Chapter 23 #2
We move in perfect tandem, his hands ready before I need them, my actions flowing into his without a word in a rhythm neither of us learned but somehow both know, as if we’ve been working together for years instead of weeks.
The data core slides free with a satisfying click, and I lift it, the weight of millions in information resting in my palm.
Rowan’s fingers brush mine as he takes it, securing the drive that contains the Vartanian family’s laundering records, worth millions and stolen twice now, into its protective case.
I insert the dummy core, its lights blinking in perfect imitation of the original. Whoever stole the data after I killed Danny can’t exactly file a police report about stolen evidence of their own crimes, so the replaced drive may go unnoticed for months, if it ever gets discovered.
“Ready for extraction.” I zip my bag, mind already mapping our exit route.
Rowan secures the case inside his jacket and extends a hand to help me up. His warm palm connects with mine, strong fingers curling around my wrist. For a heartbeat, we stand close, his amber eyes reflecting the blue glow of server lights.
“Nice work.” The words ride on his breath, reaching me alone.
The moment stretches, fragile but unbroken. Then his head turns, nostrils flaring, and the new tension in his stance triggers my alarms.
Rowan’s hand is already on his weapon before I register the footsteps where there shouldn’t be any. Before I can react, he shoves me toward a bank of servers, out of direct view of the door as it slides open with a hydraulic hiss.
A guard appears with his gun already drawn, sweeping into the doorway in a practiced stance. His tactical vest bears the logo of an elite private security firm, not the standard uniform of regular staff.
As his weapon points at Rowan, time splinters into crystal-clear fragments.
Each second stretches into a miniature eternity where details burn bright. The guard’s finger tightens on the trigger as Rowan widens his stance, preparing to engage. They’re too close for either man to miss, but Rowan without body armor to protect him.
For a split second, I see it. Rowan on the floor. The blue light reflecting off blood, and everything in my being rebels.
Not him. Not my Alpha.
My body moves without conscious command. Not a decision. An inevitability.
One step. Pivot. Close distance.
The knife slides from my sleeve into my palm, its familiar weight settling into my hand, muscle memory arching it through the air.
The guard spots me too late, his gun barrel shifting toward me, but not fast enough.
My blade finds the soft spot between wrist bones, and the gun clatters to the floor as nerves and tendons sever under steel. Before his scream can form, my other hand clamps over his mouth, fingers digging into pressure points beneath his jaw.
His body goes rigid, then slack. Not dead, but unconscious.
The guard hits the ground with a dull thud that echoes in the silence. Blood pools beneath his wrist, black in the blue server light.
I turn back to Rowan, and what I find catches me off guard. His focus isn’t on the unconscious security man crumpled at our feet or the blood spreading across the floor. It’s fixed on me, a raw, almost startled look breaking through his control.
His hand closes around the back of my neck, and he pulls me in, our masks caught in the middle as his mouth presses hard over mine through the fabric.
It shouldn’t feel intimate through layers of synthetic cloth, but it does, fierce and possessive.
The bloody knife stays pressed against us, the guard sprawled at our feet, and still he kisses me like he needs my breath to survive.
When he pulls back, his fingers slip beneath my nape guard to caress bare skin. “You protected me.”
My pulse kicks for only a second before calm sweeps over me again. Later will be time enough to process all this.
“We need to move.” I wipe the blade on my sleeve, leaving a dark smear across the black fabric, and return it to its sheath. “This changes our exit strategy.”
Rowan’s hand grips the back of my neck, fingers warm on my skin. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes.” I meet his stare without flinching. “I did.”
His thumb brushes over my pulse point, finding it steady. No fear. No regret. The violence sits in me like an old friend, comfortable and familiar. It’s not the first time Rowan and I have stood together over blood, and it won’t be the last. Not in this line of work.
“Status update. We ran into trouble, but it’s been handled,” Rowan’s voice carries through the comm to the rest of the team. “Switching to extraction route two.”
Saint’s acknowledgment crackles through our earpieces. We have minutes before the guard’s absence triggers a security protocol.
I kneel beside the unconscious man, checking his pulse and breathing. “He’ll live. Confusion and blood loss will buy us time, but not much.”
Rowan secures the data core with economical movements. “Orien, bring the van to extraction point Charlie. Lucas, trigger the distraction in the east wing.”
As we move through the maintenance corridor, blood cools on my skin, while behind us, the alarms remain silent, our intrusion still undetected, the unconscious guard undiscovered.
The rest of the crew waits at the junction point, faces tight with focus. Saint steps forward first, his nostrils flaring as he scents the blood on my sleeve.
His hand hovers near his weapon. “Complications?”
“Handled.”
Orien materializes from the shadows. “Data secure?”
Rowan pats the case hidden beneath his jacket. “Package acquired. New extraction route. Single file, standard interval.”
They fall into formation without question, Orien takes point, and Lucas drops back to cover our six. The efficiency of their response speaks to years of working together and trust built through crisis after crisis.
