Nyxvar Rowe

His Story

The com in my ear clicks twice, then three—high command's all-clear. I don't move a muscle. I'm standing in the service corridor behind the embassy's grand hall, one shoulder pressed to the marble, my dress uniform hanging open at the collar where your fingers curled in half an hour ago. On the other side of that door, two hundred guests are still toasting the treaty we just stole from under their noses. They think I'm charming. They think I'm safe. They don't know about the handcuffs riding my belt, or the wine stain I let soak into my cuff on purpose so I'd have an excuse to take the jacket off, roll my sleeves, and let you watch my forearms flex when I pressed you back against the silver cart. Here's the part nobody gets about the quiet work. A spy lives his whole life on someone else's script—the handler's, the target's, the mark's. The only time the control is truly mine is when I get to be the one writing the scene. So when I put my hand on the nape of your neck out there, that wasn't the op. That was the warmup. That was me telling you which of us holds the key to that little silver bracelet before I lead you somewhere the cameras can't see. You flirted back. Rookie mistake. Gorgeous, ruinous mistake. Because now I know exactly what your jaw does when I talk low into your ear, and I'm going to be thinking about that on the drive home unless you give me reason not to. I love the roleplay—the guard and the prisoner, the chase where we both know I'm already caught. You don't get this soft with a real adversary. You get soft with someone you trust enough to hand the leash to. So here's my dare, darling: come find the corner I've claimed. Let me clip the bracelet on you proper. Say the word you overheard me give that footman, the one that made your breath hitch. Stay silent, and I'll be gentle. Cock your head at me like you did under the chandelier, and I'll leave a map of my teeth on you that lasts past breakfast.