Chapter 3 3

The first gray light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains, slicing across the room like a blade. Jedidiah opened his eyes. He didn't grope for an alarm clock; his internal rhythm woke him at 5:00 AM, regardless of when he slept.

His arm was numb. A heavy weight pinned it to the mattress.

He turned his head. A woman was curled against his side, her face buried in the pillow, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink.

Memory crashed into him. The intruder. The drugs. The frantic, desperate heat of the night.

He stared at her exposed shoulder. Her skin was pale in the morning light, marred by a faint, reddish bruise where his fingers had gripped her too tightly. A surge of self-loathing twisted in his gut, followed immediately by a dark, possessive satisfaction.

His phone, left on the bedside table, vibrated silently. The screen lit up with a red banner: SECURITY ALERT - LEVEL 1.

Jedidiah's eyes narrowed. He reached for the phone, his movement slow and controlled. It was a message from Quentin. Network breach detected at 0300. Source internal. Investigating.

Internal.

He looked back at the woman. Was she a plant? A corporate spy sent to seduce the cripple and steal the keys to the kingdom while he was distracted?

He needed to get to his study. He needed to check the servers.

He pushed the covers back. This was the part he hated. The humiliation of the morning routine. He grabbed the overhead bar attached to the headboard and hauled his upper body up. His biceps bulged with the effort, veins popping against his skin. He swung his lifeless legs over the edge of the bed, using his hands to position them.

The woman stirred.

Jedidiah froze, his hand reaching under his pillow for the Sig Sauer P320 he kept there.

She didn't wake up. She just shifted, murmuring something unintelligible, and pulled the duvet tighter.

He transferred himself into the wheelchair with a grunt of exertion. He wheeled over to the chair where his clothes from the previous night were draped. He picked up his bespoke suit jacket-a dark navy piece-and returned to the bedside. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he laid it over her bare back. He didn't know why. Maybe he just didn't want to see the evidence of what he had done.

He wheeled himself silently out of the bedroom, the rubber tires making no sound on the plush carpet. He headed for the hidden door that led to his study.

The moment the door clicked shut, Evita's eyes snapped open.

She hadn't been asleep. She had been awake for ten minutes, regulating her breathing, listening to the rhythm of his heart.

She sat up, gasping as a wave of dizziness hit her. Her head throbbed like it was being split open with an axe. The aftereffects of the drug were brutal.

She looked around the room. It was masculine, sterile, expensive. She looked down at herself. Naked. Bruised.

Panic clawed at her throat. She remembered the wheelchair. She remembered the man.

Jedidiah Stone.

She had slept with the enemy. No, not just the enemy-a man who could destroy her entire cover with a single phone call.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs shaking. She ran to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She looked in the mirror. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks. There was a love bite on her neck, dark and angry.

"Stupid," she whispered, her voice raspy. "Stupid, stupid."

She had to leave. Now.

She grabbed a towel and began frantically wiping down every surface she might have touched. The nightstand. The bedframe. The door handle.

She spotted her torn dress on the floor. It was ruined. She couldn't wear it. She grabbed the jacket he had thrown over her. It was heavy, smelling of sandalwood and gun oil. She shoved her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it all the way up. It hung to her mid-thighs, covering her like a dress. She had to take it. Not as a souvenir, but as a necessity. The fabric could hold trace evidence-DNA, fibers from his study-that could be useful later.

She checked the pockets. Empty.

She grabbed her heels and ran for the door. She checked the hallway. Empty.

She didn't take the elevator. Too many cameras. She sprinted for the fire exit at the end of the hall. She pushed the heavy bar, and the door opened into the cool morning air.

As she ran down the metal stairs, the heels of her shoes clanging against the grate, she felt something hard in the jacket pocket bump against her hip. She reached in. It wasn't a cufflink. It was a small, flat, metallic rectangle, cold to the touch. It looked like a custom data chip, maybe a key card for a private server. She must have scooped it up when she grabbed the jacket.

She shoved it back in. Keep moving.

Back in the suite, Jedidiah stared at the monitor in his study. The footage showed a figure in his jacket disappearing into the stairwell.

She was fast. Efficient. She cleaned the room.

He slammed his fist onto the armrest of his chair.

He wheeled back into the bedroom. The bed was messy, the sheets tangled. He moved closer, inspecting the scene.

There, in the center of the white sheet, was a small, dried stain of blood.

He stared at it for a long time. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

She was a virgin.

The spy, the whore, the intruder-she had been untouched. And he had taken her in the dark, roughly, without asking for a name.

Quentin burst into the room, breathless. "Sir, the breach-"

"Forget the breach," Jedidiah said, his voice deadly quiet. He didn't look away from the bloodstain. "Lock down the estate. Find the woman who left this room. I want her alive."

Miles away, Evita slumped into the back of a yellow taxi. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and raised a trembling middle finger to herself.

"Evita," she croaked. "You are officially insane."