“It is for tonight,” Pace replies.
After a long, seething second, Marcus turns and storms toward the door.
Pace doesn’t relax until it slams shut behind him.
Only then do his shoulders drop. He turns immediately, hands finding my face.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My legs give out. He catches me before I hit the floor.
Chapter Ten
Pace
It’s just after midnight.
Jude is home asleep.
I stood over him before I left, watching him curled up in the middle of his nest. Blankets piled around him. One of my shirts twisted in his hand. I made sure the windows were locked and the alarm was set before I left. I told him I picked up a security gig tonight and that I would be back before morning.
He tried to act calm about it, but I felt the tension sitting under his skin through the bond.
Ever since Marcus stood in my living room and tried to drag him out by force, Jude has been on edge. He checks the locks all the time, and he keeps the curtains closed. He wakes up some nights and presses himself into my chest like he is making sure I am still there.
He is scared his father will kidnap him or that he’ll kill me.
But neither is happening.
I stand across the street now, looking up at the building in front of me. It rises high into the night sky, all glass and steel, lit from within by a few office lights that people forgot to turn off. The name “Thorne Enterprises” is plastered over the entrance in cold, silver letters.
Tipping my head all the way, I see the light along the very top floor flicker off, and I move my feet.
Time to get to work.
I pull my hoodie lower over my head and adjust the brim of the baseball cap underneath it. My face stays shadowed. I keep my posture relaxed and my pace steady as I walk toward the parking garage next to the building.
The garage is mostly empty at this hour, but there are a few cars scattered across some of the levels. The concrete smells like oil and damp dust. My boots make a low echo as I move toward the stairwell door.
I open it and step inside.
The air in the stairwell is stale and cooler than the garage. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. I pause on the first landing and look up into each corner.
No cameras.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at the stupid shit companies do to save money. If they just put a few cameras in the staircases, they’d be able to solve hundreds of cases, but men like Marcus Thorne are too cheap and stupid to think that far ahead.
I start down the stairs at a controlled pace, keeping my steps light and even. The sound of my boots blends into the hum of the building. I move quickly but not recklessly, taking each flightwithout rushing.
By the time I reach the basement level, the air smells different. There is a faint metallic tang mixed with warm dust and old wiring.
I push through the basement door and step into a narrow service corridor. The walls are unfinished concrete. Exposed pipes run along the ceiling. At the far end, there is a gray utility door with no label.
I pull on the leather gloves from my pocket before I crouch in front of it.
The handle is cool and slightly worn. I take out a slim pick set and insert the tension wrench into the bottom of the lock. The mechanism is simple. I apply steady pressure and feel for each pin in turn, lifting them carefully until they set.
There are faint footsteps somewhere above me, likely several floors up. The vibration travels through the structure of the building, but it’s distant enough that I don’t need to panic.
