She was a diplomat's assistant. Blonde, green-eyed, built like a luxury model and dressed in silk you couldn't afford without a political sponsor. She'd been eyeing me all night at the gala Ortega forced me to attend for PR reasons.
"You're Takeshi Kovacs," she said as I poured whiskey at the bar.
"Depends who's asking," I replied, half-smiling.
"I'm curious what it's like to be an Envoy." She leaned closer. Her voice was low, breath hot on my skin. "Emotionally detached. Supernaturally skilled. Legendary in bed."
I smirked. "One way to find out."
Her suite was elegant but sterile—like the woman herself. Polished, practiced, pretty. But she wasn't Reileen.
That made me fuck her harder.
I took her against the window overlooking Bay City, her legs wrapped around my waist, nails in my shoulders, screams muffled by the glass. She begged me to finish inside her—"Don't pull out. I'm clean. It's all legal."—and I did. Roughly. Not because she was special, but because I wanted to see if I could still feel something for someone not Reileen.
The answer?
No.
When I left her sleeping and walked out of the building, I found the street silent.
Too silent.
Then I saw it.
The doorman was slumped over in his chair, neck twisted unnaturally. Blood pooled beneath him. No alarm. No struggle. Just death, clean and elegant.
Like her.
Reileen waited in the shadows of my hotel room when I returned.
She was still in the black silk robe from the night before. Only now it was stained at the hem with fresh blood.
She stood up slowly, her eyes unreadable. "She touched you."
"I never said I wouldn't fuck anyone else," I said, crossing the room. "You never asked me to."
"I don't ask," she whispered.
I reached for her.
She slapped me.
Hard.
I laughed.
She kissed me.
Harder.
She shoved me onto the bed and crawled over me like a woman possessed.
"I smelled her on you," she said, voice trembling. "That cheap perfume. Her cunt on your lips. Her taste on your cock."
I didn't say a word.
I let her rage—with her mouth, her nails, her body.
She straddled me and slid down onto my still-hard length, grinding, furious, fast. Her hips moved like she wanted to erase the memory of the other woman. Her nails dug into my chest. Her eyes never left mine.
"You're mine," she growled. "Only mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
Her orgasm hit like a thunderclap—full-body, spine-arched, moaning my name like a broken prayer. But she didn't stop. She kept riding me, over and over, until she was raw and shaking.
When she finally collapsed on top of me, sweaty and panting, she whispered, "She's dead, you know."
"I figured," I said calmly, stroking her hair.
"I didn't make it clean. I wanted her to feel it."
I looked into her eyes. "You know I'm still going to sleep with others, right?"
"I don't care," she whispered, pressing her lips to my throat. "But I'll kill every single one of them. Every. Last. Bitch."
And something about that… thrilled me.
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