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Tonight, we used one of those.

The narrow tunnels were freezing, lined with crates that looked like they’d been stolen from a museum’s storage room. Bellwood’s anthropology department would likely sell their souls for a chance to take a peek at any of it.

I can’t even begin to understand why the family hasn’t donated all of it to one of the exhibits, unless they genuinely don’t know what they’re hoarding. Which is entirely possible from the looks of things.

Or they do realize, but have reached the wealth tier where priceless objects become clutter.

Either way, the Mayfairs are sitting on more than they know what to do with.

We entered through the rotted-out cellar door of the east guest house to avoid being intercepted by one of the house staff, crawled through 150 yards of cold, cobwebby darkness, and popped up through a rusted maintenance hatch hidden beneath an old rug in the basement storage room of Baryn’s house, tucked behind a shelving unit lined with dusty bourbon bottles and exactly one (1) taxidermy pheasant.

Giles would absolutely lose his mind if he found out—especially since, according to Theo, he practically threw himself between him and that locked door in the house. The one we can only assume also leads down to the tunnels.

If he thinks it’s improper for guests to serve themselves or carry their own bags, I can only imagine his reaction to us wandering beneath the estate grounds and casually breaking into another house on the property.

He’d probably faint, delivering a lecture mid-collapse.

Something about heritage preservation and respect for architectural integrity while clutching his pearls and dialing the local historical society.

Now, crammed together inside what has to be the world’s smallest maintenance alcove—wedged behind an ancient water heater and a panel of exposed wiring—I watch Theo dig around in the electrical panel like it’s just another weekday night and not a felony.

The walls are damp. My shoulder’s going numb from where it’s pressed against a pipe. I’m ninety percent sure something furry just rubbed up against my ankle and I don’t want to know what.

“Do you even need me here?” I whisper.

“You brought snacks, no?” he says, not looking up. Then adds, “Emotional support. Maybe hold my hand if it gets too scary. And hey—breaking into places is kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

I squint at him. “I have a chalky protein bar and exactly one piece of gum in my bag. I’m a woman of limited inventory. If we get caught, I’m trading you for immunity and a free trip to the police station vending machine.”

His body shifts against mine, an excruciating drag of fabric and warmth that I feel all the way down my spine.

He grins and flicks a switch. Somewhere above us, I hear the faint whir of the exterior security cameras as they power down, along with the rest of the house’s security system.

“You’re sure that’s not going to set off a silent alarm or something?” I ask, even though I know the answer won’t make me feel better.

“If it does, we have about twenty minutes before a very polite, very armed security firm shows up in pastel polos and detains us.”

I stare at him. “I hate that you made that sound plausible.”

He wipes his hands on his jeans like he’s just finished trimming the hedges, not disarming part of a millionaire-dollar surveillance system. There’s a glint in his eyes I recognize instantly because it’s the same one I get right before I do something reckless in the name of justice.

I never pictured Theo in jeans and a hoodie. It’s not his usual style, but it fits the night’s agenda. The image of him crawling through tunnels and breaking into someone’s house while wearing slacks and a button-up hits me so hard I have to clamp my mouth shut before I laugh—or moan, honestly, because even that sounds hot.

He looks good. Ruin-your-life good.

I’m convinced he could make anything look obscene in the best possible way. A potato sack. A pillowcase. Probably a tarp from the hardware store and a roll of duct tape if he really committed.

“The Mayfairs aren’t the only ones who know how to mess with security footage,” he says, smug as hell.

I may or may not be attracted to that too.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, am I ovulating?

We ease out of the basement through a narrow stairwell. The old stone walls sweat with condensation, and I have to duck to avoid a low-hanging pipe that looks like it’s been waiting decades to give someone a concussion.

At the top, Theo pauses in front of a weathered wooden door, clearly not meant for everyday use, and pulls a thin tool from his pocket. He works the lock with concerning ease.

The mechanism gives with a soft click, almost offended by how little effort it took.