Chapter Thirteen #2
“Fuck,” I whisper for fear of Liam hearing me. I freeze, my hand still on the keypad, lungs burning like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
This is it.
One more step and there’s no pretending I just ‘wandered in.’
No way to claim ignorance.
This is undeniable, one hundred percent, blind betrayal.
I draw in a shaky breath, hold it, then slowly push the door open. The quiet hiss of the hinges feels loud enough to wake the dead.
The air on the other side is cooler, sharper, carrying that sterile tang of electronics and expensive tech.
My heart slams against my ribs, equal parts adrenaline and guilt.
Marcus’ voice echoes in my head, urging me forward, while the memory of Sin’s rough hands and hungry kiss drags me back.
The thought of his eyes, dark, dangerous, and betrayed, makes my stomach twist. Sin trusts me enough to let me in this far, and I’m about to burn that trust to ash.
But I step across the threshold anyway.
The tech den is like stepping into a different world. It looks like the security room of a high-end casino, but instead of surveillance feeds, multiple monitors display computer interfaces I can barely comprehend. Servers hum quietly in the corner, their blue lights blinking like watchful eyes.
I swallow hard, feeling like they’re watching me too.
I’m completely out of my depth with computers, so I head straight for the filing cabinet in the corner. Sometimes, the most important information is still kept in hard copy, especially when it comes to things you don’t want stored digitally.
My hands shake as I rifle through the files.
Background checks on club members.
Financial records.
Meeting minutes.
And then I find it.
A file with my brother’s name.
Marcus Delaney.
My heart leaps into my throat. I flip it open with trembling fingers only to feel the rush drain right back out of me. It’s thin. Too thin. Just the official report, the same one I’ve read before—death ruled by road accident. The same neat lie the police fed me.
No answers.
No truth.
Just paper and ink designed to bury my brother twice over.
Frustration burns in my chest. My gaze jerks to the monitors glowing in the dim room, rows of interfaces blinking like they’re mocking me. I don’t want to go near them. I don’t understand them. But if the paper files have been scrubbed, maybe the digital ones haven’t.
The thought makes my stomach twist. If I do this, if I leave fingerprints where I shouldn’t, I’ll be exposed.
If Sin ever found out…
But Marcus’ name echoes in my head, pushing me forward.
So I drag myself to the nearest terminal and lower into the chair, my pulse hammering as I place my hands on the keyboard.
My fingers hover over the keys, already shaking.
I click, and a password prompt slams into place like a steel door.
Adrenaline surges through me as I search around Ghost’s desk for a password book.
But I come up short. I’m going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Guesswork.
“Okay… c’mon, think. Use those journalistic instincts,” I murmur to myself, while letting out a long breath. “The code to the door… maybe, but it wouldn’t just be that, that’s too easy. It would be with something else… think, think, think,” I mutter under my breath.
I start typing in the password prompt, knowing I only have three tries max to get in, but I have a hunch, and I’m going to follow it.
“Here goes,” I say and start typing.
Def52ian78ce91
A DONK sounds, and the password prompt shakes from side to side a couple of times, letting me know I entered the wrong password.
“Shit… okay, let’s try another one,” I mumble, my muscles tensing.
D5ef2ian78ce91
DONK sounds and the password prompt shakes again, letting me know my attempts are all coming down to this one final attempt.
Rolling my neck, I feel the tension bracing through my body as I glance back at the den door, just to make sure Liam is not watching on in horror.
I feel like he is watching me, even though deep down I know he has been told not to move from his sentry at the clubhouse gate.
Still, a part of me is sure he is going to walk in on me at any given moment.
“Pull yourself together… just think about it, you can do this.” I give myself one final pep talk, and then begin typing my final try to gain access to Ghost’s computer.
D5e2f7i8a9n1cE
Suddenly, the password prompt disappears, and the desktop appears, with a picture of the Defiance club logo and folders on the desktop with various naming conventions. Smiling widely, I clap once in my excitement, “Yahtzee!” I chime, then quickly pull myself in line so I don’t make too much noise.
Grabbing the mouse, my pulse races frantically as I open the main drive on the computer, seeing a list of files.
I click on one marked LA Defiance Personnel, and the file opens.
