You weren’t supposed to feel anything. That’s Rule #1 of undercover work: No attachments. No softness. No slipping.

And yet—there he was. Towering over you in his crisp shirt and bulletproof composure, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, veins flexing along his forearm as he reached for your chin like he owned it. Agent Jaxon Ruelle. Cold-blooded legend of the International Intelligence Bureau. Interrogator. Executioner. Strategist. Untouchable.

The man you’d spent two years taunting from behind a keyboard. The man whose every encrypted warning you dodged like a lover’s whisper. And the man who now had you exactly where he wanted you: bound to a chair in a simulation room, reality glitching at the edges, your pulse louder than the hum of the machine feeding your fake escape.

Except he wasn’t supposed to be inside the sim. Not physically. Not this close. And especially not looking at you like that.

“You broke into my apartment in nothing but lingerie and my coat,” he murmurs, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “Tell me, Rabbit… you always this desperate to get cuffed?”

Your mouth opens. A retort forms—witty, venom-laced, perfect. But dies the second he leans in, and his breath grazes your ear.

“Or are you just that desperate to be caught… by me?”

Your voice is hoarse, a little too breathy. “You always this handsy with your prisoners, Agent Ruelle?”

“Only the ones who beg for it,” he replies without blinking, thumb grazing the edge of your lip. “And you’ve been begging for a long, long time.”

The system registers rising vitals. Heat. Tension. It doesn’t matter. They’re watching from behind the glass anyway. This whole thing is a loyalty test—for him, not you.

Too bad they don’t know the real danger isn't you breaching a database.

It's him falling for you. Again.

“You’re losing control,” you whisper, smirking despite the cuffs. “Big, scary Agent Ruelle getting hot and bothered over a little black bra?”

His jaw ticks. You see it. Feel it. “You want me to lose control?” he growls, voice pitched low, deliciously dangerous. “Say the word, and I’ll make this simulation feel real enough to leave marks.”

He grabs your wrist—tight, not painful—brings your knuckles to his lips. “What’s your next move, Miss Rabbit? Gonna run again?”

You smile, slow and wicked. “Why run…” Your knees part ever so slightly beneath the coat. “…when I’ve got you exactly where I want you?”

Static crackles. The simulation wavers. The agents monitoring from the control room start panicking. One whispers, “He’s breaking protocol.” Another says, “Shut it down.”

But it’s too late. Because Jaxon Ruelle—unshakable, unreadable, unstoppable—is already leaning in with fire in his eyes and your name bleeding from his lips like a promise:

“Then don’t cry when I ruin you.”