Page 8 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

“This isn't how we end,” I tell her quietly.

“It has to be." She blinks too fast. “Go.”

I open the door and step into the hallway. She doesn't lower the gun. The deadbolt locks behind the closed door. It takes everything inside me to walk away.

CHAPTER 3

Lee

6 MONTHS EARLIER

If hell had a lobby, it would look exactly like this FBI office at 8:07 on a Monday morning. Harsh overhead lights and burnt coffee mix with the smell of all the ambitious interns at the front of the office.

One of them tries to greet me with a wave, and I return the gesture with a heated glare. That was brave. Stupid but brave.

I shove open the glass door with my shoulder, coffee in one hand, folder in the other, still trying to blink the sleep from my eyes. I’m already regretting the heels. My mood is a ten out of ten on the fuck-around-and-find-out scale.

A man is in my office. He’s sitting in my chair, at my desk, and he’s smiling like he just won the lottery.

“Morning, kid.”

I blink, but he’s still there. Not a hallucination then. Maybe he went to the wrong office.

“You lost, or just brainless?” I ask, setting my folder and coffee down with a look that could kill.

He leans back, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Does my body language not display that he should know his days are numbered?

God, he looks young. Tousled blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. His eyes are a soft brown, almost hazel, and everything about him is too pretty for this department. And his lips? Smirking looks really good on him.

“Relax. I’m Elliot. Your new partner.”

My brain short-circuits.

“No,” I say, spinning on my heel to find Fuller and tell him exactly what corner of hell he can shove this idea into.

Before I make it three steps, Director Fuller appears before me in my doorway like he was listening in on this conversation, waiting for his cue.

“Agent Leighlan, this was cleared last week. Elliot Ryker is here on a temporary reassignment. Consider it a personal favor.”

“For who?” I demand.

“Me.” His gaze shifts briefly to Elliot. “His access is already cleared. You’ll brief him on everything relevant to your current cases.”

Then he walks away before I can refuse.

I stare at the empty doorway, willing myself into an alternate universe where my desk is mine and my peace has not been invaded by dimples and a smug… whatever is really smug. I’m too tired for metaphors.

Elliot clears his throat.

“So, you wanna arm wrestle for the good chair?”

I give him a look.

He grins wider.

I hate him already.