He looks even worse in person.
Golden hair that flops perfectly like it’s got its own PR team. That lazy smirk like he’s constantly posing for a campaign ad. And shoulders that say, I get away with everything.

Lucas Monroe.

Everything about him screams: privileged, flirty, entitled.

And yet—he’s sharper than I expected.

His eyes scan the room fast. He's tracking details, not just soaking in the mirror. That's dangerous.

I go back to my books, but I keep him in my peripheral. He’s angry. Entitled. But something else simmers underneath it. Like a storm waiting for permission to break.

He tries to be charming after that. I can tell.

“So, roomie,” he says, full-smile, teeth white and effortless. “Should we set some ground rules? Like how you can’t seduce me in my sleep?”

I don’t even flinch.

“You’re not my type.”

“Oh?” he leans in. “What is your type?”

I turn slowly. “Alive. I prefer them alive.”

Wes chokes on a laugh. Lucas looks personally offended.

He turns quiet after that. Cold. I can feel him watching me, like he’s trying to decide if I’m real or just really irritating.

Let him.

I’ve trained for worse.

I’ve survived worse.

And this mission? It’s just beginning.