"She'sunderBrokenHalosprotection," the giant states.
Reachinginto his pocket, he produces a small universal key.Hedoesn't wait for the agent to move; he crowds directly into my personal space, his chest a wall of solid muscle against my shoulder.Hegrabs my bound wrists, his massive hands dwarfing mine, and clicks the locks open.Themetal clatters to the slushy pavement, and the relief is instantly replaced by the searing heat of his skin against my bruised wrists.Mygaze drops to the metal falling away from my bruised skin.
"Universal," he murmurs.Histhumb rubs over the red mark on my wrist where the metal bit in.Rough, calloused heat presses against my freezing flesh.Mybreath hitches, a sharp prickle of fire racing straight down my spine.
"Getin the truck," he commands.
"Ican't just leave my car,"Iprotest, though my voice lacks conviction. "And… are you kidnapping me?"
Hepins me with that calculating stare. "Wouldyou rather go with them?"
BuzzCutglares murder at me from the slush.Theother agents keep their weapons trained on him.Theterrifying biker beside me just assaulted a federal agent without breaking a sweat.
"Goodpoint,"Isay.
"Keys," he demands, holding out his massive palm.
Igrab the keys from the ignition, my fingers trembling so hard they nearly slip. "Blake—ourProspect—will get theHonda," the massive biker growls, his voice a dark, gravelly command that cuts through the freezing mountain air.Hedoesn't look back at the federal agents as the roar of the incoming pack crests the hill, their headlights cutting through the snow like hunters.Hetosses my keys over his shoulder without a glance; a masked biker on a blacked-outHarleycatches them mid-air. "Getin the truck.Now."
Iscramble into the passenger seat, my legs shaking so violentlyInearly trip on the running board.Thecab already smells of him—leather, cold air, and something distinctly male.
Climbinginto the driver’s side, his massive frame shrinks the cab instantly.Thetruck drops into gear and pulls around the federal blockade like the sedan andSUVare mere traffic cones.
"Whoare you?"Iask, watching the flashing lights disappear in the swirling snowstorm.
"Elias," he answers, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.Steadyhands grip the steering wheel, displaying scarred knuckles bare of any rings. "Treasurer."
"Treasurer?Ofthe motorcycle club?"
"Yes."
"Soyou're the oneI'msupposed to be working with?"
"Yes."
Theman barely speaks.Ibabble when my nerves fray.Thispairing promises absolute disaster.
"TheythinkIcommitted fraud,"Isay, the words spilling out independently of my brain. "Ididn't.Myformer boss cooked the books.Ifound the second set of ledgers.Iwas going to turn them in, but he must have panicked and pointed the finger at me."
Eliassays nothing, continuing to drive in silence.
"I'mreally good at my job,"Ipress on, desperate to fill the dead air. "Isee patterns.Numberstalk to me.Peoplelie, but math doesn't.Ifthe numbers don't balance, there's always a reason.Ican find the reason."
Aquick, side-long glance cuts my ramble short. "Quiet."
"I'mjust explaining?—"
"Iknow."
"Youknow what?"
"Thatyou didn't do it."
Iblink. "Howdo you know?"
"Iran a background check on you three weeks ago when you applied.Ihacked your server."
Myjaw drops. "Youhacked my server?That'sillegal!"
