A rumble echoes through the trees, and a black SUV drives around the side of the rock formation. Its tires grind on gravel, engine deep and quiet. Justice stands, still holding me way too easily. Too casually, like I belong right here, cradled against his chest. His dark eyes flick at the vehicle, and I once again can’t read him. “Our ride is here.”
EIGHTEEN
Justice
Bringing Ella into the Malice Media hub tightens every muscle in my body. I don’t like having her here. She’s too dangerous.
I fed her an early lunch, so at least she’s in a good mood. The woman has a penchant for cookie-dough milkshakes.
The elevator doors slide open, and we step into the quiet hum of the floor. Cold air breathes out from the vents and smells like metal and lemon cleaner. Screens glow along the far wall, code racing in columns that reflect off the polished concrete.
Kaz looks up from his work and stills. He’s got both hands going on different keyboards, fingers moving so fast it looks like he’s playing two pianos. He doesn’t need to look down. Thirty and all lean focus, dark blond hair that never quite cooperates, green eyes that miss nothing. His chin juts like it wants an argument, with a stubborndimple dead center. I noticed it when we were kids and it still reads like Cary Grant, whether he likes it or not.
Yeah. It’s rare for me to bring anybody in here, much less a woman in my T-shirt, jeans, and dirty tennis shoes.
“Hi.” He stands and comes toward her, hand out, clear interest on his face. “You’re Ella Rendale.”
“I am.” She takes his hand, smiling, and the room brightens like somebody bumped the dimmer.
Kaz grins back and shifts his feet on Italian loafers. “I’m Kazstone, but everyone calls me Kaz. I wish I had nicer clothes to offer you.” His gaze lifts to me with his eyebrows arching in a clear question.
I don’t answer, as this is none of his business.
The walls show faint scuffs where a fight got too close. Cleaned. Sterile again. Of course Kaz handled it. He gets twitchy if a cable isn’t coiled right, and having part of the building crumble after a missile attack probably kept him up all night.
“Ms. Rendale, what can I do for you?” His tone sounds friendly. Too friendly.
I answer before she can. “I’m taking her into the main server room.”
He draws back a fraction. Shock flickers across his face. “You’re … you want to take her where?”
“It’s a long story, and it’s none of your business,” I say.
“Fine.” He snaps the reply off and turns back to his screens. His fingers fly harder, like he can out-type his temper.
Heat bites along my clavicle, and a bruise blooms up fast. I wince. Ella tracks the movement and then looks away without comment. Her hair has dried into curls Ididn’t expect, brushing her shoulders. She used to wear it shorter, cut to flare out. I like the longer length. It gives me something to hold onto. The thought hits hard and I shake it off. I need to get my head on straight.
“Come on.” I take her hand. Her fingers are cool. I lead her to the blank wall and press my free palm to the sensor. The plate warms, reads me, and the seam opens with a soft hiss. I’m rather disappointed the missile attack to my penthouse destroyed the citrine I purchased for her.
Cold air spills from the server room and smells like dust and ozone. Rows of towers blink in patient lines, status lights pulsing like a heartbeat.
Ella steps in and draws a sharp breath. Her excitement vibrates through her and into me, clean and bright. The hum around us seems as calming to her as it is to me, and that pleases me.
Fascinating.
“Oh, this is awesome,” she breathes.
“Yeah. It is.” I follow her inside as the door snicks closed behind me, sealing us into the server room. The air is tinged with the sharp scent of heated metal, carrying the steady vibration of power. The hum isn’t loud, but it’s constant, a low thrum that works its way under my skin.
Ella moves forward, steps quiet, almost reverent, her gaze locked on the garnet in the center of the room. The gem sits on a black pedestal, bathed in a narrow shaft of white light that fractures into crimson sparks across the polished floor. The stone itself is huge, flawless, the deep red facets alive as if fire is trapped inside.
“What a beauty,” she whispers, and pride tightens my chest. It shouldn’t matter. But this garnet feels like mine.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Her attention slides past the stone to the cupboards lining the far wall. “Backup garnets?”
“Yeah, and some small alexandrite. I’m trying to get my hands on bigger ones.”
