifts the computer with practiced efficiency, the movement seemingly natural, but it’s a calculated angle adjustment—it’s the same technique I use when viewing classified materials in public spaces.

The glimpse was brief, but enough to recognize a data visualization map with multiple blinking nodes—Washington, D.C., New York, and what looked like Moscow. Before I can process more, the screen is firmly out of my view.

I back away quietly, the professional in me cataloging details while the woman in me respects his privacy. His voice drops an octave as he speaks to Daisy, the same tone military commanders use during crisis situations.

I move to the window, wrapping my arms around my middle. Night has fallen and the street below is a blur of red brake lights and white headlights. There are no stars, but it could just be D.C.’s light pollution, and not a sign of clouds. One benefit of living outside the metro area is that on clear nights, the stars shine.

Through the window, the Washington Monument stands illuminated against the night sky, a stark white obelisk piercing the darkness. The air conditioning cycles on with a soft hum, raising goosebumps along my bare arms. The suite smells of Rhodes’ subtle cologne and the faint metallic tang of city rain. From somewhere down the hall, muffled laughter and the ping of an elevator remind me that outside this bubble of tension and revelation, normal life continues. For everyone else, this is just another Friday night in D.C.

How will the team react to working with Rhodes? There shouldn’t be an issue. Hudson should see this as a win. And if anyone can help me identify who used ARGUS to pinpoint assets, it’ll be Rhodes, at least if ARGUS is as powerful as reported.

A shadow crosses the window frame, and I flinch as Rhodes crowds me.

“You OK?”

I press my palm to my sternum. “I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head at myself. “I didn’t even realize you ended your call. Is everything OK?”

He tips my chin up as his other arm loops behind me. “I think so.”

His nose scrunches, and the hint of vulnerability tells me he’s not talking about ARGUS.