Chapter 31 #2
“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.
“You said the attraction was real?”
“Is,” I correct. “The attraction is very real.”
Warm breath caresses my cheek. His heady, freshly showered scent and heat envelop me. Beneath my palm, my heart struggles to break free.
“Before, you planned on saying goodbye this weekend. You expected I would never learn the truth.”
“You don’t want a relationship.” My words sound as defensive as they are.
The space between us charges with unspoken possibilities.
Part of me—the professional—sees this as a tactical opportunity.
Physical intimacy often breaks down psychological barriers, creating bonds that transcend professional boundaries.
But as his fingers trace my collarbone, tactical thoughts slip.
The heat blooming across my skin has nothing to do with operation parameters and everything to do with the way he looks at me.
He studies my face in the dim light filtering through the window, as if memorizing details he might not get to see again. His thumb traces my cheekbone with the gentleness of someone handling something precious and fragile.
“I’ve been alone for a long time,” he says quietly. “By choice. It was easier.” His hand stills against my face. “But these last few days... I forgot what it felt like to want someone to stay.”
The admission costs him something. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the vulnerability he’s unused to showing.
“I’m here now,” I say, though we both know how tenuous that is. “Whatever tomorrow brings, I’m here now.”
Something shifts in his expression—decision replacing hesitation. His forehead touches mine, and we breathe the same air for a long moment.
“Sydney…” My name on his lips sounds different than it did earlier. Less guarded. More real.
“I know,” I whisper, understanding what he can’t say.
That this matters. That we’ve crossed a line neither of us planned to cross.
That everything is different now. When he finally kisses me, it’s with the desperate tenderness of someone who’s found something they didn’t know they were looking for—and isn’t sure they’ll be allowed to keep it.
He seizes me with unexpected urgency, and I understand that we’re both seeking the same thing—a moment where the complications fall away, where we’re simply two people who’ve found something unexpected in each other.
The backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, along my neck. Goosebumps rise along my arms. His hot breath warms my ear. He nips at my lobe, and my knees weaken.
I pull back, seeking those dark eyes, but his lips brush over mine, and my eyelids flicker closed, lost in the sensation of a slow, tortured kiss.
He breaks the contact but holds me close, and it feels like he has no intention of letting me go.
“Are we?—”
His nose rubs against mine, halting my question.
“The attraction’s real.” He presses me against his hard erection, confirming the physical reality. “Let’s agree on that one point. Take it day by day.”
That’s actually exactly what I had planned. Yet none of those plans included the way my body responds to his touch, the way my objectivity dissolves when his lips meet mine.
My feet leave the air as he lifts me with unexpected strength, spinning us away from the window’s exposure and through the suite into the bedroom. The movement is swift, decisive—perhaps even desperate.
He sets me on the mattress and we both undress, gaze locked on each other as our clothes rapidly come off, our intention clear. I notice how his eyes track my movements with the same intensity he shows when working—he misses nothing. He’s fully present, wholly focused.
An operative should always be aware of exits, weapons, vulnerabilities—but as his clothes fall away revealing the lean musculature beneath, my focus narrows to just him.
The birthmark on his ribs—shaped like Australia, a physical feature noted in my initial dossier on him—now not a data point but an intimate secret I’ve been privileged to discover.
Hard kisses rain down over my shoulder, along my chest. A bolt of hot, sharp pleasure shoots through me.
My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned.
A brief suckling kiss on my exposed nipples makes my entire body twitch.
In the next instant, a rustling wrapper mixes with our breaths.
A condom. Of course. We’d obviously return to condoms.
I glimpse the ceiling as the burn of his cock fills me. The muscles between my legs instantly squeeze around him, and he thrusts, the movement so quick and powerful the bed shifts.
Our union is slow and fast all at once. Controlling and surrendering. Fucking and making love. As our bodies blend, it feels like my heart has been ripped from the protection of my ribs and pummeled.
Our movements are animalistic, depraved, desperate. I watch his eyes close. Muscles tight. Corded. We’re connected, yet we’re not. He lifts my thigh, changing the angle. Insistent on my pleasure. And he apparently knows my body well enough that he succeeds.
Ecstasy rockets up and down my spine as he shudders over me, pulsing deep within. I cling to him, legs wrapped around him, and his head collapses next to mine.
The intensity shakes me to my core.
With a loud groan, he pushes off, pulling out of me and rolling onto his back. He rests his forearm on his forehead, chest still heaving, his deep breaths slowing. I roll onto my side, observing.
Does sex mean he’s forgiven me? The weight between us doesn’t feel like forgiveness.
