Herhands still on the blanket. "Youcan hear my pulse from there?"
"Ican hear everything in this room.Theventilation fan has a squeak every forty-five rotations.Theserver hums at sixty cycles per second.Andthe thrum in your chest... it stuttered when you woke up."
Shestares at me.Mostpeople would run, calling me a freak or a machine.TheSilencer.
Miasimply slides her legs off the cot and pads across the cold concrete floor toward me.Settlingdown between my spread legs, she leans her back directly against my chest.Absolutetrust.
"That'sa lot of counting,Elias."
"It'showIknow the world is still spinning."Iwrap my arms around her, burying my face in the crook of her neck.Thescent of grapefruit mixes with the dried sweat and musk rising off her skin. "IfIstop tracking, the variables get out of control."
Smallhands come to rest over my forearms, her fingertips mapping the raised tissue of my scars. "Tellme."
"Tellyou what?"
"Whythe numbers matter so much.Anddon't give me theTreasurerspeech about fiscal responsibility."Turningher head, she looks up at me with clear, demanding eyes. "Isaw the other book.Theblack one."
Everymuscle in my body locks down.
Theblack ledger usually stays hidden under the cot.Shemust have found the worn binding whileIwashed up in the bathroom earlier.
"Youweren't supposed to see that."
"Thisdoesn't read like club business," she says softly. "Itreads like survival. 'Stepsto the door: 12.Coffeebeans in the grinder: 450 approx.Dayssince thefire: 6,432.'"
Theexact entries roll off her tongue from memory.
Acidclimbs my throat, thick and bitter.Thisledger doesn't track assets.Itcatalogs a broken mind trying to glue reality back together.
"Chaoskills,"Igrit out, the syllables coating my tongue in ash. "Ifyou don't track the variables, you miss the outliers.Theoutliers burn your house down."
Shiftingin my arms, she turns until she straddles my lap.Warmhands frame my jaw, forcing my gaze up to meet hers. "Tellme about the fire."
I’venever told anyone.LoganandShaneknow the history—everyone in the family understands theGunnarscarry tragedy inour blood—but they lack the gruesome details.Theydon't know whyIbecame the man who sits in aVaultcounting pennies.
"Iwas sixteen."Thewords drag out of my chest, heavy and jagged. "Myparents.Mylittle sister,Sarah.Welived in the cabin on the north ridge.Oldconstruction with faulty wiring."
Mia’sthumbs drag across my cheekbones, anchoring me to the present.
"Iwoke up to the smell of burning wood.ButImoved too slow.Iwasted thirty seconds trying to find my glasses, and another thirty trying to figure out which door was safe."Myvoice splinters. "Bythe timeIreachedSarah’sroom... the brass handle was too hot.Itmelted the flesh right off my palm."
Holdingup my right hand exposes the old damage.Theburn marks are faint now, jagged white lines etching a permanent map of failure across my palm and fingers.
"Icouldn't pry the door open.Ilost track of the count.Toomuch heat, smoke, and an overload of variables."Ibare the ugliest parts of my soul to her. "Theydied becauseIlacked efficiency.Becausechaos won."
"Elias."Hervoice breaks over the syllables.
"SonowIcount,"Irasp against the skin of her wrist. "Itally the money so the club doesn't starve.Icatalog the ammo so my brothers never run dry.Itrack the seconds soIknow exactly how much time remains to fix a problem before it detonates into a disaster."
Leaningforward, she presses her forehead firmly against mine. "Andme?Whydo you count me?"
"Becauseyou're the most massive variableI'veever encountered."Myhands slide down the curve of her spine to grip her hips. "Youwalked in here with your pink cardigan and neon highlighters, wrecking my system in five minutes.You'reunpredictable and entirely messy."
Icrash my mouth against hers, a punishing, brief possession.
"Ineed to know you're still here.Everysecond.IfIcount you,Ikeep you."
Shedoesn't pull away.I'drather she scream at me than look at me with soft, gut-wrenching sympathy.Thankfully, her gaze holds zero pity.Shelooks at me like a complex equation she just solved.
