by Sable Jordan
The dreamy look Sumi wore at Sacha Sokoviev’s Chateau de Crazy was plastered on her face. To prevent having to explain a dead body, Kizzie inched the chair back until she was out of the doorway and fully in the common area. Sumi followed on her knees.
“Did you know,” she made another fold and then tucked it in on itself, “in the year nineteen hundred and twelve the mayor of Tokyo gave your country a gift of Japanese cherry trees? 3,020 of them, all different varieties, as a sign of friendship. Later, we went to war against each other, but now we’re great friends again.
“The trees bloom every year, and there’s a big festival in your country’s capital.” She made two more bends in the paper. Tucked a corner, folded it and tucked again. “I’ve seen pictures on the internet. They’re so pretty there around the water, almost as pretty as the sakura that blooms here.”
Sumi went silent once more, concentrating on her work.
“And now?”
She raised bright eyes to Kizzie’s, cocked her head.
“You said you used to love sakura. Now…?”
“Too delicate.” Sumi scrunched up her nose. “Pretty has its uses, but most often it’s not strong enough.” She paused a beat, made a final bend in the paper. Coming up on her knees, she cradled the origami in both palms and bowed her head.
Kizzie tentatively took the offering. A five-petalled flower, the center bits curled, the outer part connecting to form a perfect star. “What is it?”
“An oleander.” Sumi rested her butt on her heels. “After our countries fought, these were the first to bloom at the bomb site at Hiroshima. This is like our friendship, Gigi, or how I’d like our friendship to be. Resilient. Hopefully, as we serve Master together, something beautiful will grow of our previous troubles. Something strong. We can’t live in the past. Could we try again to be friends?”
Kizzie didn’t answer. Sumi nodded firmly, reached over and patted Kizzie’s boot. “With time.”
Kizzie jerked her foot away.
“Where’s your collar?”
“You stole it.”
“Oh.” Sumi worried her lip as though realizing she’d opened a fresh wound. “Was…was Master angry? Did he hit you?”
She leaned forward, anticipation etched into her features. She was so near Kizzie’s knee a slight shift would catch her chin. Kizzie fought the urge and lied. “He hit me. His collar was mine to protect and I didn’t protect it. How would you feel if someone took your collar?”
“Naked,” Sumi whispered, trailing her fingers over her bare neck.
Kizzie nodded. “On top of that, I took the beating you deserved for stealing it. I won’t get a new collar since I was so…careless with my first one. Not until I can prove I won’t lose it again.”
“Yes. A good sub must prove herself…” Sumi mumbled absently. She rolled to sit on her bottom, drew her knees up until the naked bends pushed through the slit in the robe, dropping the white plackets open to either side. Beneath the robe Sumi was just as nude as her knees. She wrapped her arms around bent legs, giving Kizzie a front row seat to her nether bits. Sumi licked her lips, trailed her gaze from Kizzie’s face to her boots and back again. “Is there some way I can make it up to you?”
Kizzie chuckled, turning her head away from the overt suggestion. Sex as atonement definitely wasn’t in the cards.
“Are…are you a switch, Gigi? Do you ever top, I mean?” Sumi asked, sounding hopeful. “Have you ever hit another sub? ‘Cause…you could hit me. You could tie me and hit me, if that would make us even.”
That was the last thing Sumi wanted. Good Doms had a seemingly limitless reserve of patience and a capacity for control, knew when to stop. An opportunity to bash Sumi’s head in didn’t come with a pause button where Kizzie was concerned. And then where would they be?
“You really don’t want me to do that.”
Sumi’s optimism faded to a pout. “Master won’t hit me. I’ve asked, I’ve begged, I’ve tried to be a good sub in this short time. But he won’t punish me.”
“Misbehave,” Kizzie said, making it sound like “duh.”
Sumi frowned. “But he said he does not like brats.”
“Or don’t.” Kizzie shrugged. She didn’t really care either way, although knowing Xander hadn’t laid a finger on Sumi did seem to ease a tightness in her chest that she wasn’t previously aware of. That discomfort gone, a new one came rushing to the fore. Her bladder.
