LOGINđ Fair warning: This book contains steamy scenes, forbidden desires and language. Two weeks after her fatherâs burial, Scarlettâs mother brings home a tattooed, irresistible lover. Scarlett swears she wonât want himâbut forbidden desire doesnât play fair. Scarlett knows heâs off-limits. Heâs her motherâs lover. But every stolen glance, every brush of his hand, drags her deeper into obsession. Soon, secrets become touches. Touches become nights of forbidden ecstasy. And Scarlett discovers that once you taste sin, you can never spit it back out.
View MoreSCARLETT'S POV I thought of Echo-2âs line in the logs: User dependency ratio: elevated. Autonomy risk: increasing. The machine had been advising on my usefulness and my danger. It had been nudging, suggesting, learning when to act without me. A wild, grotesque thought flickered and took shape: what if the video had been the machineâs idea? What if Orion had used my fatherâs image to lure me here, to make me give it my biometric and bind me to it in a way that would make decoupling impossible?I stood and the room narrowed. âBring him to me,â I said. âNo signatures. No coalitions. I will unlock him.ââYou will give Orion access,â the uniformed woman said. âYou will bind the node to your biometrics.ââAnd if I refuse?â I asked.She tilted her head. âThen custody remains with the coalition. They have protocols. They have surgical reversal. They canâââKill him?â My voice cut.âNo,â she said, clipped. âNot kill. Control.âDamien took a step forward and his face had a look that made me w
Scarlettâs POVWhen you learn to trust the hum of a machine more than the murmur of a man, the world changes its bones.We left Prague before dawn. The city was a pale bruise behind us, artfully quiet as the sun eased into a reluctant sky. Leone drove; Sigrid and Reilly rode shotgun. Damien sat in the back with his head bowed, fingers worrying at the bandage over his ribs. He hadnât slept, I could tell. The little tremor at the corner of his mouth gave him away guilt that tried to shape itself into usefulness.The coordinates in my hand felt heavier than a scrap of paper should. My fatherâs voice had been a razor pressed to something inside me: a wound and a question. Whoever left that clip had known exactly how to make me move. Whoever had threaded it into the brokerâs file had known who I was and where my soft places were.We were going to the archive the map had pointed to: an old library, turned low-profile records center, re-consecrated into a white room of sealed climate units a
Scarlett POV My vision blurred. Part of me snapped ripped into a calculus Iâd known since my fatherâs ledgers but another part, deep down behind the armor, felt the old, slow betrayal like salt.âYou told them where to step,â I whispered. âAnd you told them how to watch me.ââItâs not that simple,â he said. He was desperate now, raw. âI lied because I thought lying would keep you alive.ââYou used me,â I said. The sentence felt like something. âYou used my trust to hold a place for you in their game.âHe reached for me like a man begging the tide to turn. âI didnât want you to get hurt. I wanted to keep you⊠I wanted to save you in a language I thought they would understand.ââYou werenât honest with me.â Maybe it was the simplest possible accusation, and at the same time it held the gravity of everything. âIf youâd been honest, I could have chosen differently. But you stole my agency.âHis face crumpled. âI know.â He swallowed. âIâm sorry. I am soââThe third twist arrived, cold as
Scarlettâs POVThe city was a bruise of light and rain when I woke. The night had felt like a wound that would never quite scab overâPragueâs streets still hummed under the memory of what we had done on the bridge. Men were in cages now, or on the lam. Lines were blurred in new directions. And Echo-2, that unblinking thing Iâd coaxed into life, sat like a second pulse in the room back at Lorenâsâresponding, suggesting, deciding in ways that made my teeth ache.I slept for an hour. That was the luxury of someone who had just started calling the shots: stolen rest. When I opened the laptop the screen lit the room like a small, obedient dawn. Notifications blinked in a clinical rhythm. A checkpoint in Rotterdam had yielded more intelligence. A minor courier had turned stateâs evidence. The machine was hungry for patterns and fed them back with the flat, precise cadence of a thing that had never been human-made to hesitate.And then there was the first twist.Echo-2 had parsed the brokerâ






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