He gestures again, sharper this time.Inside.
Of course. The hallway is exposed. If security comes back quietly, I’m a sitting duck.
I move.
Two strides and I’m at the door. He opens it just wide enough for me to slip through, then shuts it behind me with a soft, heavy click.
The silence inside is absolute.
The air smells like leather chairs, expensive whiskey, and something colder—metal under velvet. It smells like Alistair Reid. It smells like control.
Genny is at the massive mahogany desk, a total contradiction in her oversized hoodie and leggings. She’s jacked into the sleek desktop with a small drive, multiple windows flashing across the screen, code and folders and email subjects I can’t read fast enough.
“Don’t touch anything,” she mutters, eyes glued to the progress bar. “And stay out of the window line. If security walks past outside, I don’t want them seeing your silhouettes.”
Declan’s hand wraps around the inside of my wrist. The contact is a bolt of heat straight up my arm. He tugs me deeper into the room, into the blind spot behind the heavy door, where the shadows are deepest.
We’re trapped.
Genny’s typing is a frantic, rhythmic clatter. The progress bar on the screen crawls.
Declan presses me back against the wall, his body crowding mine. He’s not touching me, not fully, but he’s everywhere. His sleeves are rolled up, throat bare, tie stuffed hastily into his slacks pocket. He looks wrong in this room—not polished enough, not tame enough. He looks like a weapon someone forgot to unload.
He braces one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning in. His breath brushes my cheek, warm against the chilled air conditioning.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
His free hand finds my hip, fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie. The slightest pull, and my body tips forward, my front brushing his chest. The contact is a spark in dry tinder.
“You just broke into my father’s office,” he says, voice low, threaded with a dark, fierce pride. “You’re standing in his sanctuary. You’re anything but fine.”
His thumb drags over the curve of my hipbone. My breath stutters. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming awake.
Being here, with him, feels like a desecration. We are muddying the waters of the one place his father keeps pristine.
“We’re playing with fire,” I whisper, glancing toward Genny’s hunched back. “If they come back…”
His jaw clenches. The muscle flexes under the harsh shadows. “Let them come.”
My heart kicks. “Declan.”
He huffs a rough breath, then dips his head, his nose grazing my temple. I feel his mouth barely skim over my hairline. It’s not even a kiss, just a hovering heat.
“I can’t be this close to you and not touch you,” he murmurs against my skin. “Not anymore. I’m done trying.”
The words land like a weight. Heavy. Anchoring.
My throat is dry. “We’re committing a felony.”
“Add it to the list.”
His hand slides from my hip to my waist, fingers slipping under the hem of my hoodie, finding bare skin. His palm is hot. My stomach clenches, muscles fluttering under his touch.
Heat rolls through me, thick and dizzying. The hum of Genny’s typing, the distant echo of the building, the ticking countdown in my head—everything blurs.
“You said we’d fight back,” I whisper.
