Chapter 9 Mia
MIA
Wind cuts through my coat like a dull knife, but I barely feel it. My blood runs hot, fueled by adrenaline and the terrifying realization of what Elias just did for me.
We’re standing on the sidewalk outside Peak Wilderness Outfitters. Morning sun glares off the snow-piled banks of Main Street, blindingly bright after the dim atmosphere of the back room where we spent the night committing high-level fraud.
The federal agent—Buzz Cut, as I’ve mentally christened him—stands five feet away. He flips through the stack of documents Elias handed him. The "forensic audit." The perfect lie.
"This is everything?" The Federal Agent asks, his eyes narrowing as he looks from the papers to me. He’s trying to find a crack. A tremor in my hand. A bead of sweat on Elias’s temple.
Good luck with that. Elias looks like he was carved out of the same granite as the mountains behind us. He wears his cut, arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying boredom.
"Every transaction for the last eight months," Elias says. His voice is a heavy growl that travels straight through the soles of my boots. "Reconciled. You’ll find the discrepancies in the logistics sub-ledger. They match the external IP signatures I flagged."
I step forward. I have to play my part. I’m not just the damsel he’s rescuing; I’m the forensic accountant who supposedly fixed this mess. I channel my inner corporate shark—the woman who used to terrify junior auditors before my life fell apart.
"The shell company mirroring the transactions is 'North Star Logistics'," I say, my voice steady.
"They were skimming off the top by inflating shipping weights. The club’s books balance now.
Missing funds are in an offshore account that doesn't belong to the Broken Halos.
You have the routing numbers right there on page forty-eight. "
The federal agent stops flipping. He looks at page forty-eight. Then he looks at me.
"You realize," he says, his tone oily, "that if I find out these documents have been doctored, you’re looking at federal conspiracy charges. Five years, minimum."
"And if you keep harassing a legitimate business owner and his independent auditor without cause," I shoot back, tilting my chin up, "my lawyer will be filing a harassment suit before you can finish your bad coffee. The numbers don't lie, Agent. You were looking for a mole. We found him. He’s digital, and he’s stealing from us. "
Us.
That word slips out before I can check it.
Elias doesn't react visibly, but the air between us shifts. Tension pulls tight. A surge of possessive heat follows.
The Fed snaps the folder shut. He knows he’s beat for now. The lack of a warrant stops him, especially with the "voluntary" surrender of these records. He has his scapegoat—the mysterious hacker—and clean books.
"Don't leave town, Ms. Carlson," the federal agent warns, pointing a thick finger at me.
"I live here," Elias interrupts. He steps closer, effectively blocking the agent's view of me with the sheer width of his shoulders. "And she’s with me. So she’s not going anywhere."
The Fed scoffs, climbing into his unmarked SUV to peel away from the curb.
As the car disappears around the corner toward the highway, my knees turn to water. I sway, just an inch, but Elias is there. His hand clamps onto my lower back, holding me upright with the stability of a steel beam.
"Breathe," he commands softly.
"I am breathing," I lie. "I’m also hyperventilating internally. You just forged federal evidence, Elias. You literally rewrote history."
Gray eyes scan my face with that intense, counting gaze I’ve grown addicted to. "I corrected an accounting error. The numbers balance now."
"You deleted the gun-running," I whisper furiously, glancing around to make sure no one on Main Street is listening. "You deleted the entire illegal operation to save me from a fraud charge."
"Priorities, Mia." He steers me down the sidewalk, his grip on me unyielding. "The club can rebuild its distribution network. I can’t rebuild you if you’re in a federal prison."
His matter-of-fact tone stops the air in my lungs. He traded his brotherhood’s security for my freedom. It’s the most romantic, terrifying, illegal thing anyone has ever done for me.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he guides me past the hardware store.
"Breakfast," he says. "You didn't eat last night. You’re running on adrenaline and stale crackers. Your blood sugar is low."
"You’re counting my calories now?"
"I count everything."
We turn the corner toward the alley entrance of the Cozy Cup. Even from here, the smell hits me—roasted coffee beans and the sweet, yeasty scent of pastries. My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.
Elias’s lips twitch. It’s almost a smile. "See?"
"Fine. But people are going to stare. I’m the 'Fraud Girl' everyone’s been gossiping about for three days."
"Let them stare," Elias says, his voice darkening. He pulls open the door, the little bell jingling merrily above us. "I want them to see."
