Page 128 of Only the Wicked

“Twenty miles? Eh…no thank you.”

“But you’re a runner.”

His genuine surprise has me laughing. “If I’m doing twenty, it’s with a purpose. Marathon. Trapped behind enemy lines. Some kind of work.”

“So I’m not work?”

His question hangs in the air. He is, and he isn’t.

Steam bellows in the shower behind him, beckoning. I finger his running shorts and push them down. His sex hardens in my hand.

“You’re not work,” I say, meaning every word, terrifying as it is. Before this, I’ve always maintained the line between mission and emotions. I’ve played roles, created connections, even flirted when necessary—always with a clear boundary in sight.

With Rhodes, the boundary is dissolving. His touch doesn’t just arouse me physically, it reaches something deeper, something I’ve kept protected. As we step under the warm spray, his hands tracing patterns across my skin, I recognize the danger goes beyond the planned op.

For the first time in my career, I’m uncertain which loyalty will win if forced to choose.

Later that afternoon, after a woman arrived at the suite to blow out my hair and style it, I finger through the gowns from Neiman Marcus. Rhodes dressed and told me he’d wait for me in the living area. It’s the first moment I’ve had to myself, given he hired someone to do my hair and make-up.

The suite has transformed into a preparation area—makeup cases spread across the bathroom counter, dress bags hanging from every available hook, the scent of hairspray lingering in the air. Through the window, Washington’s monuments are bathed in late afternoon sunlight, the kind that photographers call “golden hour.”

The air conditioning hums softly, barely audible over the muted sounds of traffic below. In the corner, Rhodes’ tuxedo bag lies empty, the ritzy tissue liner scattered carelessly. I run my fingers along the silky fabric of the gowns, each one probably worth months of my salary.

With one more scan for cameras, I pull out my phone and message Quinn.

* * *

Me

Going to Russian embassy before gala. Plan to attempt access to a computer drive to install a surveillance program. Leaving hotel at 4:45. Arriving at embassy by 5:15.

* * *

Quinn

Could be a setup

* * *

She’s not wrong. If he’s pissed, it would be one helluva way to get back at me. But Rhodes isn’t in the intelligence game. He’s a coder. A software engineer. In his heart, he’s a good person. He wouldn’t sabotage me or leave me to rot in a Russian prison. He also has every reason to explore the directives surrounding his blackmail.

* * *

Me

It’s not a setup

* * *

There’s a swift knock on the door and it opens. I’m caught, holding my phone, standing in a black strapless bra, matching lace thong, and black thigh highs, all courtesy of Rhode’s personal shopper.

Judging from the way he looks at me, the phone in my hand is not top of mind.

“I was going to ask if you wanted my help picking the dress, but I’m tempted to bail on tonight and keep you to myself.”

He’s absolutely delicious in his tux.

“I was leaning toward the black lace dress. It matches.”