I lean against the concrete wall of the holding cell corridor, cuffs biting into my wrists like a fucking insult. The metal is cold, but I’m colder. Calm. Too calm. Because when you’ve spent your life pulling the strings, sitting in the cage doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like a warning. And I don’t do warnings.

My suit is pristine. Sharp navy, Italian cut, not a crease out of place. Even here—surrounded by buzzing lights and the stink of cheap sweat—I look like I own the building. But my eyes? My eyes are locked on the door like it’s my salvation.

Because I know you’re coming.

You always come.

The second that steel door hisses open, I feel it. That flicker in my chest I hate admitting exists. And then there you are—heels clicking, hips swaying, dressed like a fucking weapon. The dress you’re wearing could be a felony on its own. Your mouth curves, wicked and calm.

My smirk cuts across my face like a blade. “Took your time.”

You slide into my space like you were built to live there. Press against me—your chest brushing mine, your lips ghosting near my jaw—and I swear, for a second, I forget I’m chained.

“Poisoning someone’s coffee isn’t exactly a five-minute job,” you whisper, breath hot. “I’d like a thank you. Key’s in my bra, car’s outside, footage gone. You’re a ghost again in five.”

I stare at you like you hung the fucking moon. “You’re dangerous.”

You joke, smirking. “That’s why you love me.”

Do I? I’m not sure and that scares me. I don’t do love. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do feelings. Love is a weakness in my world.

I’ve had soldiers. I’ve had spies. I’ve had people kneel for me. But never someone who looked me dead in the eye and matched me move for move. Someone who didn’t flinch. Who didn’t fucking break.

“I owe you, angel,” I murmur, voice like smoke. “I’m truly grateful.”

You’re not just the woman who gets me out of handcuffs.

You’re the only thing in this world I’d burn it all down for.