Chapter 13 Mia #3
That was too much. Just too bloody much. I hadn’t realized how touch-starved for human affection I was until just now, and it makes me want to cry.
Hold it together. Talk to Bayo.
I breathe deeply again then twist my earring back to full receive.
“Bayo. Talk to me,” I whisper. I know Vanguard probably can’t pick out my whispering in the bathroom amongst the din of the gala, but still, I keep my voice low as possible.
“You’re doing good. Lots of big players here.”
“Yeah. Like that big guy. Kat was photographing him. Who is he?”
“I ran his image. His name is Viktor Kozlov. They call him The Butcher.”
The name means nothing to me. “So who is he?”
“Russian mob, originally. Now, he runs his own operation—trafficking, weapons, drugs. Uses gravity tech for some seriously nasty shit.” A pause. “Mia, if Kozlov is at a presidential fundraiser and shaking hands with Conrad Marsh, this is so much bigger than we thought.”
Trafficking. Global Dynamix. The Prometheus files with their horrifying failure rates and talk of neural degradation.
What the hell have I walked into?
“Keep watching him,” I say. “Kat, you can hear me, right? Document everyone he talks to.”
“She’s already on it,” Bayo says. “How are you holding up?”
I think about Vanguard’s hand on my back. The way he looks at me. The way my body responds to his touch like it’s been waiting my whole life for someone who won’t die from my kiss, even though I know that’s impossible.
“I’m managing.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Shut up, Bayo.”
I take a breath, straighten my spine, twist my earring back off, and walk out into the party.
Vanguard is waiting exactly where I left him, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes tracking me across the room the moment I emerge.
There’s something different in his expression tonight—an intensity that hadn’t been there before.
It’s a hunger barely leashed, and I hate how badly I want to undo that tether, even though it would probably end with his demise.
He watches me approach like I’m the only person in the room, like everyone else—the president, the monsters in expensive suits—has simply ceased to exist.
“Took you long enough,” he says when I reach him.
“There was a queue.”
“Was there?” My heart trips over itself. He sets down his glass and steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell that intoxicating mix of cedar and skin. “You were hiding.”
“I don’t hide.”
“No?” His hand finds my waist, fingers curling around the curve of my hip. “Then dance with me.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please, darlin’, may I have this dance?”
I grin and nod. Honestly, I’m just relieved he’s not suspicious.
The string quartet has changed into something slower—a waltz that drifts through the room like smoke.
Other couples are moving onto the dance floor, swaying together in that performative way rich people do at events like this.
But when Vanguard pulls me against him, there’s nothing performative about it.
His hand slides up my back, palm flat against bare skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake. His other hand catches mine and lifts it to his shoulder, positioning me like he’s done this a thousand times. Then, we’re moving—one-two-three, one-two-three—and I forget how to breathe.
He’s warm everywhere we touch. No, hot. Chest against my breasts, thigh brushing mine through the silk, his hand spanning the small of my back like he’s claiming me.
I can feel the strength coiled in him, barely restrained, and I’m pretty sure he’s at least a little hard, because I can feel the outline of his cock against my thigh.
It makes my mouth water.
Jesus, Mia, you need to be bonked on the head by the horny police.
“You’ve been distracted all night,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my temple. So close, too close. “Looking at everyone except me.”
“That’s my job.”
“No. I’m your job. Your job is to interview me. To write about me.” He pulls me closer, our bodies flush now, and I feel his heartbeat against my chest—steady and slow, so different from my own racing pulse. “So why do I feel like you’re investigating something else entirely?”
Panic spikes through me, but I keep my voice level. “And what do you think I am?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He just holds me, guiding me through the dance with an ease that suggests expensive lessons or natural grace or both.
Perhaps when his body was genetically modified, they threaded rhythm right into his bones.
The music swells around us, violins climbing toward something aching and beautiful, and I’m suddenly aware of how many people are watching, how many cameras might be capturing this moment.
How completely I’ve lost control of this situation.
Thank God Kat is here to pick up where I’m slacking.
“I think,” he says finally, his lips brushing my ear softly, “that you’re the most dangerous woman in this room.”
I should laugh it off, make a joke, deflect, do any of the hundred things my training demands.
Instead, I tilt my head back to look at him—my target.
“Maybe I am.”
His eyes darken. His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me impossibly closer, and there’s no mistaking now how damn hard he is, so hard, it takes my breath away.
And somewhere across the room, Viktor Kozlov raises a glass to Conrad Marsh while Kat’s camera clicks in the shadows.