We descend narrow metal stairs that creak under our weight. The basement is a maze of mechanical rooms, storage areas, and the building’s heating system. Massive boilers hum and clank, creating enough noise to mask our movement.
He leads me to what looks like a maintenance closet but opens to reveal another passage—this one leading to the utility tunnels that run beneath campus. The entrance is hidden behind a false panel that he seems to know exactly how to open.
“How do you know about?—”
His look silences me more effectively than his hand ever could. Right. Quiet.
The tunnel is concrete, cylindrical, maybe six feet in diameter. Pipes and cables run along the curved walls. It smells of earth and dampness and age. He guides me inside, his hand on my elbow steady and sure.
We move about thirty feet in, far enough that the entrance is barely visible in the darkness behind us. There’s a metal grate here, part of the tunnel’s original construction, designed to section off maintenance areas. He pulls it across behindus with a metallic scrape that echoes in the confined space. He produces a length of wire from one of his vest pockets and secures it in place.
To a casual search, we’re behind a locked maintenance barrier. To a thorough search—well, hopefully Phoenix won’t be that thorough. Not down here in the dark.
“We wait here,” he says, voice barely audible.
“How long?” I manage just two words again. Look at me, learning.
“Dawn.”
That’s it. One word. But I understand. Phoenix will search all night, but daylight brings witnesses—students, faculty, campus security. They’ll have to pull back or risk exposure. In darkness, we’re hunted. In daylight, we might have a chance.
I slide down the curved wall to sit on the cold concrete. He remains standing, alert, weapon ready. Protecting me even though he doesn’t know me, even though I can’t stop talking, even though I’m probably the worst person to protect in the history of protection details.
“Why?” I ask, then bite my lip. One word. That’s progress.
He looks down at me, and something in his expression softens fractionally. “It’s what I do.”
Four words. More than I expected.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The motion makes me smaller, and I see his jaw tighten. He shrugs out of his jacket—not the tactical vest, but a black jacket over it—and drapes it around my shoulders without a word.
It smells like him. Gun oil and soap and danger.
It smells like safety.
For now, in this tunnel beneath Georgetown, with killers hunting above and dawn hours away, I’m safe. Because this man won’t let anything happen to me.
I just have to learn to stop talking long enough to stay alive.
The hardest challenge of my life, and it has nothing to do with the PhD I earned or the code I cracked.
It has everything to do with trusting this silent warrior who makes me want to be quiet just to hear him breathe.
FOUR
Cooper
UNDERGROUND
The tunnel’sconcrete curves force us into unnatural positions. Can’t stand. Can’t stretch out. Just exist in this six-foot diameter pipe while Phoenix hunts above.
She shifts against the wall, trying to find comfort that doesn’t exist. The movement pulls her sweater tight across her chest, and I force my eyes away. Focus on the mission. Not on how her jeans hug curves that belong in fantasies, not protection details.
The emergency lighting from the basement barely reaches us here, casting everything in shadow. Just enough light to see her face, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way auburn hair falls around her shoulders. The dim glow catches highlights in those waves, making me want to wrap the strands around my fist.
Fuck. Even in a utility tunnel, she’s gorgeous.
The confined space means her scent fills every breath—vanilla from whatever she uses in her hair, something clean and feminine underneath. Close enough that when she shifts position, her knee brushes mine. Close enough to see the green of her eyes behind those stylish glasses when she looks at me.
