CHAPTER 4

Lydia “LIL” Moretti was already on the secure line before I could get my boots off in the Brooklyn brownstone. I could hear the rhythmic tapping of her pen—a nervous habit she only displayed when the stakes were atmospheric.

"Tell me you’re out, Zli," her voice crackled, sharp as a whip.

"I’m in the elevator of the Bellgrave, LIL. Ronan Hwan is three feet away from me, and he’s currently under the impression that I’m a high-end consultant named Mike who’s about to give him the best night of his life," I whispered, my thumb tracing the edge of the micro-scout hidden in my cuff.

"He’s not just a captain, Zlliot. He’s the crown prince of the Crimson Dragons. If he finds that sniffer, he won't call the police. He’ll call a cleaner," LIL warned.

"I know the risks. I also know he’s carrying the encryption keys to the Tess’s offshore ledgers in his pocket. I’m not leaving without them." I hung up before she could mention the word 'extraction' again.

The doors slid open to the penthouse suite. Ronan—Ron—stepped out, his gait slightly unsteady. The migraines I’d read about in his medical file were clearly hitting him, but his eyes were still locked on me with a terrifying, predatory focus. He was a man drowning in pain and power, and I was the shark circling him.

Every step into the suite felt like a countdown. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, old money, and the metallic tang of an approaching storm. By the time the door clicked shut, my blood was at a slow boil.

"So, Mike," Ron growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rumble through the floorboards. He backed me against the polished marble of the minibar, his palms slamming onto the counter on either side of me. "Are you going to keep playing the shy analyst, or are you going to show me why I shouldn't throw you off this balcony for the way you've been looking at me all night?"

I hummed, the sound vibrating in my chest like a purring cat. I reached up, my fingers grazing the silk of his tie. "I didn't think captains of the Crimson Dragons were so impatient."

"I'm not impatient. I'm hungry," he rasped, his mouth hovering just a fraction away from mine. "And I’ve got a lot of moves I plan to show you tonight that don't involve a ledger."

I leaned up, brushing my lips against his in a tease that was half-promise, half-poison. "That might help me loosen up. Otherwise, I might go back to being a boring accountant."

I could see the glitter in his dark eyes—a mix of betrayal he didn't even know was coming and a carnal hunger that made my skin prickle. He was lying to himself if he thought this was a simple pickup.

"Alright, feline," he teased, his hands squeezing my hips with a force that promised bruises. "Fix us a drink. Show me those 'consultant' skills. I need a minute to clear my head."

He excused himself to the bathroom, and the moment the door clicked shut, I moved. My hands flew over the minibar, but I wasn't looking for vodka. I pulled the micro-vial of fast-acting sedative from my inner pocket.

Inside the bathroom, I heard the water running. Ron was splashing his face, likely trying to fight off the brain-bending agony of his migraine. I felt a momentary flick of something—pity? No. Guilt? Certainly not. He was a Dragon. He was the son of the woman who had Gina executed in a cold Naples warehouse.

I poured two glasses of top-shelf scotch. In his, I dropped the clear liquid. It wouldn't kill him, but it would drop his guard long enough for me to mirror his laptop.

When the bathroom door opened, he looked haggard but still dangerous. He cracked his neck, his eyes zeroing in on the drinks.

"To amateur bartenders and bad decisions?" I toasted, holding out the glass.

"To sexy felines and the seductive games they play," he countered. He reached for the glass, but then stopped, setting it down on the table. He grabbed my wrist instead, his grip like iron. "Forgot. I can't mix my meds with booze. But that’s okay... because I’m more hungry than I am thirsty."

He pulled me into him, and the kiss was no longer a game. it was a collision. It was carnal, desperate, and filled with a raw intensity that nearly made me forget I had a job to do. I fisted his shirt, pulling him closer, our tongues clashing in a battle for dominance. He tasted like mint and smoke, a combination that was starting to make my own head spin.

He trailed kisses down my jaw to my throat, his hands mapping the curves of my body with a frantic urgency. He backed me toward the massive king-sized bed, and we fell onto the charcoal sheets.

