Chapter 3 Mia
MIA
My eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper and dipped in lemon juice.
Blinking fails to clear the fuzzy halo surrounding the numbers on the screen, and the spreadsheet refuses to sharpen.
The cursor blinks at me. It’s the only thing moving in this subterranean fortress of solitude, other than the terrifyingly large man stalking the perimeter behind me like a predator who’s already marked his kill and is just waiting for the right moment to strike.
Twenty-four hours locked in this Vault feels like a lifetime. The recycled air is getting to me. The silent, criminally handsome man currently reorganizing weapon schematics is starting to look like a really intense study partner.
A study partner who could snap a man’s neck with his pinky finger. Sure.
"Stop sighing," Elias grumbles.
Focusing on the metal shelving unit, he obsessively aligns boxes of ammunition. His back is to me. A broad expanse of black cotton stretches over muscles that have no business existing on an accountant.
"I didn't sigh," I lie, reaching for my third highlighter of the hour. "I was breathing loudly."
"You sigh when you find a discrepancy," he says, his voice a deep baritone that resonates through the steel floor and straight up my chair legs. "You tap your left foot when the numbers balance. And you chew your lip when you're trying to figure out how to tell me I made a mistake."
My hand freezes halfway to the stack of invoices from Peak Wilderness Outfitters.
Swiveling my chair around screeches metal against the concrete floor. His broad shoulders twitch.
"You've been cataloging my nervous tics?" I ask. "Is that part of the standard kidnapping package, or did I pay extra for the stalker add-on?"
Elias turns slowly. The movement is fluid, predatory. His gray eyes lock onto mine. The air in the Vault gets thick, requiring actual effort to pull oxygen into my lungs.
"I catalog everything, Mia."
The way he says my name makes me sound like an asset he’s hoarding.
"Well, stop it," I say, summoning the professional defiance that got me fired from three corporate jobs. "It's distracting. I was chewing my lip because your filing system for the 2021 second quarter is a disaster."
His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers near his ear.
"My system is flawless," he counters, walking toward the metal table that serves as our shared desk. "Chronological by transaction ID. Cross-referenced with physical receipts."
"It's monochrome madness, Elias." I gesture to the spread of papers I’ve unleashed across the steel surface. "You have operating expenses mixed with capital assets. You’re treating the bakery’s flour shipments like they’re the same category as hardware maintenance.
Which I’m assuming is code for bullets."
Stopping at the edge of the table brings him close enough for me to inhale the scent of leather and cold air. It’s intoxicating. I usually prefer my men to smell like expensive cologne. Elias smells entirely of lethal capability.
"It balances," he says flatly.
"Balancing isn't the point. Transparency is the point. If the IRS looks at this, they see chaos. They see intent to hide." I pick up a bright pink highlighter and uncap it with a vicious pop. "That's why you need color."
Staring at the neon marker, he curls his lip. "No."
"Yes." I drag the tip across a line item. "Pink for external vendors. Yellow for internal transfers. Green for cash flow. And blue for the stuff that keeps us all out of federal prison."
Elias leans over the table. Planting his hands on either side of my ledger, trapping me in the cage of his arms without actually touching me. The heat radiating off his body is substantial. It’s cold down here, but suddenly I’m stripping off my cardigan in my head.
"You are desecrating my ledgers," he growls.
"I am saving your ass," I challenge, refusing to lean back. If I lean back, he wins. I don’t let men who wear leather cuts to work win. "You brought me here to find the mole, right? To figure out who’s leaking data to the Costa family? I can’t do that wading through a sea of gray text."
He stares down at me. Heat like a cracked furnace burns behind his gray irises.
"Pink," he repeats, looking at the line I just highlighted.
"Magenta, actually. It pops."
Anticipating him throwing me and my highlighters out of the Vault makes my muscles lock tight. The silence stretches, taut as a wire. The server rack hums in the corner, entirely drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears.
His harsh jawline twitches. It’s microscopic. Staring directly at his lips allows me to catch the tiny micro-expression.
"Fine," he says roughly. "But if you use glitter, I’m locking you in the supply closet."
"Deal."
Pushing off the table, he walks away. I exhale a sharp breath. My pulse hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I look down at the numbers. They’re blurring again.
"Focus, Mia," I whisper to myself. "Focus on the fraud. Ignore the forearms."
