Sacrifice the Wicked Read Free Page A

into his features. His eyes glittered. By day, she knew they were a mixed green and brown. Hazel eyes; sometimes one, sometimes the other. Sometimes gold.
    “Damn,” Simon said, sucking in air with a painful hiss. But his white teeth flashed in a thin smile. “I’ll remember that next time.”
    Nerves, anger, pitched in her belly.
    Parker forced her knees to lock, her shoulders to straighten. Unflappable Mission Director. That’s what she had to be.
    That’s what she was .
    “There won’t ever be a next time, ” she said, proud when her voice remained even. As self-possessed as he was. “Get out, Mr. Wells. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
    When his smile slanted into an arrogant, self-satisfactory curve, she bit out, “At the office .”
    The fact she even had to clarify galled.
    He turned, presented her with his broad back, and picked up the folder again. The triptych sigil on its cover gleamed. Operation Wayward Rose.
    She wasn’t going to stop him this time. The damage was done. Nothing he did could keep her silent. Unless he killed her.
    He could try.
    “Oh, and Director Adams?” He paused in the office door frame. The night painted his features in shadow, turning the hollows under his cheekbones and the beautifully angled line of his jaw into something sinister. “Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”
    She raised her chin, forcing her gaze to remain on the back of his head. Not on the powerful line of his back, leaner than some of her more built missionaries, but no less muscled for it. She’d seen him in various stages of undress—hard to avoid it in the training facilities and in such close quarters. She’d seen most of her missionaries.
    But his body put her tongue in knots.
    “I don’t believe you,” she told him, cool as the air she pulled into her lungs. “You’re a spy for the witches, for Lauderdale.”
    “But I’m on your side,” he repeated.
    Was he insane as well as a heretic? She muffled a laugh before it slipped from her lips, knowing it would only come out razor sharp. “Come talk to me when you’re ready to share what you know. Until then, Mr. Wells, count yourself lucky I’m content to let you stay.”
    “You can’t—”
    “Trust me,” she cut in, drawing herself up to her not insubstantial height. Her chin rose, but her gaze pinned him where he watched her from the door. His eyes narrowed, a dark slant of . . . surprise? “This is my Mission. There is nothing I won’t do to keep my people safe from you.”
    Simon raked long fingers through his short, coffee brown hair, turning away. “You have no idea what you’re promising.” But then his head turned, throwing his angled jaw into sharp relief. “And I can’t be there all the time. Stay out of this, Director. At least for your own good.” It wasn’t a reply. He didn’t give replies.
    It was an order. As arrogant as it always was with him, dismissive of her intent. Of her authority.
    Locking her teeth together, Parker said nothing as he left her office. Held onto the door frame with cramping fingers until she heard the final click of her front door. It beat her first choice, which was to find the nearest portable object and pitch it at his smug head.
    Her temper sizzled, a fraction of a degree cooler than the physical lust still riding her. As tempting as it would have been to give in to either, Parker didn’t dare.
    She didn’t sleep with missionaries, and she sure as hell didn’t flirt with witches. Simon was both.
    Only by the narrowest margin.
    That traitor. He hadn’t come in through her front door.
    She’d have to figure out how he’d breached her security. Shore it up if she expected to play a game she wasn’t sure she’d built herself up enough to handle.
    Politics were bad enough, but this . . . chemical warfare of need and confusion only added to the months-long political shitstorm Nadia Parrish had forced on her with Operation Wayward Rose.
    Parker was tired.
    Her lips throbbed.