Color floods her cheeks again, but this time she doesn’t argue. Her head comes to rest against my shoulder, auburn hair tickling my neck.
The vanilla scent intensifies, mixing with her natural feminine smell in ways that make concentration nearly impossible. Every breath fills my lungs with her; every small movement sends awareness racing through my system.
Fuck. This woman is going to be the death of me.
“Better?”
“Yes.” The word comes out muffled against my shoulder. “Thank you.”
Professional distance. Maintain professional fucking distance.
But when she relaxes against me, trusting me to keep her warm and safe in this freezing basement while killershunt us above, something in my chest tightens in ways that have nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with the way she feels in my arms.
“Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“Are we really going to be okay?”
The question comes out small, vulnerable. Fear finally breaking through academic curiosity and stubborn independence. She’s scared—terrified—and trying to be brave about it.
My arm comes around her shoulders automatically, pulling her closer against me. The movement positions her more securely against me, sharing more body heat while keeping her within immediate protective reach.
“We’re going to be fine.”
“Promise?”
Promises in tactical situations are worthless. Too many variables, too many ways for plans to go wrong. But the way she asks—like she needs something to hold onto in the darkness—makes the word come out anyway.
“Promise.”
I tighten my arms around her, pulling her close against my chest, tucking her in like she’s something precious that needs protecting. She’s quiet after that, breathing evening out as exhaustion and the natural crash of adrenaline compete for dominance.
My hand moves to her hair, fingers threading through the auburn strands. I work out the tangles from our crawl through the tunnel, smoothing the silky waves. The motion is soothing, automatic—something I’d do for a lover after sex—if I ever kept one. I’ve definitely never done this for a client during a protection detail.
Her breathing slows gradually, and only when she starts to doze against my shoulder do I realize what the hell I’m doing.
Shit.
The basement’s mechanical systems continue their steady rhythm around us, providing white noise that masks our conversation from any surveillance equipment Phoenix might deploy.
Above us, campus settles into late-night quiet. Emergency responders complete their building sweep, finding no sign of fire or structural damage. Phoenix teams maintain their perimeter surveillance, patient and professional.
Waiting.
Dr. Eliza Wren fits against me like she belongs, warm and soft and trusting. Her breathing slows gradually, fear giving way to exhaustion as her body finally accepts that immediate death isn’t imminent.
Four hours until dawn. Four hours of keeping her warm, safe, and alive.
Four hours of fighting the growing certainty that this assignment just became infinitely more complicated than a simple protection detail.
Because somewhere between her stubborn questions and sharp intelligence, between her courage in the face of mortal terror, and the way she smells like vanilla and possibility, Dr. Eliza Wren stopped being just another client.
And that’s the most dangerous development of all.
SIX
Eliza