He was between my legs in seconds, his weight pinning me down. I could feel the hard line of his erection pressing against my thigh, a reminder of the stakes. My hands worked his buttons with a dexterity trained by years of tactical reloading.

I slid his shirt off, exposing the broad, scarred chest of a man who had survived a hundred street fights. I pulled him down, my breath hitching as his mouth found the pulse point at my neck.

"Ron," I breathed, the name tasting like ash.

He moved with a sudden impatience, pushing me onto my back so he could climb on top, his hands cupping my face. I watched our reflection in the dresser mirror—the "Ledger" and the "Lion" tangled in a mess of expensive fabric and lethal intent.

I saw the opportunity. As he buried his face in my neck, I reached down to the garter hidden beneath my trousers, my fingers closing around the hilt of the small ceramic blade I kept for emergencies.

The steel glinted for only a second.

The lust in Ron's eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, hard light of a predator who had just spotted the trap. Before I could strike, his hand shot out, his fingers crushing my wrist. He pried the blade from my grip with a grunt of effort and tossed it across the room.

He threw me off him with enough force that I hit the floor in a rolling tumble.

ZLLIOT

I hit the hardwood, tucking my shoulder to absorb the impact. I came up low, balanced on the balls of my feet, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Ron was already standing, his chest heaving, eyes narrowed with a terrifying blend of betrayal and pure bloodlust. The charming hedonist was gone; in his place stood the Captain of the Crimson Dragons.

"I didn't know it was possible, feline," he rasped, a dark, twisted grin spreading across his face. "You’ve actually managed to make me even more interested by trying to kill me. We can finish the fight first, and then I’ll decide what to do with the rest of you."

I circled him, my mind already calculating the distance to the door and the weight of the heavy glass decanter on the side table. "You should have stayed in the bathroom, Ron. It would have been a lot less painful."

"I have a high tolerance for pain," he taunted, his body coiling like a spring. "This is our foreplay, isn't it? A little blood to set the mood?"

"Do you have a death wish, Hwan?" I asked, sliding into a defensive stance. "Because I’m the best in the business at granting them."

"A business accountant who knows how to use a ceramic thigh-blade?" He let out a dry, harsh laugh. "My mother told me I should be more careful with the people I pick up. I guess for once, Theresa was right."

"The 'Dragon' is a bit slow on the uptake, isn't he?" I mocked, trying to goad him into an opening. "Is the migraine making you sloppy, or is it just the lack of a soul?"

He didn't answer with words. He struck.

He was faster than a man his size had any right to be. He rushed me, driving low. I pivoted, my heel skimming the floor as I went for a leg sweep, but he jumped it with the grace of a trained fighter.

I didn't give him a second to breathe. I launched a jab at his ribs, followed by a wide-hook punch that carried the weight of three years of repressed fury.

It landed.

Ron grunted, the air whistling out of his lungs as he stumbled back. I followed up with a series of quick strikes—martial arts honed in the CIA's most brutal training camps.

"Too slow," I hissed, my knee connecting with his midsection.

I could feel his ribs flex under the pressure. One more hit and I’d have him on the ground. I drove my knee in again, but this time, he was ready. His forearm hooked under my thigh, and his other hand clamped onto my throat, hoisting me off the ground with terrifying brute force.

He slammed me against the wall, the impact rattling my brain.

"You talk better than you fight, Ledger," he growled, his face inches from mine. "I know who you are now. The Agency's golden boy. The ghost in our servers."

I spit blood at his feet, a defiant smirk on my face. "And you're just a lapdog for a mother who doesn't even love you."

His grip tightened, his eyes flashing with a feral, dangerous light. "I was going to kill you quickly. But now? I think I'll keep you. See how long it takes for a forensic accountant to break when he's locked in a cage."

I gripped his wrists, my boots searching for leverage on the wall. "You really think you can hold me, Ron? I’ve dismantled empires with a keyboard. You’re just a line item I haven't deleted yet."

"Then show me," he challenged, his voice a dark promise. "Show me what you've got before I put you in chains."