Page 47 of Ravens
“You're really going to try to execute the Director of the Agency at this gala?” I stare at him blankly. "The British government sanctioned this?"
“Yes,” he mutters.
“Please.” I approach him slowly. “I have secrets, and I’ve lied by omission. I admit that I amstilllying by omission, but it’s nothing to do with you . . . it has nothing to do with your interests. I’m just . . . trying to stay alive.” I put my hands on his chest. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
“Theresa.” He grabs my face. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Okay.” I swallow a knot in my throat as he releases me, and I drift back to the bedroom reluctantly, a little dazed.
At least most of it is out in the open. This situation has international consequences, and he’s right; we may have information that is politically damaging for the British. The Agency could blackmail them with it. That’s the whole point, though, Russel always wanted leverage. By now, the Agency could blackmail most of the first world and part of that is my fault. It's hard to believe I'm about to become an instrument of Russel's downfall.
My brain keeps turning things around as I walk to the bed. If Raven has been completely compromised and someone outthere knows what we’re doing—well, the British know what we’re doing . . . and for the British to have found out, for York to be here looking for me—it means Babylon blew her coverwitha British agent. Could it have been York? Or is he just the one who ended up tasked with all this?
I stop at the foot of the bed and turn back. “Were you—”
He’s right there, stone faced, and I startle back, hitting the bed and dropping to my butt. Bouncing slightly, I stare at him in the dark, but he doesn’t talk; he just looms, and my hair stands on end as I scoot back on the bed away from him.
This is what I was afraid of—his intel has been confirmed, and that makes me extraneous.
“York, I promise—”
“Shh.” He crawls onto the bed and grabs me.
“No!” I shriek and kick him back, but he grabs my leg and hauls me down the bed. “Please!”
“Please what?” he asks softly, leaning over me as he pins my arms down.
The next thing I know, he’s kissing me, and I freeze for a moment before I exhale and inhale again sharply, confused. Surprised. Hands slide up my shirt, and before I can question what’s happening, my arms are around his neck and I’m pulling him down on top of me.
He’s not gentle, and neither am I.
Frustration and anger, disappointment . . . it all comes out as our clothes come off, and we find ourselves twisted in the sheets, panting and trembling as we use each other again.
Above him, I chase my own ends until my head falls back, and I’m racked with a release that I ride out until my legs give way. After that, he goes at me hard.
Everything is rough, from the way his mouth and teeth pull and suck my skin, to how hard he pins me down and how deeply he tries to bury himself . . . In the end I feel raw, like an exposed nerve as I lay in the bed, and even his passive touch is enough to send bolts of sensation through me that tighten my nipples and make my heart race.
I’ve gone too far now.
I’m too involved . . . I’m too invested. In him.
His fingers comb through my hair and then fist it at the back of my head as he curls me toward him, and I fold into the demand of his touch again.
There is no saving me, not after tonight.
Twenty-Four
Most of the next day is a fog.
York disappears the way he has a few times now since arriving from Chicago, but at least this time I see him go. I watch him drive off, much the same way I’m sure he watched me, only I’m certain he’ll return.
I bathe and nap and try to eat, but ultimately, I’m not functioning so well in the revelation of last night. The things I revealed and the things I learned have left me filled with concern.
There are still things York doesn’t know, things I’ve withheld, but I don’t think those things matter much anymore. There are also holes I can’t fill, things that aren’t adding up, things he never said that have left my mind twisting in the way that causes the headaches.
One thing that feels good is that I’m not walking on eggshells around him so muchnow.
After tomorrow though, if I survive this gala, survive this plan . . . I must get out of here, get out of the country. I need to get home, get my clean passport and identity, and go. York is going to get recalled, and I’m going to get left in the dust. It feels terrible to acknowledge that, but it’s stupid to want him to stay or even fantasize that he might choose to.