Saint’s attention shifts from Rowan to me, sensing the change between us but asking nothing. The crew moves ahead, giving us a moment’s privacy in the narrow corridor.
Rowan’s hand wraps around my wrist, his thumb stroking my pulse point to find the rhythm steady and strong. Blood streaks across our skin, tying us together in red.
“You put yourself in the line of fire.” He searches my eyes. “Why?”
My stomach swoops. “You know why.”
His fingers tighten, his calluses rough on my skin. “Say it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” He leans in far enough for his breath to fill my ear through our masks. “Because if you did it for the job, I can pay you. But if you did it for me, then you don’t get to pretend we’re still negotiable.”
The radio crackles to life before I can respond. “Security alert triggered in east wing. Distraction successful. Extraction window is in four minutes.”
The alert cuts through the moment, dragging us back to the operation at hand.
Rowan’s hand slides from my wrist to my elbow to my shoulder, never breaking contact as we move forward. The crew forms around us in practiced formation, each person covering their assigned sectors.
The extraction route narrows toward the service exit. Overhead lights flicker, casting strange shadows across cement floors. My boots stick where cleaning solution hasn’t dried all the way, creating a subtle resistance with each step.
Rowan stays close, his back almost touching mine as we pass through the final corridor, our movements mirroring each other without conscious effort, his body angling to cover my blind spots as mine covers his.
Saint’s voice carries back to us. “Thirty seconds to exit.”
The service door appears ahead, its metal surface reflecting the emergency lights.
I move on ahead and drop to one knee, unzipping the compact tool bag strapped across my torso.
My fingers find the tension wrench and pick by touch alone, muscle memory guiding me to the right tools.
The lock housing chills my fingertips as I work the mechanism, counting each pin as it clicks into place.
Rowan shifts his weight behind me, his body angling to shield both me and the data core while maintaining visual contact with both ends of the corridor.
The lock surrenders with a soft click that carries in the confined space, and I shift aside for Orien to go out first. Cold night air rushes in as he pushes the door open, bringing with it wet asphalt and distant traffic.
“Clear,” he murmurs, slipping through first to secure our exit path.
We move in sequence, each person flowing through the opening with minimal exposure. Rowan’s hand finds the small of my back, the light pressure guiding me through ahead of him.
Outside, sleet pelts down in stinging needles, biting through clothing and clinging to my eyelashes.
The van waits twenty yards ahead, engine running, exhaust billowing ghostly white in the frigid air, lights off.
The stretch of road from the building to the vehicle will leave us exposed, salt scattered across the ground ready to make each footstep crunch and echo.
“Go.” The command comes from Rowan, directed at the team.
They move in pairs, crossing the open space in staggered intervals. Saint and Orien first, followed by Luca and Reef. Rowan and I remain in the shadows, his hand never leaving my back.
“Together,” he says, the word warm in my ear.
We step into the open as one unit, his longer stride matching mine without effort. Sleet soaks through my jacket, cold droplets trickling down my neck beneath the cheap guard. Rowan’s hand slides to my hip, keeping me close as we near the van.
The side door stands open, and hands reach out to pull us inside. The space fills with the scent of wet clothes and adrenaline as the door closes behind us. The engine revs, tires gripping wet pavement as we pull away from the Harmon building.
No alarms. No pursuit. We completed our mission, but we didn’t escape without conflict, and it sits uneasy within me.
While the crew exchanges quiet congratulations, silence builds between Rowan and me. His thigh presses against mine on the narrow bench seat, our bodies connected from knee to shoulder.
“Drop point in five,” Jackson, our driver, announces from the front compartment.
The crew will disperse at different locations, taking separate routes back to the Blue Note. Standard procedure after any job. Rowan and I will be the last to exit, returning to his car parked six blocks from our starting point.
His fingers find mine in the darkness of the van, twining together in silent acknowledgment. The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin, chasing away the chill from the sleet and the lingering adrenaline.
“The guard I took down,” I murmur for only Rowan to hear. “He’ll alert his employers that we were there.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Rowan’s thumb stills on my wrist. “We were wearing masks.”
“Only once we were inside.” Now that we’re out, the anxiety has time to take root. “If they caught our faces before we made it into the building—”
“If they come looking, I’ll handle it,” Rowan says with quiet certainty.
“Not alone.” My fingers tighten around his, the decision made before I realized I made it. “You don’t handle it alone.”
His eyes find mine in the dim light filtering through the windshield, and a satisfied rumble rises from him. “No, not alone.”
The van slows for the first drop point, and Saint slides the door open. Sleet and night air rush in, carrying the sounds of the city. One by one, the crew disappears into the darkness, returning to their separate lives until next time.
“We’ll go to your place first,” Rowan says as we approach our exit point. “Pack up anything you want to keep. You won’t be returning to that apartment again.”
“Okay,” I agree, understanding everything he isn’t saying.
After tonight, he’s going to keep me.
And I’m going to let him.