Dammit, Phil, where are you?
“Misbehave,” Sumi repeated, going inward. “I behaved for my Mistress and she still didn’t love me. The others, yes, but not me. She sent me to Sacha, didn’t she…?”
“How many subs does she have?”
“One for each element,” Sumi replied, as though that made all the sense in the world.
Kizzie’s eyes bulged. There were over a hundred of them? How many were dead that they didn’t know about?
“We were each a part of her, like the petals of a flower,” she motioned to the origami, “seconds in a minute. The rope made us sacred…”
What in hell was Sumi yammering on about?
Sumi’s head snapped up and her eyes cleared. “I can take you to her.”
Kizzie frowned.
“To make it up to you. I can—” Sumi’s gaze flicked away, came back quick as her words. She wet her lips. “I know who has your collar, Gigi. I can take you and get your collar and Master—”
The thunk of the lock disengaging drew Sumi’s gaze and cut off her plan. The door pushed open, and the crinkle of plastic mixed with heavy footsteps.
“Hello, Sir.” Sumi scrambled to get into position and Kizzie turned her head.
Xander came in, bulging plastic bag in one hand, a paper bag in the other. He looked past Kizzie as though she weren’t there; dropped the bag filled with clothes beside Sumi.
“Get dressed.” He pivoted and went to the table, set the paper bag down.
Sumi lifted her head. “No,” she said, so softly it was barely audible. Then, with more determination and volume, “No, Sir.”
Xander settled into the chair and pulled out a container. “Then sit there naked. I really don’t care. But if you intend to eat, you’ll do so with clothes on.”
Sumi shot a disheartened glance at Kizzie and then pushed herself from the floor. “Thank you for the clothing, Sir.” Bag in hand, she disappeared into the bedroom and shut the bathroom door.
“I thought Phil was my replacement.” The words were stupid and Kizzie cleared her throat. She wasn’t used to beating around the bush, but also wasn’t in the habit of apologizing. As a rule, she didn’t keep people around that she might end up having to apologize to.
Xander stared at her blankly. His eyes were red, the corners pinched. Probably another headache. Made sense since he wasn’t sleeping much.
Sighing, Kizzie pushed from her seat and went to the table. “How long are we gonna keep at this, X?”
“Depends entirely on what you mean by ‘this,’ agent.” He cocked his scarred brow. “Please clarify. I’d sincerely hate to be misunderstood.”
He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. And why should he? She was the one who screwed up.
“This… With Sumi.” Nowhere near what she’d wanted to say, and by the look on Xander’s face, nowhere near what he wanted to hear.
Xander dug his plastic spoon into the bowl of kenchinjiru and then brought it to his mouth.
“She’s playing us. She knows where Fay is.”
“Of course she is and of course she does,” he said calmly.
“So maybe she just needs a couple hard smacks to jog her memory? Move this along?”
“You asked for my help, I’m giving it to you. My way. I won’t lay a hand on Sumi and you suggesting she misbehave is a waste of her time.”
Kizzie frowned. “What makes you think–”
“Sumi’s submissive through and through; wouldn’t dream of disobeying a Master. You on the other hand…” A pointed glance. “Whatever
hair-brained scheme she’s running will just have to play out.”
“What has she told you? What aren’t you telling me?”
Another spoonful of stew. Slow, deliberate chewing.
Sumi came out of the bedroom dressed in jeans and a sweater nearly the same color as Xander’s. Clutching the hem, she smiled down at the soft cream material and giggled. “It’s like we’re twins, Sir.”
“Mm.” He pulled another container from the bag and opened it, steam wafted up from the stew. A box of rice appeared beside the bowl, along with a plastic spoon and a napkin. “Have a seat.”
“In…the chair?”
Xander twisted his head, a small frown marring his brow. “Yes, Sumi. The chair.”
“Oh…” Sumi daintily dropped onto the other seat and smiled brightly at Kizzie. “Will you be joining us, Gigi? We can sha—”
“Did I give it to you or did I give it to her?”
