Chapter 2 Elias #2
"I have to be," she breathes. "In my line of work, missing a decimal sends you to jail. Or worse."
"Or worse," I agree. "Here, missing a decimal means people die."
The brutal reality hangs heavy between us. This operation bypasses any standard corporate audit and escalates straight into a war. She sits squarely on the front lines, armed with nothing but a laptop and that bright sweater.
"Why bring me here?" she presses, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The agents could have easily taken me. I represent a massive liability."
I study her face, taking in every single detail. From the second I saw her standing in the snow on the side of the highway, surrounded by those federal suits, a primal instinct snapped loose in my chest. An invisible tether instantly pulled taut, securely anchoring my entire existence to her.
"The Broken Halos don't leave innocents to the wolves," I state, delivering the standard club party line.
"Bullshit," she challenges. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to my eyes. "You looked at those agents like you wanted to rip their throats out."
"I fully intend to dismantle them."
"And me? What are your plans for me?"
The question hangs in the air, incredibly dangerous.
Keep you, my brain screams. Lock the impenetrable slab and never open it again. Count your breaths until the end of time.
"I want you to find the missing money," I rasp, forcing my heavy boots to step backward. The retreat requires every ounce of willpower I possess, making my tight muscles scream in protest.
She blinks, her delicate shoulders dropping a fraction before she turns away.
"Right," she mutters, facing the screen again. "The money."
She snatches up her neon pink pen—the one she's been white-knuckling since we entered the Vault—clicking the top rapidly in an obvious physical tic.
I retreat to my workstation, picking up a scrap steel bracket I am actively forging for my bike.
My hands desperately need harsh occupation.
Without the cold metal to ground me, if I don't turn away now, I’ll have my hands all over her, shredding that pink wool to get to the pale skin beneath.
I have a primal, territorial need to breed her right here on the steel.
Instead, I force my focus to the code. Money laundering is my art, but she is the only masterpiece I want to possess.
Grabbing a heavy file, I drag it violently across the bracket.
The harsh rasp of steel on steel fills the room, eventually falling into a strange, twisted harmony with her rapid keystrokes. We work in tandem.
She pulls up another document. "Elias?"
My name sounds entirely different rolling off her tongue. It lands softer, hitting my ears less like a formal title and more like a physical caress.
"Yeah?"
"This Operations account. Is this Oliver?"
"Yes."
"He spends a massive amount on acetylene."
"He works as our Vanguard, and he enjoys blowing things up."
A sudden, throaty laugh erupts from her chest, the beautiful sound completely startling me.
"And Sweet Pine Bakery?" she queries. "Why does the club pay for five hundred pounds of flour?"
"Tiffany experienced a distinct lack of cash flow last winter," I explain. "Blake covered the deficit, so we categorized the expense as community outreach."
She smiles brightly. "Community outreach via carbohydrates."
"Something like that."
"You take care of this town," she observes, her tone turning thoughtful. "The hardware store, the bakery... these ledgers document a massive support network rather than strict profits."
"We protect what's ours."
She goes entirely quiet. My gaze locks onto her profile.
She reads the intimate story of my family hidden within the raw numbers, clearly seeing the way we bleed for Pine Valley.
Most external auditors strictly hunt for fraud, whereas she relentlessly searches for the beating heart of the entire club.
"And you?" she asks softly, keeping her eyes glued to the screen. "Who takes care of you?"
My heavy tool stills abruptly against the metal bracket.
"I handle myself."
"Is that why your personal expenses sit at absolute zero?"
My entire body goes rigid. "You lack authorization to access member files."
"Hunting for a mole requires full access," she argues. "Your file shows up completely empty. Zero rent, food, or entertainment. You only list tool purchases and massive savings."
"I sleep at the compound and eat at the mess hall. Entertainment remains completely unnecessary."
"Everyone needs something," she whispers. She spins the heavy chair around again. "What exactly are you saving for, Elias? A small fortune sits untouched in your high-yield account."
My eyes drop to the small steel ring resting on my table. I have tried to forge the piece for years without finishing it, leaving a simple loop of raw iron waiting for completion.