I dive back in. The work is grueling. Numbers don’t lie. People lie. Numbers just wait for you to ask them the right questions. Elias’s books are a work of art. The man is a criminal genius. The way he routes funds through Sweet Pine Bakery to cover medical bills is brilliant.
I pause, my highlighter hovering over a transaction from eight months ago.
Vendor: North Star Logistics. Amount: $4,500. Code: Maintenance.
Flipping back three pages reveals a different entry.
Vendor: North Star Logistics. Amount: $4,500. Code: Consulting.
Pulling up the digital file for the previous year shows absolutely nothing. North Star Logistics didn't exist in the system until eight months ago, precisely when the digital breaches started.
"Elias."
Standing at the small kitchenette in the corner, he runs the coffee grinder. The aggressive noise fills the small space.
"Elias!" I shout over the grind.
Turning, he holds up a glass pot. "What?"
"Come look at this."
Setting the pot down, he crosses the room.
Closing the distance instantly brings him right to my side.
One large hand rests on the back of my chair.
The skin of my neck hums under his proximity, my pussy throbbing with a heavy, aching pulse as his heat radiates off his frame, my lace turning soaked and heavy under the sheer weight of his proximity.
"What did you find?"
"North Star Logistics," I say, pointing with the tip of my pink marker. "Who are they?"
His jaw clenches. His cheek hovers inches from my hair. "Shell company. We use it for importing parts for the shop. Standard pass-through."
"Who manages it?"
"I do."
"No," I say, shaking my head. "You manage the accounts. Who manages the invoices? Because look at the timestamps."
I tap the screen. "Every invoice from North Star is submitted at exactly 3:00 a.m. on the second Tuesday of the month. Automated. But the approval stamp is yours. The IP address for the approval isn't the Vault. It’s external."
Elias goes completely still.
"Show me," he commands.
Typing a quick query filters by IP address. The screen fills with entries. Small amounts skimming shipping fees and padding consulting costs. The subtle bleed drains the accounts slowly over the long term.
"That IP traces to a localized server," I murmur, my fingers flying across the keys. "It looks like it's bouncing off a cell tower."
"Which tower?" His voice drops to absolute ice.
"The one on the ridge," I say. "By the Eastern Cliffs."
That places it directly in Costa territory.
Elias swears. A low, vicious word rips from his throat. His fingers grip the back of my chair so hard the leather creaks.
"They've been billing us for our own destruction," he says, a lethal edge slicing through his tone. "Using a clone of my approval code."
"It's a mirror," I say softly. "Someone has access to your keystrokes. They’re shadowing you."
Pulling back, his face pales beneath the scruff of his beard. The invasion of his digital privacy forces a tight clench in his jaw. The brutal hit to his pride requires no explanation.
"Hey," I say, instinctively reaching out. My hand lands on his forearm.
His skin runs hot. Hard muscle shifts under my palm.
Looking down at my hand, he stays planted. He stares at my pale fingers resting against his tanned, scarred skin.
"I missed it," he says. "I look at these numbers every day."
"You were looking at the balance," I tell him firmly. "They established a pattern of authorized access to build a backdoor so when the Feds came—"
"They could frame me," he finishes.
"Exactly. It’s a remarkably good setup."
Lifting his gaze to mine reveals a feral intensity burning in his irises. He stares at me with raw, undisguised hunger.
"You found it in twenty-four hours," he says. "It took them eight months to build. You tore it down before lunch."
"I'm good at my job," I say. My pulse flutters wild in my throat. "I really don't look good in orange jumpsuits."
The corner of his eye crinkles. The tiny shift transforms his stark features entirely.
"You need to eat," he says abruptly.
Breaking the contact, he pulls away. My hand falls to the table. I instantly miss his heat.
My stomach growls loudly.
Elias moves back to the kitchenette. "You're running on adrenaline and spite. It’s a potent fuel. It burns out."
Opening a sleek black refrigerator, he pulls out a container. "Blake dropped this at the secure hatch an hour ago. Sweet Pine sandwiches. Turkey, cranberry, no mayo."
I blink. "How did you know I hate mayo?"
Pausing with the plate in his hand, he keeps his broad back to me. "You picked it out of the wrap Logan gave you earlier today. Surgical accuracy. You spent five minutes dissecting a sandwich while agents were threatening to arrest you."
