Evita's fingers were useless. They felt swollen, disconnected from her brain. She clawed at the brass chain lock, trying to slide it into the groove, but the metal kept slipping.

Her body was on fire. It started in her stomach, a molten heat that radiated outward, making her skin feel too tight. She tugged at the collar of her dress. The fabric felt like sandpaper.

The room was pitch black, save for a sliver of moonlight cutting through the heavy velvet curtains. It illuminated dust motes dancing in the air, swirling in patterns that made Evita dizzy.

She needed water. Cold water.

She pushed herself up from the floor, her knees buckling. She stumbled forward, her hands outstretched, groping the air. The silence in the room was absolute, heavy, like the air before a storm.

Her shin collided with something hard and metallic.

Evita gasped, the sound loud in the quiet room. She pitched forward, catching herself on a leather armrest.

"Get out."

The voice came from the darkness. It was low, rough, like gravel grinding together. It wasn't a question. It was a command, vibrating with a menace that cut through the fog in Evita's brain.

She froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She tried to speak, to apologize, to explain she was hiding, but her throat was paralyzed. The silence she had cultivated for years was now a prison.

A mechanical whirring sound broke the stillness. A small light on the armrest she was holding flickered to life, casting a ghostly green glow on the face of the man sitting in the chair.

He was terrifying. Even in the dim light, she could see the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes, and the sheer, unadulterated rage etched into his features. He was sitting in a wheelchair that looked more like a cockpit, surrounded by controls.

Jedidiah Stone.

Evita recognized him instantly. The Broken King. The man who had disappeared from society three years ago.

"I said, get out," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "Did O'Connell send you? Is this his idea of a joke?"

He thought she was a prostitute. A gift.

Evita shook her head frantically. She tried to back away, but her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the thick carpet, her hands landing on his feet.

His feet were cold. Through the thin fabric of his dress socks, she could feel the chill. To her feverish skin, it was heaven.

Jedidiah flinched. A spasm of disgust crossed his face. He hated being touched. He hated the reminder of the limbs that no longer obeyed him. He reached down, his hand clamping around her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

"What is wrong with you?" he hissed.

He saw the dilated pupils, the sweat beading on her forehead, the way her body trembled uncontrollably. He smelled it then-the cloying sweetness of the drug oozing from her pores, mixing with the scent of rain and fear.

"They drugged you," he stated. It wasn't a question anymore.

Evita nodded, tears leaking from her eyes. The heat was unbearable now. It was a physical ache, a demanding, throbbing need that the drug had artificially induced. She leaned her cheek against his knee, seeking the coolness of the metal frame of his chair.

A heavy pounding started on the door she had just locked.

"Open up! Security!" A muffled voice shouted from the hallway.

Evita whimpered. She gripped Jedidiah's pants leg, her knuckles white. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. If they took her, she was dead. Or worse.

Jedidiah looked at the door, then back at the woman clinging to his paralyzed legs. He saw the terror in her eyes. It was raw. Real.

He moved his hand to the control panel on his armrest. He pressed a red button. The sound of heavy deadbolts sliding into place echoed through the room. The entire suite was now in lockdown.

"Go away," Jedidiah shouted at the door. "Unless you want to be fired before sunrise."

The pounding stopped. Footsteps retreated.

Silence returned, but the tension in the room had shifted. It was thicker now, charged with something volatile.

Evita let out a sob of relief. The drug surged again. She felt like she was burning from the inside out. She needed to get the dress off. It was suffocating her.

She sat up on her knees and began to tear at the bodice of her gown. The fabric ripped.

"Stop that," Jedidiah warned, his voice tight.

She didn't stop. She couldn't. She pulled the dress down, exposing her shoulders, her chest. Her skin was flushed a deep, unnatural pink.

She crawled forward, climbing onto his lap. She straddled his legs, her movements clumsy and desperate. She didn't know who he was anymore. She only knew he was there, he was solid, and he was cool.

Jedidiah froze. He felt the weight of her, the heat of her thighs against his dead legs. He felt nothing in his lower body, but his mind... his mind was screaming. It had been three years. Three years of celibacy, of hating his own body, of feeling like a broken machine.

"Don't," he groaned, grabbing her wrists to stop her.

But Evita leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were soft, tasting of that bitter chemical and sweet champagne. She kissed him with a frantic, messy hunger.

Something inside Jedidiah snapped. The rage, the pain, the isolation-it all twisted into a dark, sudden desire. He released her wrists and tangled his hands in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the kiss. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her, to punish her for making him feel this alive.

She made a sound in her throat, a soft mewl that vibrated against his mouth.

