We slip through just as the main door splinters open. He eases the closet door shut behind us, and we’re plunged into musty darkness that smells like old textbooks and dust. Through the thin door, I hear boots storming into my office.
“Empty. Target’s not here.” A harsh male voice, accent I can’t place.
“Check the computers. See what she was working on.”
His hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing once. A signal to move. We creep through the connecting classroom, my heels impossibly loud on the old wooden floor despite my attempts to walk on my toes. Every step sounds like thunder to my ears.
“Where are we going—who were those men—is Morrison okay—why do they want me dead?—”
“Quiet,” he breathes against my ear, and the warmth of his breath sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine.
We reach the classroom door. He checks the hallway, then pulls me out and to the left, away from my office. His hand onmy lower back guides me with gentle pressure—turn here, faster now, stop. It’s like a dance where only he knows the steps.
The Gothic architecture of Georgetown, which has always felt like home, now feels like a maze. These stone walls that sheltered my academic pursuits suddenly seem to close in. The narrow hallways that once felt cozy now trap us with limited escape routes.
Behind us, shouting. They’ve discovered we’re not in my office.
Without warning, he yanks the fire alarm on the wall. The piercing shriek makes me jump, instinctively pressing closer to him.
“Chaos,” he says simply. “Misdirection.”
Of course. The alarm will force any remaining security to investigate, and the men who are after me will have to account for emergency responders. It buys us time and confusion.
He pulls me through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” The maintenance corridor beyond is narrow, forcing us closer together. Exposed pipes run along the ceiling, and the air smells of industrial cleaner and dust. The fire alarm is muffled here but still audible, adding urgency to our movement.
“Who are you?” The questions pour out despite his earlier command. “Cerberus Security, like the three-headed dog that guards the underworld? Is that supposed to be reassuring? Because mythologically speaking, Cerberus isn’t exactly friendly. He prevents the dead from leaving, which technically makes him more of a prison guard than a protector, and?—”
He stops so abruptly that I collide with his back. Solid. Warm. Immovable.
He turns in the narrow space, and suddenly we’re face-to-face, inches apart. Those green eyes bore into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. This close, I can see flecksof gold in the green, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his mouth?—
“Dr. Wren.” His voice is low, controlled, but holds an edge. “Nine professional killers from an organization called Phoenix are hunting you through this building. They want to extract information about what you decoded, then kill you and make it look like suicide. We need to move fast and silent. So for the love of God, shut up.”
The words are harsh, but something in his expression isn’t. I see respect there, mixed with frustration and something else—awareness. The same awareness that’s making my skin tingle everywhere he’s almost touching me.
I open my mouth to respond—probably to explain that verbal processing is actually a recognized cognitive strategy and that suppressing it could impair my ability to think clearly?—
His finger presses against my lips. Warm. Calloused. Gentle despite everything.
“Please,” he says, and something about that single word, the way his voice drops when he says it, makes me nod.
For the first time in my adult life, I actually want to be quiet. Not because I have nothing to say—my mind is racing with a thousand questions and observations—but because this man, this dangerous stranger who smells like violence and safety combined, told me to.
That realization terrifies me more than the killers hunting us through Georgetown’s Gothic halls. I’ve never obeyed anyone’s commands, never wanted to surrender control, but something about his absolute authority makes me want to comply.
He removes his finger from my lips slowly, his eyes tracking the movement. The air between us crackles with tension that has nothing to do with Phoenix and everything to do with the way we’re looking at each other.
Then distant shouting breaks the spell. Phoenix is systematically searching the building despite the fire alarm chaos.
“Move.”
His command shocks me, and I instantly obey.
He leads me deeper into the maintenance corridors, through a confusing series of turns that have me completely lost. The passages seem to run between the building’s walls, probably original to the construction. The air gets colder, damper, and I realize we’re heading down.
“The basement?” I whisper, proud of myself for managing just two words.
He nods, approval flickering in his eyes. Maybe I can learn to be quiet after all.
