And for the first time since we landed on the balcony, I let myself fully process what just happened.
We stole Marcus Hale's master ledger.
We escaped through a third-story window.
We flew through a rainstorm.
And now I'm sitting in a luxury bathtub while my fated-mate gargoyle boyfriend washes glass dust out of my hair.
My life is absolutely insane.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Twenty minutes later, I'm wrapped in one of Cyprian's oversized charcoal robes, sitting at the obsidian terminal in his private study with a glass of premium orange juice in my hand.
The robe is enormous.
The sleeves hang past my fingertips. The hem pools around my feet. It smells like him—volcanic stone and amber andsomething distinctly male that makes my hindbrain purr with satisfaction.
Cyprian sits beside me, his frame filling the ergonomic chair, his amber veins glowing soft gold as he pulls up the decryption interface.
The stolen data drive sits in a secure cradle on the desk.
Small.
Unassuming.
Containing everything.
"Kael," Cyprian says into the comm system. "We are ready."
There's a brief pause.
And then Kael Thorne's voice crackles through the speakers, sharp and focused.
"Linking in now. Stand by."
The holographic display flickers to life.
Multiple screens materialize in the air above the desk, each one filled with rapidly scrolling code and decryption algorithms. Kael's interface takes over the primary display, his digital signature appearing in the corner as he remotely accesses the system.
"Encryption is military-grade," Kael says. "But not insurmountable. Give me five minutes."
Cyprian's hand finds mine.
His fingers lace through mine, his massive palm completely engulfing my hand, his skin warm and solid and absolutely steady.
I squeeze back.
We watch the screens in silence.
The decryption counters fly past—percentages climbing, security layers peeling away, firewalls collapsing under Kael's relentless digital assault.
Three minutes.
Four.
Five.