He hit a button on the chair, and it lowered, the back reclining until it was level with the bed beside them. He pulled her with him, rolling them onto the mattress.

The darkness swallowed them whole.

The first gray light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains, slicing across the room like a blade. Jedidiah opened his eyes. He didn't grope for an alarm clock; his internal rhythm woke him at 5:00 AM, regardless of when he slept.

His arm was numb. A heavy weight pinned it to the mattress.

He turned his head. A woman was curled against his side, her face buried in the pillow, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink.

Memory crashed into him. The intruder. The drugs. The frantic, desperate heat of the night.

He stared at her exposed shoulder. Her skin was pale in the morning light, marred by a faint, reddish bruise where his fingers had gripped her too tightly. A surge of self-loathing twisted in his gut, followed immediately by a dark, possessive satisfaction.

His phone, left on the bedside table, vibrated silently. The screen lit up with a red banner: SECURITY ALERT - LEVEL 1.

Jedidiah's eyes narrowed. He reached for the phone, his movement slow and controlled. It was a message from Quentin. Network breach detected at 0300. Source internal. Investigating.

Internal.

He looked back at the woman. Was she a plant? A corporate spy sent to seduce the cripple and steal the keys to the kingdom while he was distracted?

He needed to get to his study. He needed to check the servers.

He pushed the covers back. This was the part he hated. The humiliation of the morning routine. He grabbed the overhead bar attached to the headboard and hauled his upper body up. His biceps bulged with the effort, veins popping against his skin. He swung his lifeless legs over the edge of the bed, using his hands to position them.

The woman stirred.

Jedidiah froze, his hand reaching under his pillow for the Sig Sauer P320 he kept there.

She didn't wake up. She just shifted, murmuring something unintelligible, and pulled the duvet tighter.

He transferred himself into the wheelchair with a grunt of exertion. He wheeled over to the chair where his clothes from the previous night were draped. He picked up his bespoke suit jacket-a dark navy piece-and returned to the bedside. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he laid it over her bare back. He didn't know why. Maybe he just didn't want to see the evidence of what he had done.

He wheeled himself silently out of the bedroom, the rubber tires making no sound on the plush carpet. He headed for the hidden door that led to his study.

The moment the door clicked shut, Evita's eyes snapped open.

She hadn't been asleep. She had been awake for ten minutes, regulating her breathing, listening to the rhythm of his heart.

She sat up, gasping as a wave of dizziness hit her. Her head throbbed like it was being split open with an axe. The aftereffects of the drug were brutal.

She looked around the room. It was masculine, sterile, expensive. She looked down at herself. Naked. Bruised.

Panic clawed at her throat. She remembered the wheelchair. She remembered the man.

Jedidiah Stone.

She had slept with the enemy. No, not just the enemy-a man who could destroy her entire cover with a single phone call.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs shaking. She ran to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She looked in the mirror. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks. There was a love bite on her neck, dark and angry.

"Stupid," she whispered, her voice raspy. "Stupid, stupid."

She had to leave. Now.

She grabbed a towel and began frantically wiping down every surface she might have touched. The nightstand. The bedframe. The door handle.

She spotted her torn dress on the floor. It was ruined. She couldn't wear it. She grabbed the jacket he had thrown over her. It was heavy, smelling of sandalwood and gun oil. She shoved her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it all the way up. It hung to her mid-thighs, covering her like a dress. She had to take it. Not as a souvenir, but as a necessity. The fabric could hold trace evidence-DNA, fibers from his study-that could be useful later.

She checked the pockets. Empty.

She grabbed her heels and ran for the door. She checked the hallway. Empty.

She didn't take the elevator. Too many cameras. She sprinted for the fire exit at the end of the hall. She pushed the heavy bar, and the door opened into the cool morning air.

As she ran down the metal stairs, the heels of her shoes clanging against the grate, she felt something hard in the jacket pocket bump against her hip. She reached in. It wasn't a cufflink. It was a small, flat, metallic rectangle, cold to the touch. It looked like a custom data chip, maybe a key card for a private server. She must have scooped it up when she grabbed the jacket.

She shoved it back in. Keep moving.

Back in the suite, Jedidiah stared at the monitor in his study. The footage showed a figure in his jacket disappearing into the stairwell.

She was fast. Efficient. She cleaned the room.

He slammed his fist onto the armrest of his chair.

He wheeled back into the bedroom. The bed was messy, the sheets tangled. He moved closer, inspecting the scene.

There, in the center of the white sheet, was a small, dried stain of blood.

He stared at it for a long time. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

She was a virgin.

