Page 64 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I close the door quietly and return to my desk, putting the solid width of oak between us.

Sophie sits with her hands folded in her lap, her posture perfect, one eyebrow slightly raised as she waits for me to speak.

I take a second I don’t need to straighten the papers in front of me.

“Ms. Dysart,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “I’d like an update on your progress.”

She opens her mouth to respond, and my gaze drops to her lips before I can stop it.

Those lips. Soft. Pink. The lower one slightly fuller than the upper, creating a natural pout that doesn’t need lipstick to draw attention. Lips I’ve kissed. Lips I can still feel against mine when I close my eyes at night.

Focus. She’s talking. Listen to the words coming out of her mouth and stop just staring at it like a complete lunatic.

“Mr. Preston,” she says. “Both the fourth floor and the security wing on the second floor have been fully swept. No listening devices of any kind.”

“Both floors clean,” I repeat. “That’s good.”

“It means whoever is behind this isn’t using surveillance equipment, which narrows things down considerably.” She pauses. “Mr. Cavill and I talked during last night’s sweep. We’re meeting at your place tomorrow afternoon. I’m getting the background reports from Sentinel later today and I’ll go through everything then.”

“And the personnel observations?” I press. “You’ve been embedded in this department for four days now. Surely you’ve noticed something.”

“I’ve been building behavioral baselines for everyone on this floor,” she says. “Observing routines, interactions, communication patterns. A few people have flagged for closer attention, but I’d rather wait for the background reports before drawing conclusions.”

“I see.”

“Is there anything else?” she asks.

Were you pretending the whole time? At the gala, in my suite, when you kissed me, was any of it real? Did you feel what I felt, even for a second? Or was I just another target?

“I’d like a timeline,” I say instead, folding my arms tighter across my chest. “How soon do you think this will be resolved?”

She frowns. It’s small, just a slight drawing together of her brows, a tightening at the corners of her mouth, but I can’t help but feel some twisted sense of satisfaction at eliciting a genuine response from her.

“It’s difficult to say,” she says carefully. “Investigations like this can take weeks. Sometimes months. It depends on⁠—”

“We don’t have months, Ms. Dysart.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “You understand what’s at stake here.”

Her eyes flash for just a second before she gets it under control, but I catch it.

“I understand perfectly,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice now. “But I can’t make promises I can’t keep. Rushing an investigation leads to mistakes, and mistakes mean the mole stays hidden.”

“Fine.” I hold her gaze. “Just know that the sooner this is done, the better.”

The words hang in the air between us, and we both hear what I’m not saying.

The sooner you’re out of here, the better.

Her chin lifts. Her eyes narrow, barely perceptibly, and her grip on the armrest tightens.

“Of course, Mr. Preston.” She straightens in her chair, lifting her chin, and fixes me with a look that could strip paint. Her arms fold across her chest, mirroring my posture. “You and I want the same thing.”

She looks at me and I can tell she’s angry. Her anger blazes through the cracks in her disguise like light through a broken window, and for some fucked up reason I can’t help but be happy about it.

Because she looks so fucking hot like this.

My cock twitches. Hard.

Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with me?