the value of brevity. Go fuck yourself has such a ring to it.” I rap on the window to our driver. “Can I get my key, please?”
The young driver turns around. “Your key? There’s only one, miss.”
“You’re kidding,” I growl.
X chuckles. “What did you expect? If anyone follows us, we have to look like a believable couple. And in this case, it means sharing the penthouse suite in the Shangri-La Hotel. The Order moved our belongings in while we were at the club.”
Ugh. Of course.
My daggers are all upstairs in my suitcase, so I have to settle for a death glare. “If we are living in forced proximity, I can’t be responsible for my actions. I might smother you with a pillow in your sleep.”
“I’m a light sleeper,” he says. “But I’m sure we can find something to pass the time.”
X
We ride up in the elevator in icy silence, glaring at the rich velvet wallpaper. Every time I open my mouth to say something, I think better of it and close it again.
She may have deceived me for a few years, but I kept her in the dark for decades. How do I begin to apologize for that?
There aren’t words.
So I give her her space—as much as I can in the small box we’re in.
She stalks ahead of me when we get to our floor, straight to our room and through the door, not bothering to hold it for me.
“Shit, Z,” I mumble as I stick my foot in between the door and the frame before it slams in my face.
I slip inside and already hear the shower running in the bathroom. It takes everything in my power not to barge in there, to throw the curtain open and demand her attention as in the Lion’s Den.
“Space,” I mutter, reminding myself that what we just experienced was likely beyond her realm of comprehension or preparation. She needs time to let it settle.
So I stay in the suite’s small living area, raiding the minibar and spreading out a feast of tiny bottles and delicacies across the glass coffee table. Before I can dig in, though, I’m hit in the face with a pillow, then a folded blanket.
Z stands in front of me in a plush white robe, the exposed skin on her chest and neck pink—likely from the scalding shower I’m sure she took. Her wet dark hair spreads long over both her shoulders.
In the twenty-plus years I’ve imagined her, I never anticipated seeing her like this would knock the wind clear out of my chest. She looks exactly the same.
It seems cruel to have her look so unchanged when everything else is different.
“You’ll be taking the couch,” she says coolly, her jaw tight, even as her whiskey-brown eyes hit me like a shot.
No woman has ever kicked me out of her bed after sex, but then, we weren’t exactly in anyone’s bed tonight.
“Understood,” I say. “Appreciate the amenities,” I add, holding up my pile of linens.
She spins on her heel, heading toward the bedroom.
“Lora, wait,” I call after her.
She stops but doesn’t face me. “No one has called me that for years,” she says softly. “Yet when you say it, it’s like everything melts away and we’re seventeen again. It makes me think you’re Max when I know full well you’re not.”
I blow out a long breath. “You know if I could have told you, I would have. Don’t you?”
She turns now, and tears streak her cheeks. “One night I fall asleep in your arms in my dorm room, and the next morning you’re gone. No word. Not then, not ever again. Can you imagine how it felt? Did you hear my heart break? I swear I almost died from the pain.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I was just a kid, Lora. And a moron. All those IQ tests they made us take? They were entrance exams. Apparently, my scores were such that the Order feared if anyone got their hands on me before they could put me through the program, I’d end up a weapon rather than a protector.”
She scoffs. “It’s all semantics. You’re a weapon. I’m a weapon. It’s just a matter of who got to us first.”
She’s right. Yet something in what she said sets off a warning bell.
“Who got to you first, Lora?”
She doesn’t flinch, her gaze remaining steady.
I stand and stalk toward her. Once in front of her, I cradle her face in my palm and ask the question again.
“Who got to you first?”
Her dark eyes burn with twenty-five years of fury, and in a blink she has me slammed against the wall, a blade at my throat, the cold metal taunting my skin.
“The. Order,” she growls through gritted teeth. “Who the hell got to you?”
I disarm her in the fraction of a second, spinning her so now she’s flush against the wall.
I press my cheek to hers, feeling her chest rise and fall with her quickening breaths, her perfect tits rubbing up against me.
“If we’re on the same team, love, why the hell are you armed?”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “The same reason you wore that hidden holster to the Lion’s Den. Don’t make me break your nose, Max. I wouldn’t want to mar that beautiful face of yours, but I’ll do what I have to.”
I retreat a step and hold up my hands in mock surrender.
“I’m not the enemy, Lora.”
She turns around, her shoulders sagging a little. “Neither am I.”
The problem is, in our line of work, you never can tell.
Several seconds pass before I finally let my shoulders relax.
“Nice work tonight, Agent Z,” I say stiffly. And I mean it.
“Go to hell, Max.”
There’s the feisty Lora I remember. I can’t help it. I grin from ear to ear.
She rolls her eyes and then stalks to the bedroom, the door slamming behind her so hard that it rattles the Impressionist paintings dotting the wall.
I take off the ridiculous spiked leather jacket and toss it on the marble floor. Since our bags are all in the bedroom, I decide to sleep in the jeans—and the ankle sheath that lies beneath...
Forget all personal connections. They will either betray you or be used against you. That goes for family, friends and even lovers. Consider anyone other than the agents you work with either an enemy or a liability.
That was the first thing they’d told me when the Order removed
