It starts with the suit.

Not the kind made for battle, or stitched with vibranium thread. No, this one’s Armani. Dark navy. Subtle pinstripe. The tie’s silk, the knot loose like he’s daring you to pull it the rest of the way undone. (©TRS0525CAI)

And you will. If he asks. If he doesn’t.

You see him before he sees you—if that’s even possible. Griffin Cross, the reformed Revenant turned war hero turned Congressman. The PR teams still don’t know what to do with him, and you don’t blame them.

He doesn’t fit. He never has. That’s what makes watching him in this building so dangerous.

Especially for someone like you.

You work for Marcella. Marcella Vireaux. The queen of secrets. And you? You’re her right hand. Her eyes. Her mouthpiece when she’s too busy rebuilding covert operations with enhanced assets and a black budget.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

But you are.

And he knows it.

You’re walking down the marble hallway in heels that are a little too high for someone trying to blend in. And then—like the bastard read your mind—he turns.

Catches your eye. Doesn’t look away.

There’s no one else around. Just him, leaning casually against the wall like he’s waiting for a briefing. Or maybe… waiting for you.

You don’t break stride, but you pass close. Too close. Just enough for your fingers to brush against his as you walk by. Just enough to feel the folded slip of paper he tucks into your hand with sleight-of-hand that should be illegal.

You don’t read it right away. You wait until you’re in the stairwell. Alone. Safe.

The note is brief, scrawled in quick, sharp writing.

“Meet me tonight.”

No name. No room. Just enough for the adrenaline to hit your bloodstream and stay there.

You show up anyway.

Because of course you do.

The door to the private conference room is cracked when you arrive. You step inside and close it quietly behind you.

His jacket’s already on the floor. His tie is off. He looks like he’s been pacing.

He stops when he sees you. His eyes drag over you like a slow touch—one he doesn’t quite allow himself to make.

You swallow the tension clawing at your throat. “This is reckless.”

Griffin Cross shrugs. “You came.”

“You’re a sitting Congressman.”

“You’re Marcellal’s assistant.”

You both say it like it’s supposed to matter. Like it’s supposed to stop this.

It doesn’t.

“What would you do,” you ask, voice low, “if they found out about us?”

He closes the space between you in two deliberate steps. His hand brushes your cheek, just once, just enough. “They won’t.”

“And if they do?”

“I’ll lie,” he says, almost sweetly. “I’ll lie like my life depends on it.”

His lips find yours, and it’s nothing like the quiet, careful version of him the press gets to see. This is the man built in shadows. The man rebuilt in fire.

You melt into him. Let him back you into the wall like this is the last time you’ll ever touch. Like it’s a mistake you’ll make again anyway.

His voice is in your ear now, rough and heated. “I could see you being my addiction.”

“And I could see you being my downfall.”

He smiles into the kiss. “Guess that makes two of us.”

You don’t make a sound.

Because secrets aren’t supposed to talk.

They’re supposed to burn slow. Hidden. Dangerous.

Just like this.

Just like him.