CHAPTER 3 #2
She snaps out of her paralysis and bolts for the elevator bank.
She reaches the brushed steel doors and slams her palm against the call button, over and over, mashing it with raw desperation.
When nothing happens, she digs her fingers into the seam and tries to pry the doors apart with brute force.
I watch her struggle, a dark, heavy amusement curling hot in my chest. I hold up my hand, pointing to the sleek black biometric scanner mounted on the wall right next to her head.
"It needs a pulse, Alessia," I say softly. "Specifically mine."
In a sudden burst of violent frustration, she kicks the base of the elevator door. The dull thud echoes around us.
"And if you're thinking about cutting my hand off, the system defaults to a permanent lockdown if the body temperature drops.
Even your training can't bypass a heartbeat sensor.
" I find her physical frustration immensely erotic.
She is realizing that all her combat skills, all her tactical planning, mean absolutely shit in a room built by a billionaire paranoid sociopath.
She spins around, and for the first time, she doesn't try to hide the sheer, unadulterated hatred.
Her dark eyes are murderous, focused, and completely feral.
I feel a surge of genuine, hard adrenaline.
This is the woman I paid five million dollars for.
No more Claire. Just a cornered, lethal agent who wants to see me bleed out on my own rug.
She wipes a smudge of dirt from her palm onto her dark slacks, her eyes never leaving mine.
"There's the look I've been waiting for," I say, a slow smile stretching across my face. "Go ahead. Hate me. It’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years."
She stays silent, breathing hard.
"That glare is worth every cent Trenton charged me."
I set my glass down on the mahogany bar with surgical precision.
The glass clinks lightly against the wood.
My eyes drop to her waist. I see the slight, unnatural bunching of the fabric at the small of her back.
I know exactly what’s there. The weight of a sub-compact .
380. I can see the way her hand hovers, just a fraction of an inch from the hem of her jacket.
Her knuckles are white. She’s doing the math.
I unbutton my suit jacket and pull it open, exposing my crisp white shirt and my own total lack of a visible holster. I’m unarmed.
"You're reaching for it, Alessia," I say, my voice dropping to a low taunt. "Is it the Smith it will be a fucking art form.
I won't kill her. That's way too easy. I will strip her of her badge, her name, her ridiculous morals, and her pride until there is absolutely nothing left but the raw, lethal creature I saw a moment ago.
I will unmake her. I will tear down the federal agent and build up something that belongs exclusively to me.
I slowly swirl the last of the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber liquid climb the crystal sides.
"I’m going to unmake you, Alessia," I say quietly. The words hit the room like a hammer. "By the time I’m done, you won’t even remember how to be an agent. I'm going to show you who you really are."
I set the glass down. I take a slow, heavy step forward.