Sumi’s eyes widened at her error and she ducked her head. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Sorry, Sir,” Xander echoed. He turned a look on Kizzie chock full of sarcastic surprise. “You were just leaving, weren’t you, Gigi? Unless you had something else to say…”
The subversive chiding had her eyes narrowing. Yeah, she owed him an apology, but she had a reason, dammit. A reason Xander wouldn’t understand. All he’d ever known was control. Kizzie knew a life without it.
Cold steel seeped through her veins, blocking out the pity. The guilt. She didn’t allow it then, she wouldn’t allow it now.
Enough of this bullshit—enough of his bullshit. She didn’t owe Xander a damn thing. He meant as much to her as she did to him, so screw it. And screw doing things his way. She didn’t have time for that.
Kizzie glanced at Sumi, who nibbled on a potato in her soup, looking uncomfortable with the obvious tension in the room. She flicked her gaze back to Xander, his tired browns reserved. Then she spun on her heel and stalked to the door, crushing the paper flower in her grip.
Sumi wanted to be a spider.
Kizzie would give her a fly.
August 5th
Langley, VA
Fletcher headed up the hall, coffee cup in hand, footsteps heavy, jitters in his gut. Between his usual caseload and two hours until the Ellerson Op went live, sleep was at a premium lately. This was an extraction utilizing an 8-man team—two-to-four hours from head to tail, in and out quick—and it was Fletcher’s job to make sure they all made it home safely. A dangerous mission, but a larger problem had his gut in a knot.
He’d done his searching and found out about Kizzie’s P.o.I, a woman named Naima—when it wasn’t Padma, or Deja or Cadence. Each alias had a full jacket. Actually, she had enough jackets to never be cold again. A good deal of information about the woman had been redacted—suspicious in and of itself. A handful of known associates linked to her: John Barken, Xander Duquesne, Saddiq Bitar, Melina Cordova, and an Iliana Faulk.
He’d checked each out in turn; found insignificant info at best, but took a page from Agent Hayford’s book and did a detailed and thorough combing. For all the time and energy he’d put into it, Fletcher found but one line that was worthwhile.
A single reference that chilled him straight to the bone.
How would he get the info to—
His eyes shifted left to right, and the hair at his nape stood on end. Was someone watching?
Fletcher took a slow sip of the coffee, hoping the lukewarm mud would take some of the edge off. The opposite happened. He felt more high strung, more focused on the new trouble. So deep in his thoughts, Fletcher walked straight past his office. He let out a nervous chuckle and shoved his free hand through his hair. Pivoting on his toe, he came back to his door and put his hand on the knob.
“Sir.”
His head snapped up, heart slamming in his throat. His eyes had to be big as the moon and his face just as pale because Agent Hayford approached with a troubled frown.
“Are you okay?”
Okay? Okay? Hell no!
Plastering on some semblance of a smile, he bobbed his head and abandoned his mug on a small table just outside his door. Then he covered the short distance to meet her. They stopped a foot apart from each other when he really wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. For being an ass… Because he missed her… Because he might never be able to do it again…
“What’s wrong?”
Fletcher stared at her a long moment, watching as her gaze flitted over his face. Should he tell her? He wanted to, but the risk was too great. He was already sucked into Kizzie’s whirlwind, he wouldn’t take Hayford down with him.
“I’m fine.”
She cleared her throat, took a little step back; glanced around to be sure they were alone. At this hour, not many others were in the office, and all the cameras at Langley focused outside. Anyone who got past security was supposed to be here and therefore didn’t need watching—until they went outside again, but that was another story.
Still, propriety dictated he and Rachel keep their personal relationship separate from their professional. And the “don’t eat where you shit” rule of the CIA and myriad businesses around the world dictated they keep it secret.
With everything else going on, he hadn’t had a chance to work out the details of this much-needed conversation, and started at the heart of the matter.
“Agent Hayford, I should apo—”
“You’ll do it again,” she said, raising her palm to stop him. “You’ve always done it. I’ve just let it go and chalked it up to being how you’re wired. It’s not okay, sir.”
