Being exceptional had never led to promotion. It led to supervision. Restrictions. Closed doors. The moment someone decided you knew enough to become a problem.
I force the memory down.
“If you can reconstruct operative movements from the metadata I gave you,” Zavin says, his voice calm and unreadable, “what stops the mole from doing the same thing?”
The question has nothing to do with the quality of my analysis. He’s assessing exposure. Risk. The possibility that I’ll use this information against him. That I could be the person he’s seeking. I’ve gotten too comfortable with his friendly persona. I forgot he’s not my friend. He’s a predator. An unpleasant flush spreads across my skin.
“Your mole already had unredacted access. They don’t need to reconstruct anything from metadata. I’m the one working at a disadvantage here, not them.”
He absorbs that without the guarded look easing. The distance between genuine respect and concern hangs in the air between us.
“Show me the full reconstruction.” He leans forward as he says it, closing the space between us.
I expand the behavioral map and walk him through the analysis, highlighting the narrowed candidate pool, the timing correlations, and the access windows at each junction node. He follows it quickly, catching connections almost as soon as I point them out.
Zavin only seems to want confirmation that he’s reached the same conclusion. When he reaches past me to expand a cluster of data points, the scaled texture of his forearm brushes my bare skin.
The contact lasts less than a second, but I feel it anyway. His arm is already pulling back when my gaze drops to the movement, and his does the same. Not for long. Just long enough.
I notice other things too. The way his jaw tightens when I lean across the projection. The occasional flick of his eyes before he drags them back to the analysis. Small slips. Easy to miss if you aren’t looking for them.
Unfortunately, I am. Which means I know exactly what I’m seeing.
The attraction is mutual.
Given that he’s withholding evidence, investigating a murder, and technically my employer, that’sless helpful than it sounds.
“Whoever did this is in a much smaller group now.” The analysis gives me something solid to hold onto, a way back to familiar ground. “The problem is that the names I need are still sitting behind those redactions.”
“Your work is impressive.”
He says it quietly. The professional distance is gone from his voice. For a moment he sounds more like the man I heard in my room in the Splits when he laughed.Genuine.Not the version of himself he shows everyone else. The shift catches me off guard — I don’t know what to do with the knowledge that he’s letting me see it.
“The work is the easy part.” I meet his eyes and hold them. Looking away feels too much like backing down. “Trusting me with enough information to finish it seems to be the harder part.”
Something shifts in his expression. The scales along his throat darken slightly, a reaction that looks involuntary. My words landed. That doesn’t mean he’ll give me what I want.
In the end, he leaves without answering. The heat of his presence fades from the workspace a little at a time until it’s just me, Percy, and the amber glow of the hologram. The partial movement map still hangs across the projection, full of gaps I could close if I had access to the right data.
I’m already working through alternatives.
Not because I’m trying to be difficult. I’ve lived through what happens when information starts getting withheld. First it’s one restriction. Then another. Then another. By the time you realize the doors are closing, you’re already trapped inside them.
Chapter Eight
MIRO
Iwake tangled in heat and the fading remnants of a dream that leaves my skin damp and a definite throb between my thighs.
For a few disorienting seconds, motionless beneath the covers, I stare at the ceiling panels while fragments slip through my fingers. Amber eyes. Warm scales beneath my hands. A voice gone low and rough, chest vibrating with his low growl. The details dissolve the harder I reach for them, but the feeling remains. Intimate. Dangerous. Unsettlingly real.
A frustrated sound escapes me as I drag a hand over my face.
This doesn’t happen.
Not to me.
I’ve spent two years surviving. Running. Looking over my shoulder. Worrying about oxygen cartridges, credit balances, and whether Helix Corp is finally going to find me. My subconscious has never once decided that now would be a good time to develop a sex life.