"I'm stockpiling for a rainy day," I lie flatly.
"A massive blizzard currently rages outside," she points out.
"Same difference."
She stands, stretching her arms high above her head. The pink cardigan slips down one shoulder, exposing the thin fabric of her shirt. The faint outline of her ribs shows through the cotton, revealing a frame that looks like it belongs to a woman who runs on caffeine and forgets to eat.
"I'm hungry," she announces.
"MREs sit in the corner."
"I refuse to eat Menu 4: Pork Rib, Boneless. That qualifies as a crime against humanity."
"It functions as fuel."
"It resembles sad plastic meat." She walks over to my workstation, deliberately invading my personal space. Her hip leans casually against the edge of the heavy table. "A real kitchen exists upstairs."
"Lockdown protocols remain in effect, Mia. The Vault stays permanently sealed."
"You demanded seventy-two hours of intense labor. Without real food, my brain shuts down entirely, guaranteeing you never find your mole."
She actively negotiates the terms of her confinement.
Shutting her down should be automatic. My position as Treasurer means I hold the purse strings and control all access keys.
Yet her piercing green eyes stare directly into mine, the pink cardigan slipping further down her delicate shoulder.
The intoxicating scent of grapefruit rapidly clouds every ounce of my logical judgment.
"What do you want?" I grind out, exhaling a heavy breath.
"A sandwich. Ideally from that bakery you currently subsidize. Auditing their flour requires a proper taste test of the final product."
Seven.
"Leaving the Vault remains impossible, but Blake can deliver something to the secure drop box."
A brilliant smile illuminates her entire face. "You'd do that?"
"I need your brain fully functional."
"Sure. Functional." She smirks. "Thank you."
Her hand reaches out, gently touching the scarred fingers gripping my metal file.
Her skin feels incredibly cool against my rough, battered knuckles.
Invisible static pops violently in the air between us.
She refuses to pull away. I stare down at her pale, perfectly smooth hand resting over my completely destroyed flesh.
The visual creates a stark study in contrasts, highlighting the obvious gap between Beauty and the Beast.
"You're not nearly as terrifying as you pretend," she whispers softly.
"You have absolutely no idea."
I yank my hand away abruptly. One more second of contact will end with me grabbing her fragile wrists, dragging her flat onto the steel table, and demonstrating exactly the depths of my depravity.
A vicious, primal hunger gnaws at my insides, completely unrelated to food.
I possess a desperate, territorial need to claim her right here.
"Get back to the ledgers," I order sharply, twisting away from her temptation.
The harsh tone fails to make her flinch. A small, secret smile curves her lips before she finally returns to the monitors. The rapid keystrokes resume their frantic pace. Yanking my phone from my pocket, I quickly text Blake.
ME:
Need food. Drop box. Alpha clearance.
BLAKE:
Siege provisions? Or are you finally consuming something other than pure hostility?
ME:
Bring the damn food. Include something loaded with sugar.
The device clatters onto the metal table. She humms softly, a tuneless melody drifting under her breath while she actively reconciles the club's accounts. My absolute sanctuary stands thoroughly invaded, the silence completely dead and my perfect order entirely shattered.
And God help me, I refuse to demand it back.
The blue glow of the monitors illuminates her intensely focused expression as she works.
Her teeth bite down gently on the end of the neon plastic pen.
My gaze zeroes in on the movement, obsessively tracking the way her full lips wrap around the hard plastic.
Heavy, aching heat pools extremely low in my gut.
She is already mine.
She remains entirely oblivious to the fact.
The club lacks the knowledge, and even the strict ledgers haven't recorded the transaction yet, though the data will reflect the truth soon enough.
This forensic audit operates as a convenient excuse, and the hidden mole simply presents a temporary nuisance.
The actual defining event of my existence is happening right here, securely locked within four inches of tungsten and steel.
I track every single breath she takes, fully intending to continue until her inhalations sync perfectly with mine. Snatching up the heavy metal tool again, I drag it hard across the iron bracket. The harsh scrape of steel echoes against the reinforced walls.