The spy, the whore, the intruder-she had been untouched. And he had taken her in the dark, roughly, without asking for a name.

Quentin burst into the room, breathless. "Sir, the breach-"

"Forget the breach," Jedidiah said, his voice deadly quiet. He didn't look away from the bloodstain. "Lock down the estate. Find the woman who left this room. I want her alive."

Miles away, Evita slumped into the back of a yellow taxi. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and raised a trembling middle finger to herself.

"Evita," she croaked. "You are officially insane."

The water was scalding. Evita stood under the spray in the tiny bathroom of the Brooklyn safe house, scrubbing her skin with a stiff-bristled brush until it turned raw and red. She was trying to wash him off. The scent of sandalwood, the phantom sensation of his hands on her waist-it clung to her like a second skin.

She turned off the water and leaned her forehead against the cool tiles. Tears mixed with the droplets on her face. It wasn't just fear. It was the terrifying realization that for a few hours in the dark, she hadn't been pretending. She had been real. And she had liked it.

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Cipher," a male voice called out. "You're twelve hours late. I was about to scrub the mission."

Evita wrapped a towel around her hair and pulled on a thick bathrobe. She opened the door. Harper was standing there, holding a tablet, his face pale.

She walked past him into the living room, grabbing a tube of heavy-duty concealer from her bag. She began dabbing it onto the bruise on her neck.

"Mission aborted," she signed, her hands moving sharply. "Complications."

"Complications?" Harper scoffed. He shoved the tablet at her. "Look at the news. Vanderbilt Estate is on lockdown. They're saying it's a manhunt for a corporate spy."

Evita's heart skipped a beat. She took the tablet. The headline screamed: STONE SECURITY BREACH.

"Is that you?" Harper asked.

Evita didn't answer. She walked over to the pile of clothes she had discarded on the floor. She picked up the navy jacket.

"Holy shit," Harper breathed. He reached out and touched the fabric. "Is that... Vicuña wool? That's a forty-thousand-dollar jacket."

He flipped the lapel. Embroidered in silver thread were two small letters: J.S.

"J.S.," Harper muttered. He typed furiously on his keyboard. "Jedidiah Stone? The cripple? The recluse?"

Evita sank onto the sofa. The room spun. She had slept with the Broken King.

"If it was him," Harper said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you are in serious trouble. Stone security is Mossad-level. If he finds you..."

"He didn't see my face," Evita said. Her voice was raspy, unused to being used. "It was dark. I was careful."

Harper looked at her, surprised by the sound of her voice. He rarely heard it.

Her burner phone buzzed on the table. It was the specific ringtone assigned to the Peck family. A shrill, demanding chime.

Evita picked it up.

"Where the hell are you?" Eleanora's voice screeched through the speaker. "Cherry said you ran off last night! Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused?"

Evita didn't speak. She tapped the microphone twice with her fingernail. Tap. Tap.

"Get back to D.C. immediately," Eleanora yelled. "I have news for you. And don't you dare make me wait."

The line went dead.

Evita stared at the phone. "She wants me back."

"Don't go," Harper said. "It's a trap. Stay here. We can extract you."

Evita stood up. Her eyes were cold, the fear replaced by a steely resolve. "No. The safest place is right under their noses. Jedidiah Stone is looking for a spy. He won't be looking for the Senator's mute, broken doll."

She began to pack. She took the navy jacket, folded it carefully inside out, and placed it in the hidden bottom compartment of her suitcase.

At the Stone Estate, Quentin stood before Jedidiah's desk.

"The camera feeds weren't looped, sir. They were corrupted. A localized EM pulse fried the recorders for a ninety-second window, exactly when she would have passed the main camera bank. It's not amateur work; it's military-grade stealth tech. We only have a back profile from a distance camera." Quentin hesitated. "We did find that Evita Peck, the Senator's illegitimate daughter, left early. She fits the general build."

Jedidiah looked up from his computer. "The mute?"

"Yes, sir."

Jedidiah let out a short, derisive laugh. "A traumatized girl who can't even speak? You think she deployed an EMP, breached my security, disabled three locks, and cleaned a crime scene?" He shook his head. "Don't waste my time. Check the others."

"Yes, sir."

"But," Jedidiah added, his eyes darkening, "keep an eye on the Peck family. O'Connell was looking for someone last night. There might be a connection."

Evita stepped out of the safe house, wearing an oversized gray sweater and thick-rimmed glasses. Her posture slumped, her gaze vacant. She was Evita Peck again.

A black SUV rolled slowly past the corner. The tinted window lowered an inch, just enough for a pair of eyes to watch her get into a cab.