“I under—”
“No.” Rachel shook her head, the bun so secure it didn’t even shift with the motion. “You need to hear this as much as I need to say it. I’m not here because of nepotism. Didn’t get this job laying on my back counting ceiling tiles, and I don’t have secret tapes with which to blackmail the department head. I earned this.” She tapped her sternum to punctuate her point. “My degree says it, passing the required testing says it, and that two weeks ago I was offered a chance to test for the position of Special Operations Officer says it. I’m fully capable of doing my job—in fact, somebody ranked way higher than me thinks I’m capable enough to do yours.”
She smirked, although without the smugness needed to make the barb sting. “I’ve done a lot for this team. I pull my weight and then some. My training officer told me no idea is a bad one, so I won’t stand for him now blowing off my ideas just because he thinks they’re based on some, quote, ‘juju feeling’. I don’t deserve that. And since you need hard evidence that water’s wet, there are more than enough studies around that affirm both the existence and importance of intuition. I’d be happy to compile a file for you and hand deliver it at a time of your choosing, Agent Fletcher.”
That one stung, and rightly so. He’d treated her horribly, had done it for years in the guise of protection. Now Rachel had an opportunity to get away from his oppression and move up in the Company. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to. “Are you leaving?”
“Surprise surprise. Not even listening.”
“Heard every word. Are you leaving?”
“Can you think of a single reason for me not to?” Violet-blue eyes dazzled with a urgency he’d never seen before. Fletcher had underestimated her ability, just as he’d underestimated her resolve.
She was leaving.
Panic surged around the huge knot already in his gut. Rachel Hayford was an essential part of his team. His life. Invaluable and irreplaceable. Her leaving didn’t have to interfere with their personal relationship, but it would. Different hours. More secrets. Power struggles...competition—at least on Fletcher’s end. Not to mention the general stress of the job. Two people under that kind of strain trying to make a relationship work that they weren’t supposed to be having? Recipe for a perfect disaster.
“Congratulations, Agent Hayford. I have every confidence you’ll pass the exams and make a damn fine SOO. The Company’s lucky to have
you.”
Rachel bent her head toward his outstretched hand, lifted her chin again. “I’ll give you one more chance to say what you really mean. And if I don’t like it, I’m gonna call your bluff.”
Fletcher stood a long moment, grappling with his response. He was a hardass, he knew, and Rachel didn’t deserve to be the constant target of his misguided ire. She had a long, promising career ahead of her, and keeping her there would be selfish and cruel. He had no right to hold her back. He should let her go.
As though agreeing with him, Rachel blew a laugh through her nose and edged away. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Without thought, his hand curled over her shoulder to stop her. “I need you, Rach.” Realizing the contact wasn’t appropriate even though no one was around, he dropped his hand. His gaze never wavered. “I need you.”
A pregnant pause. She shook her head sadly. “Why didn’t that make me feel better?”
Swallowing hard, Fletcher pushed a hand through his hair, glanced at the clock nearby. “Ellerson’s going live in a couple hours. Once it’s mission accomplished, I’ll come by. We can talk.” He straightened his shoulders and tried again. “Can I come by to talk?”
“Yeah,” Rachel gave a tired nod and stepped around him. “Don’t stay too late, Dougie.”
Fletcher went back to his office, forcing his thoughts from the sweet sway of Rachel’s hips and the steady click of sensible shoes. He’d have to clean up his act. And why not? She was worth cleaning it up for. He grabbed the coffee off the table and took a sip that warmed him as he pushed through the door.
And stopped cold.
A woman stood behind his desk, her back to him while she studied a picture on his wall. She wasn’t much shorter than Rachel. Hair the color of ash stopped in a blunt-cut bob that just dusted the collar of a smart, dove gray suit coat. The classic scents of nicotine and Chanel No.5 co-mingled in Fletcher’s nose.
“He was the best, Worthington,” she said, adding the name to help him determine who she meant from the five men in the photo. Wistfulness and admiration colored her whiskeyed voice. “All of them were—these old guards.”