Page 54 of Whisper

Out of all the chaos—Metro tunnels, back alleys, locked lips, and body heat—she kept it tucked in her bra. Not her bag. Not her pocket. Right next to her heart.

Smart. Inconvenient. But smart.

I shake my head and sit back on my heels.

For all her chatter, all her spirals, the woman doesn’t miss a goddamn thing. Not the perimeter. Not the tech. Not me.

And now she’s in my bed. In my blood. Under my skin.

I should’ve kept the line clean. Got her to the safe house. Secured the perimeter. Maintained professional distance. Waited for extraction.

Instead, I dragged my cock down her throat and made her confess she wanted to be a fucking slave.

And the part that wrecks me?

She meant it.

Every fucking word.

I drag a hand over my face, lean back in the chair I’ve claimed in the corner of the room. The food I ordered sits cooling on the table. The security feed’s still up. Everything outside is quiet.

Except me.

I’m not used to waiting.

I’m not used to wanting.

She shifts.

A rustle of sheets. A creak of the mattress.

My breath catches.

Then goes still again when I hear the soft sound of feet on the floor. No words. No questions. Just her, moving quietly.

I don’t turnaround.

I give her space.

I listen—water in the pipes, the soft slide of the shower turning on. More silence. The kind that says she’s not ready to face me yet. Or maybe she doesn’t know what to say. Either way, I don’t push.

I sit in the chair. One leg bent, foot braced against the wall. Arms folded across my chest. My eyes trained on the hallway.

And I wait.

Let her come to me.

Because this time, she’s the one who has to speak first.

The door clicks.

She steps out like she’s expecting to be shot.

Towel-wrapped hair. Fresh clothes. Damp skin still flushed from the shower. But it’s not her body I lock onto—it’s the way she moves.

Slow. Careful. Not cautious like she’s afraid of me. But hesitant. Like she doesn’t know who she is anymore.

Or who the hell I am to her.