Sylvia hated that she couldn’t read Evans. It had been gnawing at her since the night he caught her—the night she first saw the silver charm around his neck, the one his psychic had supposedly given him. It made no sense. She could read everyone. Everyone except him.
It infuriated her so much. Because Evans was someone who never showed any uncalculated emotion, making him a wall she had no defense against.
Now, standing in his dimly lit office, that frustration boiled inside her as she watched him. He leaned against his desk, sleeves rolled up, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the chain resting against his collarbone. That stupid, infuriating charm.
“I can feel your gaze piercing through my chest,” Evans said. “Shouldn’t you be more worried that your cover as the Chameleon is blow
