"Mypulse," she murmurs over the scraping metal. "It'sseventy-one.Ikept track."
Iturn my head, catching the brilliant curve of her mouth.
"Good,"Igrate out, my throat constricting. "Keeptracking the variables."
Applyingpressure to the tool,Ireturn to the vice.Forthe first time in six years, the compulsion to count the seconds vanishes.Timesimply passes, measured only by the steady drag of oxygen into her lungs and the violent rasp of the file against the steel.
Theworld outside can wait.Theimpending club war can wait.
Sheremains safe inside thisVault.Secure.Mine.
7
MIA
Theseal on the fortified entrance hisses, a serpent warning us that we’re leavingEden.
Sixtyhours.That’show long the world stopped.
InsidetheVault, time was measured in keystrokes and the rough slide ofElias’shands over my skin.Outside, apparently, time is measured in bullets.
Themassive door swings outward.Thebunker air hits me first, stripped of the sterile, recycled cool of the temperature-controlled archive.
Aswe move up from the underground level, it smells like burnt ozone and sulfur, the air thick with cordite and gunpowder.Butbeneath the stench of war,Ican only smellElias—the heavy, masculine musk of his skin and the scent of our sex still clinging to my hair.
Mypussy is still throbbing, my walls clenching with the memory of the way he filled me to the hilt only an hour ago.
Eliasstops in the threshold.Hisbroad back creates a wall, blocking my view.Theforensic accountant in my brain recognizes the sharp tilt of his head as he balances the risk variables before initiating a transaction.
"Staybehind me," he growls.Hisvoice resembles dragging gravel, dropping an octave from when he was whispering filthy promises against my neck.TheTreasurerhas returned.Theset of his shoulders suggests he plans to murder someone.
Inod, curling my fingers into the back of his leather cut.Thethick patch readingTREASURERanchors me.
Westep into the lower hallway.Mylungs freeze.Thedrywall opposite theVaultis pockmarked with bullet holes.Dustcoats the floor in a fine gray layer, disturbed only by heavy boot prints.Shatteredglass from a framed photo of the originalFirstNinecrunches underElias’stread.
"Jesus,"Iwhisper.
Elias’shand flies back.Histhick fingers find my hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Eyeson me,Mia.Don'tlook at the mess."
"Yousaid they held the line."
"Theydid.Theline got close."
Hekeeps me tucked into his shadow as we navigate the corridors, moving past the main bar and toward the main common room—theChapel.
Thesilence presses down on us.Usually, a clubhouse has a hum to it, packed with low voices and the clink of bottles.Today, the only sound is the scuff of my boots competing with the heavy thud of his.
Weround the corner into theChapelarea.Theair shifts, growing hot and heavily charged.
Theroom is packed.Logan, thePresident, stands behind the bar with his arms crossed over a chest resembling carved granite.Shane, theSergeantatArms, scrapes a knife against a whetstone.Theshhhk-shhhknoise grates against my eardrums.Austinleans over a pool table covered in maps.
Threemen in cheap navy suits stand in the center of the room.Theystick out instantly, looking far too clean and radiating that specific brand of federal arrogance.
Theagent in the middle turns.It’sBuzzCut, theFedwho tried to arrest me on the highway, his right wrist currently encased in a thick fiberglass cast.
Hiseyes land on me, a smirk twisting his thin lips. "Well, well.Thenumbers girl finally comes out of her hole."
Eliasstops.Hestands with the stillness of a landmine, waiting for a single wrong step.
