Page 40 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

Julian doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. The tactical processor behind his eyes stalls out completely.

“What?”

“The lost-and-found desk.” I don’t break eye contact. The surrender of the secret is a physical release, terrifying in its finality, but I keep the final piece—the physical claim number—firmly locked away. I’m not completely reckless.

He stares at me. The realization of what I just told him slowly filters through the exhaustion. I didn’t hide the Consortium’s master financial ledger in a secure server farm or a buried lockbox.

“A casino?”

“Because the Consortium launders through the Venetian system.” I wait for him to process the audacity of the play. “I hid the key to their kingdom inside their house.”

Julian breaks the silence. A short, disbelieving laugh escapes his chest. He shakes his head, staring at me like I’m the most terrifying, magnificent thing he’s ever seen.

“It’s excellent.”

Coming from him, the acknowledgment is profound. It isn’t just tactical respect. It’s total, unvarnished awe. He doesn’t just see a target or an asset anymore. He sees me.

The air in the room suddenly grows impossibly heavy, thick enough to choke on.

Julian doesn’t look away. The exhaustion dragging at his shoulders completely vanishes, replaced by something infinitely sharper and significantly more dangerous.

His gaze drops to my mouth, flicking up to lock onto my eyes before dropping right back to my lips.

I know exactly what he thinks. The raw hunger in his stare acts like an accelerant on the reckless desire already overflowing in my chest.

He takes a half-step forward. The deliberate shift in his stance—the sudden, predatory stillness of a man who finally stops fighting his instincts—sends a fresh spike of adrenaline straight into my bloodstream.

I don’t back up. I couldn’t move if the building was on fire.

He takes another step, perfectly closing the distance between us until the heat radiating off his chest is a physical pressure against mine.

I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. His eyes are entirely dark, tracking the erratic jump of my pulse right above the collar of my shirt.

“You are fucking magnificent.” His voice drops into a dark, ragged octave vibrating straight through the floorboards. “You’re unstoppable. Crazy intelligent. Reckless as hell. You’re perfectly beautiful and utterly terrifying.”

His gaze locks onto mine, a full admission of how completely I demolished his control. “I see all of you.”

He doesn’t give me three seconds to pull away. He doesn’t ask for permission. His hands lift, framing the sides of my face, his thumbs tracking the line of my jaw with a rough, calloused scrape. The touch isn’t hesitant or careful. It is a possessive, grounding claim—the physical reaction of a man completely intoxicated by the audacity of my power move.

I lean into the heat of his palms, the last remaining thread of my control snapping entirely.

He tilts my chin, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

Then his mouth crashes down on mine.

The impact is explosive. Adrenaline, exhaustion, and days of brutal, suppressed desire erupt all at once. There is no gentleness. It’s a collision of teeth and desperate breath, a frantic search for the physical anchor we both so desperately need.

My hands fist in the thick cotton of his T-shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the heavy, solid wall of his chest.

He groans. The sound vibrates against my mouth, a dark, primal admission of exactly how much he wants this. His arms wrap around my waist, hauling me up from the floor. I wrap my legs around his hips, holding on as he walks me backward, slamming my back against the nearest plaster wall.

The impact knocks the breath out of my lungs, but I don’t care. I pull his head back down, kissing him harder, demanding more of the consuming heat.

“Ivy.” He tears his mouth away, burying his face in the curve of my neck. His breathing is ragged, his heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my chest. “If we do this. We cross a line.”

“Shut up and cross it.” I slide my hands up into his hair, gripping tightly, refusing to let him pull back into the safety of the handler role.

He doesn’t ask again.