Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
"I think I’ve broken better men than you with less effort." I peel off my jacket, hanging it on the single hook by the door. My shoulder holster stays on. The gun is a comforting weight. "Strip."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Clothes. Off. Down to your boxers. I need to check you for wires, trackers, anything Maddox might have planted." I pull a small scanner from my pocket, holding it up like a threat. "Or I can do it the fun way and pat you down myself. Your call, vigilante."
He hesitates for half a second, eyes locking on mine. The air thickens, charged with something that feels too much like anticipation. Then he reaches for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. Ink and muscle greet me. Scars. A tattoo that snakes along his ribs, something technical-looking mixed with shadows. He’s built like someone who runs toward danger, not away from it.
I keep my face blank as I run the scanner over him, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. No beeps. No surprises. But my fingers itch to touch anyway, just to see if he flinches. Just to test how far this leash can stretch before it snaps.
"Turn around," I order.
He does, slow and deliberate. His back is a map of old fights. I hate how my gaze lingers.
"Satisfied?" he asks over his shoulder, voice laced with mockery.
"Not even close." I toss him a plain black t-shirt from the supply stack in the corner. "Put this on. You smell like hospital and bad decisions."
Poe catches it one-handed, slipping it on. The fabric clings in all the wrong places. Or right places, depending on how I look at it. I push the thought away hard.
"Now what, handler?" He drops onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching me like I’m the unpredictable one here.
I grab a chair from the small table, dragging it over to sit across from him. Legs crossed, scanner set aside but gun still visible. "Now we talk. You tell me everything about Maddox Security. Their next moves. Their weaknesses. And I decide whether you get to call your sister again tomorrow."
His expression hardens. "And if I don’t feel like chatting?"
I smile, slow and sweet, the one I save for men who think they can negotiate. "Then we play games. I ask. You answer. Or I make things uncomfortable. For you. For Enley. Your choice."
Poe stands, stepping closer. He leans forward, close enough that I catch the faint scent of him again, something clean under the tension. His eyes drop to my mouth for a split second before snapping back up. "You enjoy this, don't you? Playing warden."
"I enjoy results." My voice stays even, but heat creeps up my neck. Damn him. "And right now, you’re the job. Nothing more. So start talking, Poe. Or the night is going to get very long and very painful."
He holds my gaze, the silence stretching taut between us like a wire about to sing. Outside, the warehouse hums with distant activity. Inside, the one-bed reality settles in, heavy and intimate and full of bad ideas.
I don’t like it.
But something in the way he looks at me says he might like it even less.
Or maybe he likes it too much.
Either way, this is going to be a problem. A delicious, dangerous problem wrapped in forced proximity and too many secrets.
I cross my arms tighter and wait for him to break first.
He doesn’t.
Not yet.
But the night is young, and I’m very, very good at making people obey.
THREE
POE
The room feels smaller than it should. Concrete walls pressing in, one sad overhead light buzzing like it might give up any second. I lie on my back on the king bed, staring at the ceiling tiles that probably haven’t been cleaned since the building went up. My body aches in that deep, bone-tired way that comes from too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. Every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.
I should be thinking about escape routes. About the camera angles I spotted on the way in. About whether that keypad by the door has any weaknesses I could exploit with the junk in my pockets. Instead my brain keeps looping back to the same ugly shit.
Ozzy. Arrow. Knight. Gage. Render.
They probably hate me right now.
By morning the whole Maddox crew will know my name is tied to that hack. They’ll see the breadcrumbs Goldenbell planted so neatly. Ozzy will be pacing that safehouse, fists clenched, wondering how the guy who sat next to him eating cold pizza could sell them out. Arrow will go quiet in that scary way of his, already running scenarios where I’m the mole. Knight will crack his knuckles and mutter about putting a bullet in my skull if he ever sees me again. Gage and Render? They’ll just look disappointed. That might be worse.