Page 39 of Villainous Intent

It was a desecration, like taking a knife to a masterpiece, but there was a twisted satisfaction in it, too. I was hiding her true nature from the world so that only I knew what lay beneath.

The heat in her eyes remained despite the color change, that spark of rebellion that made me want to bend her over the console and fuck the attitude right out of her.

“Brown?” she asked, blinking as she checked her reflection in the dark glass of the viewport. “I suppose that’s practical.”

“Sir,” Number Three’s voice called out. “We’ll reach the destination in fifteen minutes.”

I nodded but I didn’t look away from her. I couldn’t. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re hunting for tonight, or am I just your ticket in?”

She tilted her head, the brown making her look like a stranger. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” she replied, smoothing down her dress. The movement drew my eye to the curve of her hips, the way the black fabric clung to her body. “Your only job is to make our cover believable.”

“I’ll make it believable,” I said, my voice dropping to a rough whisper.

Annie moved away from me, putting distance between us as she crossed to the window.

“We need to establish parameters,” she said, her voice trying for professional but landing somewhere near desperate. “How do you want me to act so I blend in?”

I leaned back against the control panel, crossing my arms. I let my gaze drag over her slowly. “Blend in as what, exactly?”

“As your...” She waved her hand. “Whatever the Syndicate thinks I’m supposed to be. Your date? Your assistant? Your...”

“Whore?” I offered.

Her jaw tightened. “I just need you to dictate the terms of our interactions tonight.”

I studied the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling. Terms. Parameters. She was trying to build a cage of rules to survive the night. Annie Bishop didn’t know how to exist without her precious rulebooks, so she was trying to force me to write a new one.

For a fraction of a second, I considered giving her what she thought she wanted. I could lay out the boring basics. The rigid etiquette of the League, the tedious, bloody dance of villainous networking. I could draw her a map of safe conversational topics and acceptable physical distances to keep her comfortable.

But I knew better.

My mind spun the variables, calculating the staggering weight of what she had just handed me. Dictate the terms. She was giving me a blank check to her autonomy, practically begging me to put a leash on her so she wouldn’t have to bear the responsibility of her own actions.

I’d seen her search history. I knew what she consumed in the dark of her bedroom while her vibrator hummed against her clit. I knew exactly which tags she filtered for, the digital breadcrumbs of her true nature.

Non-con. Power imbalance. Corruption.

She didn’t want a gentleman to hold her hand and guide her safely through the dark. She wanted a monster. She just didn’t have the courage to ask for one in the light of day.

I could give her that. I could drag those fantasies out of the screen and make them breathe. I could make her beg for the very things she spent her waking hours pretending to despise.

I pushed off the console and stalked toward her. She took a half-step back, her heel hitting the wall. She had nowhere to go.

“Tonight, you’re not my assistant. You’re not my date.” I leaned in until I could feel the erratic flutter of her breath against my jaw. I watched her throat work as she swallowed.

“You’re my plaything.” I let the word hang there, tasting it.

If we played this right, my ratings would skyrocket. But if I was being brutally honest, fuck the ratings. I had Annie exactly where I wanted her, trapped in the sky, wearing my colors, waiting for my command.

“Fine,” she breathed, though her voice shook. “How do you want me to act? What helps your image?”

Oh, sweet, broken Annie. Even now, treating her own degradation like a mission objective.

“Tonight,” I murmured, “you don’t act. You submit.”