"You'regood,"Irasp.Thatassessment stands as the highest complimentIcan possibly give.
Sheturns her head, bringing her face inches from mine.Flecksof gold shine clearly in her green irises, drawing my focus down to the slight, wet part of her lips.
"Ihave to be," she breathes. "Inmy line of work, missing a decimal sends you to jail.Orworse."
"Orworse,"Iagree. "Here, missing a decimal means people die."
Thebrutal reality hangs heavy between us.Thisoperation bypasses any standard corporate audit and escalates straight into a war.Shesits squarely on the front lines, armed with nothing but a laptop and that bright sweater.
"Whybring me here?" she presses, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Theagents could have easily taken me.Irepresent a massive liability."
Istudy her face, taking in every single detail.Fromthe secondIsaw her standing in the snow on the side of the highway, surrounded by those federal suits, a primal instinct snapped loose in my chest.Aninvisible tether instantly pulled taut, securely anchoring my entire existence to her.
"TheBrokenHalosdon't leaveinnocents to the wolves,"Istate, delivering the standard club party line.
"Bullshit," she challenges.Hergaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to my eyes. "Youlooked at those agents like you wanted to rip their throats out."
"Ifully intend to dismantle them."
"Andme?Whatare your plans for me?"
Thequestion hangs in the air, incredibly dangerous.
Keepyou,my brain screams.Lockthe impenetrable slab and never open it again.Countyour breaths until the end of time.
"Iwant you to find the missing money,"Irasp, forcing my heavy boots to step backward.Theretreat requires every ounce of willpowerIpossess, making my tight muscles scream in protest.
Sheblinks, her delicate shoulders dropping a fraction before she turns away.
"Right," she mutters, facing the screen again. "Themoney."
Shesnatches up her neon pink pen—the one she's been white-knuckling since we entered theVault—clicking the top rapidly in an obvious physical tic.Iretreat to my workstation, picking up a scrap steel bracketIam actively forging for my bike.Myhands desperately need harsh occupation.Withoutthe cold metal to ground me, ifIdon't turn away now,I’llhave my hands all over her, shredding that pink wool to get to the pale skin beneath.Ihave a primal, territorial need to breed her right here on the steel.Instead,Iforce my focus to the code.Moneylaundering is my art, but she is the only masterpieceIwant to possess.Grabbinga heavy file,Idrag it violently across the bracket.Theharsh rasp of steel on steel fills the room, eventually falling into a strange, twisted harmony with her rapid keystrokes.Wework in tandem.
Shepulls up another document. "Elias?"
Myname sounds entirely different rolling off her tongue.Itlands softer, hitting my ears less like a formal title and more like a physical caress.
"Yeah?"
"ThisOperationsaccount.IsthisOliver?"
"Yes."
"Hespends a massive amount on acetylene."
"Heworks as ourVanguard, and he enjoys blowing things up."
Asudden, throaty laugh erupts from her chest, the beautiful sound completely startling me.
"AndSweetPineBakery?" she queries. "Whydoes the club pay for five hundred pounds of flour?"
"Tiffanyexperienced a distinct lack of cash flow last winter,"Iexplain. "Blakecovered the deficit, so we categorized the expense as community outreach."
Shesmiles brightly. "Communityoutreach via carbohydrates."
"Somethinglike that."
"Youtake care of this town," she observes, her tone turning thoughtful. "Thehardware store, the bakery... these ledgers document a massive support network rather than strict profits."
