~~Sinveer POV ~~~
I see she's acting like her usual self now. She didn't react when I enter a room.
She doesn't blink when I stand too close.
But her breath always gives her away.
Just a little hitch. The faintest hesitation.
I've started building entire days around that single sound.
Everyone else has gone home.
Liach hasn't.
She's still at her desk, typing reports that don't matter, dressed like she doesn't know I'm watching her. Slacks tailored sharp. Blouse pristine. That pale neck exposed like a goddamn invitation.
I don't say a word.
I let her work.
I wait. Because tonight isn't about commands.
It's about tests.
~7:28 PM – EAST WING CONFERENCE ROOM~
The room is cold. Floor-to-ceiling glass. A full-length wall mirror near the bar cart—untouched since we shut this wing down three months ago.
I had it cleaned this morning.
I called it a strategy briefing.
Didn't tell her it was a trap. Didn't mention that the security cameras are already disabled.
I just said, "Be here. Bring the Petrov file. 7:30."
She arrives two minutes early.
She always does.
She steps inside like she owns the silence.
Heels clicking across marble. Folder in hand. Expression blank, but body taut.
She sees the mirror instantly. Takes it in. Doesn't show it matters.
Good. I like her smart.
"Mr. De Luna," she says.
Her voice is composed.
I lean against the bar, not facing her directly.
"Close the door."
She obeys.
Clicks it shut.
She walks toward the table, opens the folder. "Petrov's rerouting assets through Montenegro. It looks like—"
"I'm not interested in the files," I interrupt, voice smooth, slow.
She pauses.
Looks up.
"Then why—?"
I push off the bar and cross the room.
Not fast.
Measured.
She watches me approach like she's not nervous. Like she doesn't remembering the last time we were alone. Her hands stay on the table, fingers spread just slightly.
I step behind her.
Close enough to smell her.
That scent—sweet and acidic. Like sex wrapped in steel.
My voice is low at her ear. "You ever wonder who watches you when you think no one's around?"
She tenses.
Not visibly.
But her shoulders rise half an inch.
I see everything.
"You always sit in the same chair in the archive room," I murmur. "You trace the rim of your coffee cup when you're bored. And when you're focused, you press your legs together."
I feel her breath stutter.
She swallows.
Says nothing.
I let silence settle between us.
Then I circle around.
She stands her ground. Straightens. Eyes on mine.
But now there's heat there.
And suspicion.
Perfect.
"I had this room cleaned for a reason," I say. "I wanted to see you in it."
Her jaw flexes. "Why?"
I don't answer.
I step forward, backing her toward the mirror.
She moves one step back.
Then another.
Until her spine touches glass.
And I stop an inch from her.
I lift my hand—slowly—and trace my knuckle along the edge of her jaw.
Not a threat.
Not a caress.
Just possession.
"I think you lie to me," I say quietly.
Her gaze sharpens. "About what?"
"About everything."
Her lips part slightly.
My eyes drop to them. Lingering on them.
But I don't move closer.
I press my hand flat to the glass beside her head, boxing her in.
Her breath fogs the mirror behind her.
"You've built a perfect little story," I continue. "Smart, loyal, quiet. No enemies. No secrets."
I dip my head just enough that our noses nearly brush.
"But people like you don't exist."
Her voice cracks slightly. "What kind of people am I, exactly?"
I smile. Small. Dangerous.
"The kind that bite when no one's watching."
She doesn't answer.
So I press.
Not with questions.
With presence.
I lower my hand to her waist.
Fingers curling over her hip.
She stiffens—but doesn't pull away.
I lean in until my mouth brushes her ear.
"Do you know why I haven't touched you like this before?"
She stays silent.
"Because I wanted to see how long you'd last."
My hand slides to her lower back.
I step closer.
Now our bodies touch—front to front.
Nothing overt.
Just enough to feel the tension between us.
Enough for her to know she can't run.
Not here.
Not now.
"You've been playing a very careful game," I whisper, voice like a secret. "But the cracks are starting to show."
Her breathing is shallow.
But her eyes?
Sharp. Controlled. Unwavering.
"Are you accusing me of something, Mr. De Luna?"
I meet her gaze.
And lie with a smile.
"No."
She relaxes— but barely.
I press a little harder against her.
"Not yet."
A beat passes.
She's burning under her skin.
I can feel it.
See it in her throat, the way it pulses.
In her hands—clenched too tightly at her sides.
And when I speak again, it's barely audible.
"I wonder," I murmur, "if I pushed your skirt up right now… would you stop me?"
Her lips part.
But no words come.
I slide my hand just slightly down her spine.
Her pupils dilate.
But still—she says nothing.
I move closer still.
Now my thigh is between hers.
My other hand lifts—
To the mirror.
I trace a finger through the fog left by her breath.
Draw a single word.
LIAR.
She watches me do it.
Silent.
Then I pull back..
I fix my cuff.
Straighten my collar.
"Thank you for the file," I say.
She doesn't move.
Not even when I walk past her towards the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Brain."