What are we doing?
It’s got to be what he’s thinking, too. The red glow from his laptop screen catches my peripheral vision. The crisis that interrupted us is still there, waiting.
I study the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing hasn’t quite settled.
This isn’t just post-coital vulnerability—he’s still carrying whatever weight that phone call brought.
“That call earlier,” I say softly, my hand finding his chest. “You looked... Worried doesn’t cover it.
Should I be concerned?” His body tenses beneath my palm, and I feel the shift immediately.
“It’s handled.” But the way his heart rate spikes tells me otherwise.
“Rhodes, if there’s a threat—to you, to ARGUS—I need to know. We’re supposed to be working together now. What are containment protocols?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, curiosity overriding post-coital etiquette. My gut clenches.
It’s probably the worst thing I could say after what we just experienced, on tentative emotional ground, but we also just agreed to take it day by day and what the hell else was I going to ask?
“How was it for you?” seems absurdly inadequate after the intensity we just shared.
“Have you forgiven me” is irrational. What’s wrong? That’s what I need to know.
“Security measures.” His eyes close and he swallows, the movement of his throat betraying more concern than his carefully neutral tone. “Just protective protocols. Nothing you need to worry about,” he adds, the deliberate vagueness telling me everything and nothing.
Then he pushes off the bed, strides across the room, and shuts the bathroom door behind him. The quiet click of the lock echoes in the silence.
Lying naked, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the water run. We’re hot and cold. Day by day, he said. But in my experience, with the passing of enough days, connections always shatter.
After he showers, I take my turn. Before the fogged mirrors, I take my time, not eager to return to the unease.
This, right here, is exactly why I don’t do relationships.
Friction always arises. It’s an unproductive waste of emotions and time.
Admittedly, this time I’m to blame for the friction, but does it really matter who’s to blame?
It’s still there, it’s still uncomfortable.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Rhodes’ yell thunders through the door, and I freeze, toothbrush forgotten. I strain, stepping to the door, but don’t hear anything else.
Did he call someone?
I’m not gaining anything by standing in the bathroom, so I quietly open the door, towel wrapped around me, hair dripping.
“Since when do you listen to NPC’s?” He growls each word, head bent, back to me.
Dressed in pajama pants and nothing else, his back muscles remind me of a Roman sculpture signifying the strength of man against his burdens.
“No!” he shouts. “That’s final.”
He ends the call, and it’s unclear who hung up on who, but my money’s on Rhodes ending the discussion on his terms.
He lifts the phone, stretches his arm, and I tense, expecting him to throw the phone, but he sees me, and his arm lowers. He scowls, pissed. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him, which given what he learned today about me, says something.
“You heard that?” he asks.
“Just the end.”
“Miles and I don’t always see eye to eye.”
“Is he… Did he sell the information to the highest bidder?”
“What? No. I didn’t… I told you, we have precautions in place. That was about an ongoing disagreement.”
I wait, quietly, uncertain I believe him. Calling his partner to ask about the possibility of someone selling queries, selling secrets, right after our discussion feels logical.
“He wants us to go public. It’s not going to happen.”
“What’s an NPC?”
He grimaces, exhales, and moves to plug his phone into a charger.
“Nonplayer Character.”
“What?” ARGUS has nothing to do with the gaming industry.
“It’s Miles’ terminology. People without real decision-making power. Look, I know how it sounds?—”
“Ah,” I say, seeing a different side of Rhodes.
“So the peons? Is that relegated to anyone within your corporate structure or does it apply to anyone without a B portfolio descriptor?” There was a time when a millionaire wielded power, but thanks to inflation, power now falls to those with limitless wealth, the billionaire class.
He smashes two pillows and pulls back the comforter, sliding into the bed.
“It’s not like that.”
Hmm. No, I’d say it’s exactly like that. And if others within his company have the same elitist attitude, is it such a stretch that they’d find ways to further monetize the power of ARGUS?
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. “It’s Miles’ word. Not mine.”
“Yet you used it.”
“To communicate with him. To make a point. He was putting way too much weight in what…” He stops, clearly realizing that he was about to confirm he’s no different than his partner, and sees the value of some people to be less.
With a gruff exhale, he looks to the ceiling and says, “I wish we could just go back to the watering hole. Swing from a vine. Skinny dip.” He directs his gaze at me, but there’s an unseeing quality to his expression. “I loved that day.”
“We can’t go back. It wouldn’t be the same.”
“I know,” he groans, annoyance etched in his scowl.
But does he really get it?
“We can’t go back,” I say, feeling the need to make this clear, “Because now I know there are snakes.”