"I didn't think you noticed that."
"I told you," he says, turning back with the plate and a steaming mug of coffee. "I notice everything."
Setting the plate in front of me reveals a heavenly looking sandwich. The coffee is black with no sugar, exactly how I take it.
"Eat," he commands. "We have forty-eight hours left. I need your brain working."
Leaning his hip against the table, he crosses his arms. His heavy frame crowds my space. Picking up his own mug, he takes a slow sip while watching me over the rim.
Taking a bite of the sandwich delivers fresh bread, sharp cranberry, and savory turkey. I moan around a mouthful, closing my eyes.
"Oh my God," I mumble. "If the audit doesn't work out, I'm marrying the person who made this sandwich."
"Blake's taken," Elias says instantly. "And Tiffany carries a Glock."
"Pity." Opening my eyes reveals Elias glaring at the sandwich.
"Focus on the data," he says gruffly.
"I am focusing." I take a sip of the coffee. It burns all the way down, waking up nerve endings I forgot I had. "So, Mr. Treasurer. Now that we know they're mirroring your keystrokes, what do we do?"
"We feed them poison," he says. A ruthless edge sharpens his tone. "If they're watching what I type, I'm going to type a narrative that leads them straight off a cliff."
"I love the disinformation angle. We create a dummy account to transfer assets to a location that doesn't exist."
"No," Elias argues. He sets his mug down. "We transfer the assets to a location that does exist. Somewhere we control. We make them think we're panicking. Make them think we're moving the cash hoard."
"And when they go to intercept it?"
"We'll be waiting."
Looking at the screen, he studies the pink highlights marring his perfect gray world. He traces a line of text with his finger.
"You color-code chaos," he murmurs.
"It makes the patterns visible," I explain. "Gray hides things. Color exposes them."
His gaze drops to my mouth. The intense focus sears right through my skin.
"You're chaos, Mia," he says quietly. "Walking, talking chaos in a pink cardigan."
"Is that a complaint?"
"No." His voice drops an octave. "It's an observation. My world is static. Predictable. You walked in here and turned the gravity off."
My breath hitches.
"Gravity is overrated," I whisper.
Reaching out, he closes the distance between us. I know he’s going to touch me. I crave the bruise of his fingers against my skin. I want this terrifying man to put his hands on me.
His arm brushes mine, sliding past my shoulder. Anticipating the tap of the 'Enter' key, I freeze.
He doesn't move.
His hand stops dead in the air. The heavy silence stretches between us, fragile as glass.
Elias pivots, his massive frame caging me against the back of the swivel chair, his thighs bracketing mine so I’m trapped between the steel of the desk and the heat of his body.
His large hand grips my jaw, tilting my head up.
His thumb presses into the soft skin beneath my ear, mapping my frantic pulse.
"Gravity is completely gone," he rasps, right against my mouth.
Then he crushes his lips to mine, a raw, primal raid that strips the air from my lungs.
I gasp, opening for him as his thick tongue sweeps inside to take total ownership of my mouth, tasting of black coffee and absolute, dark control.
My hands tangle in his shirt, dragging him closer until his engorged cock is a thick, leaden ridge pressing hot and demanding against my stomach.
He groans, the deep, territorial vibration traveling from his chest straight to my pussy, making my core clench, instantly slick with the desperate need to be filled.
His fingers twist into my messy bun. Anchoring my head in place allows him to devour my mouth deeper. He takes everything, demanding a surrender I give without a single thought. The spreadsheet, the cartel, and the missing thousands vanish entirely into the searing heat of his mouth.
He finally tears his lips away. A harsh breath wracks his chest as he rests his forehead against mine. His gray eyes are pitch black with pure, unfettered hunger.
"Finish the trace," he commands, his voice a gravelly ruin. "Find out where the mirror signal terminates. I want a physical address."
Releasing my jaw, he steps back. The sudden cold air rushing over my heated skin makes me gasp.
"And Mia?" he adds.
"Yeah?" I breathe, my lips swollen and tingling.
"Use the pink highlighter. I like it."
He turns, stalking back toward the metal shelves.
Staring at his broad back, my entire body hums with electricity. I pick up the pen. The bright neon line cuts straight through the gray ledger.