Page 43 of Bad Girl Dilemma

Her arm rises, fingers brushing the collar. “People could’ve seen,” she says, but there’s no fire of protest. Hell, there might even be a little wonder in there.

“They still might.”

Her breath catches. I hear it. The way she hates how much that idea turns her on.

Good. Let her squirm. Let her know I own more than her time and her body. I’m owning her mind now, too.

We pause in front of a painting. Something abstract, blood-red and smeared with the anguish of a man who’s lost everything. I wonder if she sees it.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks softly.

The question curls between us. A fucking landmine. I keep my expression blank. “Define ‘this.’”

“You know what I mean. This whole heist. The plan. The war you’re starting. And don’t tell me to mind my business again. I’m going to keep asking.”

I could lie.

I could tell her it’s about power. Money. Revenge.

But then I look at her—reallylook—and that soft fucking voice in my head whispers her name, not her codenames, past or present.

Dahlia.

She’s not the girl I kidnapped. Well, not entirely. She’s something else now. Something I’m not sure I’ll be able to give up.

Even if I have to.

I look away first. Because if I don’t, I might tell her the truth.

That I’ve spent five years plotting every way to destroy them and the systems that protect them. Only to hit a wall. That my enemy’s last bastion is proving… impenetrable.

That I needDahliato help me do it.

Because she’s the only hacker alive with the skill set I need… and the only person I can’t seem to think straight around anymore.

“I’m doing it,” I say at last, “because someone has to.”

“Then at the very least tell me who I’m dealing with. Test runs lose their value eventually.”

Before she can push again, my phone vibrates.

Encrypted signal. Vesper server. I unlock it with my thumbprint. Then I go very still.

Vesper Syndicate has located Subject S-7.

The message is followed by a low-res surveillance photo.

It’s fucking Dahlia.

Taken from across the building across the street.

Timestamp: last night.

While we were on the terrace. While I was cracking myself open on the strength of a single question from her. Because I couldn’t help myself.

My blood runs cold.

They know what she is. Who she is. Which means they know she’s helping me.

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