“Oliver wants us at breakfast,” I said, loud enough for Bishop to hear, then leaned closer to breathe, “I’m sorry. We need to move.”
Something flickered in her eyes—not forgiveness, just acknowledgment. She pushed herself upright, my flannel shirt hanging loose enough to slip off one shoulder, revealing a bruise I didn’t remember from yesterday.
“Three minutes,” Bishop announced.
We each pulled on our pants and shoes in silence, both of us having learned the rhythm of quick changes under observation. No modesty, no hesitation, just efficiency. Her fingers trembled on her jean buttons. She finger-combed her hair into something resembling order while I splashed water on my face from the bathroom sink.
“Time,” Bishop said. “Let’s go.”
We followed him out, Mia staying close but not touching. The late morning air bit sharp, carrying that metallic taste that preceded mountain storms. Clouds built dark over the peaks, pressing lower with each passing minute. Men moved across the compound with unusual purpose—hauling equipment into the storage buildings, securing loose materials, covering theweapons range targets with tarps. Storm preparation. These old buildings would take a beating if the weather turned bad enough.
The main building’s warmth should have been welcome, but it felt oppressive. The dining area stretched long and narrow, dominated by a massive wooden table that could seat twenty. Empty now except for Oliver at its head, positioned like a king holding court.
He’d transformed completely. Gone were the tactical pants and combat boots I’d seen him in since we’d arrived. He wore clothes that belonged in a Manhattan boardroom—crisp blue button-down that looked bespoke, pressed khakis with a crease sharp enough to slice, leather shoes that gleamed under the overhead lights.
The businessman who funded militias. The money behind the violence.
His pale eyes tracked our approach, lingering on Mia with an expression that made my trigger finger itch—assessment mixed with something worse. Possession. Calculation.
“You missed breakfast.” His tone stayed mild, conversational, but disappointment colored the edges. “I was concerned.”
“Long night,” I said, pulling out a chair for Mia before taking my own. The wood creaked under my weight. “Forgot to set an alarm.”
“Hmm.” His gaze cataloged Mia’s appearance with obvious distaste—my oversized shirt hanging off her frame, jeans that had seen better days, hair barely tamed. “We’ll need to address your…presentation, my dear.”
The endearment made my molars grind. Mia kept her eyes downcast, fingers wrapped around the coffee mug Bishop set in front of her, playing submissive while her knuckles went white.
“The Gathering is tomorrow night,” Oliver continued, each word precise as cut glass. “Our buyers, our allies, all coming together to celebrate our cause. I can’t have you embarrassing me in front of my guests. I’ll have a proper dress brought for you.” His lips curved in what might have been a smile on a human face. “Something more…suitable.”
“She’s fine as she is,” I said, injecting enough edge to establish position without challenging him directly.
“For you, perhaps. But I have standards.” He gestured toward a door at the far end of the room. “In fact, I’ve already found something for her to wear today. Make her more comfortable. It’s in my room through there.”
The air went thick. Sending her alone into his private space—everything about it screamed trap. Testing boundaries, looking for reactions that might reveal deception. But refusing would signal mistrust, possibly blow our cover.
“That’s not necessary,” I started.
“I insist.” Ice formed under his words. “Unless there’s some reason she shouldn’t accept my hospitality?”
The challenge hung between us. I met Mia’s eyes briefly, saw the understanding there. She knew this was a test too. Knew we had to play along. Despite having no law enforcement background, Mia had proven herself smart and aware these past three days, holding up better than I could’ve ever expected.
“Go ahead,” I told her, the words tasting like ash. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you in something that doesn’t look like it was dug out of a dumpster.”
She rose slowly. Oliver chuckled and watched her cross the room with the satisfaction of a spider watching a fly approach its web. The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in my chest.
“She’s lovely,” Oliver observed, settling back in his chair. “Even disheveled. Quite the fortunate find.”
“I’ve always had good luck.”
“Luck.” His smile was all teeth, no warmth. “Yes, I suppose that’s one word for it.”
Members of the house staff materialized with plates—eggs, bacon, toast, coffee. The normal breakfast sounds of silverware on plates felt surreal. Oliver ate with precise movements, cutting his eggs into exact squares like he was performing surgery. Outside, wind rattled the windows—the storm building, pressing closer.
“I’ll be leaving shortly,” he announced between bites. “This afternoon and evening. A few of my men and I need to go handle some last-minute details before the Gathering.”
Hope flared hot in my chest. “Need company? Happy to help with whatever you need.”
If he was going back to civilization—Spokane, Coeur d’Alene, hell, some town with a hundred people, it didn’t matter. If I could get Mia and myself into that vehicle, away from here, I’d create any distraction necessary so she could get away. Fake an injury, sabotage the vehicle once we were near town…