I spot my brother’s name, click on it, and the background check is thorough but basic—employment history, address, family.
My first name jumps out at me, along with my education and career in journalism.
Next to it, in bright red font, is: Not a threat.
There’s also no photograph of me.
Luckily.
Relief and disappointment collide in my chest, sharp enough to make me dizzy. They don’t know who I really am. They don’t know why I’m here. But that also means they had no reason to see me as a threat.
I keep scrolling, desperate for something, anything that will break this open. The official report lists Marcus’ death as a road accident just like the police incident report told me. A lie I’ve stared at for years. My hands tremble over the keyboard, nails clicking against the plastic.
Then I see it.
A sealed file, Marcus’ name printed across it in bold, along with a date—just days before he died.
This is it.
This has to be it.
My heart lodges in my throat. I hover over the folder, double click it, and then BAM. Another password prompt appears on the screen.
“For fuck’s sake!” I mumble.
Letting out a small huff, I type in the same password that I used to gain access to his computer with, but I am met with a loud DONK. Scrunching up my face, I change tack and try everything I can think of—birthdays, club initials, Marcus’ middle name.
Nothing works.
It allows me more attempts than the usual three to gain entry, but I’m just not having any luck at getting in at all.
The truth is right here, inches from my fingertips, but locked away behind a wall I can’t break.
Suddenly, another DONK sounds through the computer, and a red light begins to blink on one of the monitors.
At first, it’s just a pinprick of color. Then it pulses, faster, brighter.
An alarm without a sound.
My blood runs cold watching the light blinking back at me.
Am I being watched? Recorded? Did I trip something?
The hum of the servers swells to a roar in my ears. The glow of the monitors feels harsher, like interrogation lamps. My breath comes in shallow bursts, the room seems to tilt, walls inching closer, squeezing me until I can’t fucking breathe.
Get out.
Get out now!
I rip my hands back from the keyboard, nearly knocking over the chair as I stand. My heart is pounding so hard it shakes my vision. The door feels a mile away, my pulse a drumbeat counting down to impact.
I don’t hesitate as I bolt out of the den, not even bothering to try to leave it the way it was when I entered.
I’m far too panicked. Every echo sounds like footsteps.
Every flicker of light like a camera lens catching me.
My legs move on autopilot, my only thought, don’t get caught. Don’t let Sin see you.
By the time I hit the main area of the clubhouse, my head is splitting from the adrenaline rush.
I’m gulping air, my hands trembling so violently I can barely grasp the kitchen cabinet handle.
I yank it open and find the painkillers.
The bottle rattles in my grip as I dump three into my palm and chase them down with water from the tap.
The cool liquid hits my throat, but it does nothing to douse the fire inside me.
I’m wound so tight I feel like I might snap in two, guilt and panic snarling together until I can’t tell them apart.
Food.
I need food, and then I need to calm down.
I make myself a sandwich, though I can barely taste it through the haze of adrenaline and disappointment. Hours stretch ahead of me before the club returns, and I have to get my head on straight.
Sin’s room calls to me like a siren song. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m drawn back there anyway. The bed looks impossibly inviting after the emotional marathon of the morning. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m crawling under his sheets, surrounding myself with his scent.
The contradiction isn’t lost on me. I’m investigating this man for murder while finding comfort in his bed.
But the weight of the day presses down on me, heavier than guilt, heavier than fear.
The pillow smells like him, clean and faintly masculine, and the sheets whisper soft against my skin.
Each breath settles something jagged inside me.
Despite everything, this feels…
… safe.
My body loosens by degrees, the tension unspooling until my eyelids grow heavy.
Thoughts of Marcus tangle with flashes of Sin.
His eyes, his voice, the ghost of his mouth on mine, until they blur together in a haze I can’t hold onto.
The hum of the clubhouse, the steady rhythm of my heartbeat, and his scent cocooning me drag me deeper, pulling me under.
Sleep doesn’t slam into me. It steals me piece by piece until I slip away.
The desert road stretches out before me, the heat shimmering off the asphalt as I stand in the middle, the vividness of this place feels almost surreal. A motorcycle engine roars, but when I turn, I see nothing.
Just dust spiraling like smoke.
“Elizabeth.”