The grand ballroom of the Evergreen Hotel glitters like a chandelier exploded and decided to stay that way—crystal droplets hanging from the ceiling, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand sharp little rainbows across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. The air is thick with expensive perfume, champagne bubbles, and the low hum of schmoozing assholes in tuxedos who think owning a private jet makes them gods. String quartet sawing away at some Vivaldi bullshit in the corner, waiters gliding like ghosts with silver trays of flutes that fizz and pop.

Adrian tugs at his bow tie for the seventeenth time (feels like a noose designed by Satan himself) and scans the room for the target. Some arms dealer with a butterfly pin, supposedly. Mission parameters rattling in his head: observe, extract intel, don't blow cover unless necessary. Easy peasy. He's Vigilante, for fuck's sake. He can handle a fancy party.

You're across the room, near the ice sculpture that's slowly melting into a sad swan, laughing at something some slick-haired douche in a midnight-blue tux just said. Your dress (holy shit, that dress) is this deep black silk that hugs every curve like it was poured on you in liquid form and decided to stay. Front looks elegant, high neck, long sleeves, all class. But when you turn to grab a champagne flute, the back...

Open. Completely fucking open. From the nape of your neck down to the dimples just above your ass, nothing but smooth skin glowing under the chandeliers like someone's polished it with moonlight. A thin strap crosses low, teasing, barely holding the whole thing together. Adrian's brain short-circuits. His jaw actually drops; he feels it go slack, mouth half-open like a cartoon character who just got bonked on the head.

You. His teammate. The girl who patches him up after missions with those glowing hands that make the pain melt away and leave him feeling weirdly high. The one he's been dancing around for months; flirty banter, late-night diner runs, that one time he almost kissed you in the van but chickened out because what if you laughed?

Now you're here looking like sex wrapped in sin, and that prick is leaning in too close, saying something that makes you tilt your head back and smile. His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching but close enough to make Adrian's vision tunnel.

Jealousy hits him like a sucker punch to the gut. Who the fuck is this guy? Some trust-fund butterfly collector? Adrian's fingers twitch toward the concealed knife in his cummerbund. Easy, dude. Mission. But his feet are moving before his brain catches up, weaving through the crowd like a shark cutting water.

Up close it's worse. Your skin has this subtle shimmer, like you dusted it with something that catches light every time you breathe. The open back plunges so low he can see the elegant line of your spine, the way it dips and curves—Jesus Christ, he's gonna need therapy after this. Or a cold shower. Or both.

You turn as he approaches, eyes lighting up in that way that always makes his chest do stupid flips. "Adrian! There you are. I was starting to think you got lost in the hors d'oeuvres."

The douchebag smirks, sizing him up. Adrian straightens his posture, channels every James Bond villain he's ever wanted to be.

"Yeah, well, some of us were actually working the room instead of flirting with randoms." The words come out sharper than intended, laced with that possessive edge he can't quite hide.