"Where are we going?" Connor breathed, his voice barely a whisper against my ear.
"Panic room," I murmured. "Master bedroom. Secret entrance."
We moved with agonizing slowness, each foot of progress taking what felt like hours. I was acutely aware of how vulnerable we were—me in my wheelchair, unable to run; Connor refusing to leave my side despite the danger.
The irony wasn't lost on me. For years after my accident, I'd insisted I needed no one, could handle everything alone. Now, my survival—our survival—depended on perfect cooperation.
A noise from the living room made us freeze. Voices, low but urgent, and then footsteps heading in our direction. I gestured toward an alcove, and Connor immediately understood, helping maneuver my chair into the small space. We pressed ourselves against the wall, barely daring to breathe as two men walked past, their flashlight beams sweeping methodically across the hallway.
"Harris wants the data and both of them alive," one man murmured to the other. "For now."
Those last two words sent ice through my veins. For now. A temporary reprieve, nothing more.
Once they passed, we continued our slow progress toward the master bedroom. The door was partially open, a thin sliver of that red emergency light spilling out into the hallway.
I paused, listening for any sound from within, then nodded to Connor. He slipped past me, pushing the door open wider, checking the space before motioning me forward.
The master bedroom was empty, but evidence of the search was everywhere—drawers pulled open, clothes strewn across the floor, even the mattress askew as if they'd checked underneath it. They were thorough, professional. Not hired thugs, but trained operatives.
I wheeled directly to the bookshelf that concealed the panic room entrance, my fingers finding the biometric scanner hidden beneath the third book from the left. I pressed my palm against it, waiting for the soft hum of recognition, for the click of locks disengaging.
Nothing.
I tried again, my heart rate accelerating with each passing second.
Still nothing.
"It won't open without power," Connor hissed, his eyes darting nervously toward the bedroom door.
"Backup generator should kick in any second," I replied, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the mounting tension. "The security system runs on an independent circuit."
As if summoned by my words, a low hum vibrated through the walls. The emergency lights flickered, then brightened slightly. The scanner beneath my hand warmed, and a soft beep—too loud in the tense silence—signaled recognition.
The bookshelf slid silently aside, revealing the steel door of my panic room. I entered a separate code on the keypad beside it, and with a soft pneumatic hiss, the door opened.
"Inside. Quickly," I urged, wheeling myself in after Connor.
The panic room was small but efficiently designed to accommodate my wheelchair—another modification made after my accident. The door sealed behind us with reassuring finality, multiple locks engaging automatically.
The room hummed to life around us, monitors flickering on to display feeds from cameras throughout the penthouse.
I watched as Harris's men systematically searched my home, four of them that I could see, moving with military precision. On one screen, a man was in my study, methodically examining my computer with the detached focus of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for.
"Wait," Connor's voice was tight with shock. "I know him."
I followed his gaze to another monitor, where a fifth man had just entered the frame. Even in the grainy security footage, I recognized the entitled swagger, the expensive clothes that sat awkwardly on his frame—as if he were a child playing dress-up in his father's closet.
Bradley Matthews.
"My family sold me out again," Connor murmured, his voice hollow with a pain that transcended fear. "My own brother is helping them hunt me."
I reached for his hand, our fingers intertwining in the dim blue glow of the monitors. The touch was both comfort and promise—a silent vow that this betrayal, like the others, would not break him.
Not while I was here.
"Family isn't always blood," I said softly, the words more revealing than I'd intended. In the short time I'd known him, Connor had become more important to me than I cared toadmit, even to myself. More than a responsibility, more than a husband of convenience.
Something I wasn't ready to name.
