Page 38
Leather polish mingles with the itchy bite of the driver’s cologne in the back seat. The divider between front and back is up, the black-tinted privacy glass separating me from the world outside. I settle into the seat, hands loose on my thighs.
No point in attempting conversation. The driver hasn’t been authorized to speak to me.
The car pulls away from the curb, merging into late-night traffic. Streetlights cut through the tinted windows in slow gold slices as the city moves past, illuminating me in rhythmic flashes before plunging me back into darkness.
Each brief moment of light gives me another chance to check my face in the reflection to ensure nothing shows that shouldn’t.
I use every one of them to rebuild, piece by careful piece, the composure that crumbled on my knees in the Blue Note’s break room.
The mission parameters haven’t changed. What happened with Orien is another piece of intelligence, another step in the process of establishing…
My thoughts falter as the memory rises of Orien’s gentle touch on my cheeks and threading through my hair. The image is too vivid, too immediate, the lingering sensation of his warmth on my tongue too fresh to allow for comfortable distance.
I try again, reviewing the encounter the way I would review any operation. What was gained? What was exposed? What leverage was established? But the analysis keeps sliding into unexpected channels.
I do not think of the way his pheromones still cling to me. Do not catalog the firm ridges of his thigh beneath my palm or the sound of his breath catching as I took him deeper.
If Orien had stood me up and bent me over one of the break tables, I would have let him, and it wouldn’t have been about the mission.
My throat tightens at the realization. I wanted him to claim me. To make some assertion that would allow me to justify the magnetic draw every time those pale gray eyes fix on mine. Anything to frame this as strategy rather than want.
Instead, I gained nothing but the option to kneel at his feet, take his cock in my mouth, and ride the wave of my own pleasure as I serviced him.
The streets slide past, stores closing, bars still open, the city moving through its nightly rhythms without pausing for my crisis of identity. We leave Ashford Heights behind, driving north to the outskirts of Northreach, neighbor to Skyhaven but without the water access, where the Vartanian compound sits isolated from outsiders and unexpected visitors.
I can still contain this. Emotional reaction is data, not deviation. Seduction assumes a certain level of physicality. I can use this to deepen my cover and establish a more secure position within Blue Note’s infrastructure.
My reaction to Orien is an asset, not a liability.
I can manage both sides of this. I have for eight years, as Alexei’s brother and his quiet spy. What is one more layer? One more face to wear?
The compound gates appear ahead, the massive iron things swinging open at our approach, the security cameras tracking the car’s progress as we wind up the long drive. Bare tree branches on either side stretch toward the night sky, the snow that dusted the ground last week already turned to dirty slush at the edges of the paved path.
I straighten my shoulders and square my jaw, wiping away any trace of softness.
Goodbye, Lee’s easy grace.
Hello, Levon’s careful control.
But as the car pulls to a stop before the main house’s massive doors, I can’t quite shake the sense that the careful compartmentalization I’ve maintained for years has developed a hairline crack I can neither locate nor repair.
It doesn’t matter, so long as I’m the only one who knows it’s there.
The car stops, and the driver climbs out to open my door.
With a soft exhale, I step into the cold night air and leave Lee behind.
The inner room of the Vartanian compound is warmer than it should be, the heating system set to accommodate Mikhail’s preference rather than comfort.
I stand before the massive mahogany table, still wearing the fitted ribbed sweater that hugs my torso and hips, the slim-cut trousers that give my legs the illusion of added length, the sparkly clip holding my dark hair back. The lights are dimmed, thank goodness, hiding the slightly darker spots on my pants not yet dry.
Alexei sits at one end of the table, with Uncle Mikhail at the other, turning the space between them into a battlefield instead of a conference room.
Books line the shelves along the walls, leather-bound volumes well-worn from generations of being handled. A single painting of a landscape in somber colors hangs on the far wall. No brightness or joy for the family compound.
I’m not offered a chair as I deliver my report with immaculate composure, hands loose at my sides, giving my brother, the head of the family, my full attention as I speak.
“Blue Note’s visible operations remain centered on the lounge itself, with occasional extensions into adjacent neighborhoods. Their enforcement model appears to be favor-based rather than territory-controlled, with little evidence of systematic territorial acquisition or consolidation. Their primary focus is their neighborhood and surrounding streets.”
