Page 37 of Entwined With You

Finally, Ryan sat back, his hands folded on the table top. “Now it’s my turn for a confession.” He looked to each of them in turn. “Sensitive Operations Command. Mean anything to you?”

As Ryan spoke, Brax’s blood turned cold. The SOC was the department that had taken him and Cami in, then filtered them to the FBI. He saw Cami turn toward him, and saw the effort it was taking to keep her expression blank.

“Don’t bother answering,” Ryan said. “I’m not trying to force you to break an oath. And I already know the answer, anyway.” He stood up, then signaled them to do the same. “Follow me.”

As he turned from them, Brax and Cami exchanged the kind of look that very clearly conveyed, What the fuck?

Unfortunately, neither of them had an answer.

Cami spoke up first. “Can I ask where we’re going, sir?”

“Of course,” Ryan said. “We’re going to the helipad. And then we have a meeting with Colonel Seagrave.”

Chapter Ten

I’d told Brax and Carly that I had errands to run, but that’s not exactly true.

Or, rather, it’s not even remotely true.

Still, the fact that I’m now at the Beverly Center swinging a shopping bag as I head for the elevator makes me blend in with the crowd. Just another girl doing some shopping before the lunchtime crowd shows up.

I slide into the elevator, grateful when no one jumps on before the doors close. I hit the button for the basement, then stand in the center of the car, tilt my head back so that I’m looking at the lighting panels on the ceiling, and count to ten.

I hear the familiar beep that signals that my retina scan was complete, and at the same time, the security panel beneath the buttons slides open, revealing an entirely different set of levels.

I hit the button for sub-basement four and the panel slides closed again, a sharp click making clear that it’s locked back in place.

Maybe it’s silly, but I love this part of my job. It reminds me of shows like Kim Possible, where there are all sorts of gadgets and the good guys always win.

I watch the floor indicator lights clicking past sub-1, sub-2, sub-3, then finally stopping at sub-4. The doors slide open and I glide out, swinging my shopping bag and actually grinning. I’m not usually this chipper coming to work, but I can’t deny that I’m feeling good this morning. I know I owe that feeling to Brax, and I also know I probably shouldn’t feel quite so giddy. After all, it’s only my heart trying to convince me he had nothing to do with killing me.

My head knows better.

My head’s seen the evidence.

If it’s real.

I push the thought aside. Of course it’s real. Why wouldn’t it be?

If it means what they say it means. If it wasn’t just a long con to get you to join the group.

I frown, because how arrogant does that sound, and I order my brain to shut up while I walk the long hallway to the next checkpoint.

The “group” is my employer, Group Ultra, an elite branch of an already elite government organization called the Sensitive Operations Command, which runs covert operations under the supervision of Pentagon. Usually I’m stationed at the Eastern Division in Manhattan. But I was hand-selected for this op here at the Western Division in Los Angeles.

I pause for another retinal scan, then enter a janitor’s closet after I hear the lock click open. I pull the lever beneath the sink, which opens a hidden door. I head into the newly revealed hall, walk for what feels like a year, and pass through the last set of security checks before pushing through what looks like a grimy, rusty door only to enter an absolutely stunning reception area decorated in Mid-Century Modern, with original artwork that would make a curator at the MOCA green with envy.

I’ve been in town a month doing prep work, and I know my way around the office now. I give Anna, the receptionist a quick wave. She holds up a finger, silently requesting that I wait as she reviews the video of my arrival.

When she’s satisfied that I didn’t have a tail, she gives me a thumbs-up, then remotely opens the steel doors the lead to the bullpen.

The irony of this job is that I wouldn’t have it at all if Brax—or someone who framed Brax—hadn’t decided to kill me.

I frown, realizing that from the moment I approached him at his apartment door, I’ve been giving Brax a mental out almost every time I think about that day.

I need to be careful. I need to be smart. I can’t let the fact that I’m still attracted to him—still very attracted to him—affect my work. I want answers, yes. But I want real ones.

I need to think with my head. Not other parts of my body that have suddenly reawakened with a vengeance now that I’m around that man again.