ery

to a blur over the m

n's digital footprints to keep the FBI off his back. I kne

countdown for *Tabula Rasa* vanished, buryi

highly complex, chaotic flow chart of offsh

taircase. His towering frame completely blo

oose. The sharp, heavy scent of aged whiskey roll

worse. The sickly-sweet, hyper-expensive scen

physical and psychological disgust hit me like a punch to the gut, but I bit down har

hair. His large, heavy hands

inst the back of my chair as he tried

e mug near the monitor. The movement naturally angle

r. His dark eyebrows snapped tog

ill suspended. A flash of dark annoyance

d, keeping my face a mask o

cling through three separate shell compani

ata on the screen to force his attent

out a low, cold grunt, choosing not

r, crossing his long legs

the side of my face, his gaze stripping me do

pped bird. My chest felt tight, but the hand

amped around my jaw, his fingers digging into my

my bottom lip, pressing hard enough to

ooking for that pathetic, lovesick devotion I usuall

rs slump. I perfectly mimicked the exhaust

He looked mildly satisf

knuckles rapping a slow, rhythm

felt like it plummeted another te

ce stretched, broken only by

or the Swiss offshore accou

dilated

e node that *Tabula Rasa* was curren

countdown timer tick

inches from the screen. His massive, suf

o. I want to see the live