We step inside, and the conversation in the Cozy Cup dies instantly. It’s like someone hit the mute button on a remote. Forks pause halfway to mouths. Coffee cups hover in mid-air. Every pair of eyes in the place swivels to us.
It’s the lunch rush, so the place is packed. I spot faces I vaguely recognize from crossing town—the man from the hardware store is at the counter. And behind the counter, holding a steaming pitcher of milk, is a waitress wearing a 'Christie' nametag.
Her eyes go wide. She looks from me, to Elias, to his hand firmly planted on the curve of my waist. A slow, knowing grin spreads across her face.
"Table for two?" she calls out, breaking the silence.
The tension in the room snaps, and the hum of conversation returns, though it’s hushed and definitely about us.
"Booth," Elias grunts. He doesn't wait to be seated. He marches me toward a booth by the window, the one that offers a clear view of the door but keeps his back to the wall. Tactical dining.
I move to slide into the booth, but Elias reaches out, directing me to sit on the side with the wall to my back.
He slides in right next to me, crowding me against the vinyl wall.
His thigh presses against mine, a solid wall of heat and denim.
His arm stretches along the back of the booth, effectively boxing me in.
"Personal space isn't a concept in the MC handbook, is it?" I mutter, though I’m leaning into him. I’m cold, tired, and he feels like a furnace.
"Not when it comes to you," he says. He picks up the laminated menu, though I doubt he needs it. "You’re having the skillet. Extra protein."
"I want pancakes. Blueberry ones."
"You can have a side of pancakes. But you need eggs."
"Yes, Mom."
Christie appears at the table, a pot of coffee already in hand. She flips two mugs over and pours the dark liquid. The steam rising off it smells rich and nutty.
"Coffee for two?" Christie asks, a knowing smirk on her face. "Glad to see you’re... out and about."
"Thanks," I say, grabbing my mug with both hands. "It’s been a week."
"I bet." She winks. "Town’s been buzzing. First the Feds and the way you two vanished into the compound. I had to tell Old Jack to stop making bets on whether you were a spy or a hostage."
"Neither," Elias says, his tone clipped. "She’s family."
Christie pauses. Her smile softens. "Well. That settles that, then. What can I get you?"
"The skillet. Side of blueberry pancakes. Black coffee. Keep it coming."
"You got it." She scribbles on her pad and bustles away.
I turn to look at him. "Family?"
Elias meets my gaze. "You have the master access to my Vault in your pocket. You know where the bodies are buried—literally and financially. You think I let just anyone into the inner circle?"
"I think you let me in because I fixed your pivot tables."
He snorts. He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are rough, calloused from counting cash and loading magazines, but his touch is shockingly gentle.
"I let you in," he says quietly, "because since the moment you stood shivering on the highway and started yelling about tax codes, the noise in my head stopped. You’re the only thing that adds up, Mia."
My chest tightens. "That’s surprisingly sweet for a man who snapped a federal agent's wrist on the highway practically the moment we met."
"I would have snapped his neck if he'd actually touched you."
The door chimes. I glance up instinctively.
Two men walk in. I don't recognize them. They’re wearing expensive hiking gear—too clean and too new. They scan the room, their eyes lingering a little too long on our booth.
Elias goes still next to me, vibrating with the lethal tension of a predator locating a threat. His arm drops from the back of the booth to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me tighter into his side.
"Tourists?" I ask softly.
"No," Elias murmurs. "Scouts. Costa’s payroll."
My heart stutters. "Should we leave?"
"No." He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, and sets it down with a sharp clack. "We’re done hiding. If they want to look, let them look. But they need to know what they’re looking at."
"And what are they looking at?"
He turns to me. The intensity in his gray eyes pins me to the seat. "My Old Lady."
Before I can process the label, he moves.
Ignoring the eyes of every patron, Elias's hands clamp onto my waist. He doesn't pull me sideways. He drags me right across the vinyl seat until I’m forced to part my knees and straddle his thick thigh.
"Elias!" I gasp, my hands flying to his broad shoulders to steady myself.
"Quiet," he growls.
He locks me in, a living fortress holding me against his chest with my back to the table.
Because his flannel shirt is obscenely large on me, the hem drops like a heavy woolen curtain over my skirt, entirely obscuring the juncture of our bodies from the rest of the diner.
They can only see me sitting on his lap.