5. Chapter 5 （Olivia）
Ican still feel his kiss on my lips.
The thought ambushes me as I stare at my laptop screen, trying to focus on the endless stream of corporate documents. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but instead of typing, they drift to my mouth, remembering the pressure of Noah's lips, the desperate way he?—
No. Focus.
I pull up the photo I secretly snapped of the old photograph before giving it back to Noah.
The woman beside him—Jessica—is beautiful in that polished corporate way, her smile bright and professional.
Noah looks younger, less haunted. His suit is expensive, his posture relaxed.
They're standing in front of the gleaming Randall Industries logo, looking like they belong there.
Looking like they trust the place that would eventually destroy them both.
The cabin is quiet except for the sound of Noah doing pushups in the living room. He's been at it for an hour, punishing his body like it somehow betrayed him last night. I want to tell him to stop, that kissing me wasn't a tactical error that needs to be corrected through physical punishment.
But that would mean talking about the kiss. About the way he pushed me away. About the pain in his eyes when he mentioned Jessica's name.
My cursor blinks accusingly on the screen. I've typed "Randall Industries Jessica death" into every search engine I can think of, but nothing comes up. No obituaries, no news reports, no corporate announcements. It's like she never existed.
Or like someone erased her.
"If you're going to investigate me," Noah's voice makes me jump, "you could just ask."
He's standing in my doorway, shirtless and sweaty from his workout. I force my eyes to stay on his face, not the impressive display of muscles or the scars that map his skin like a history of violence.
"Would you actually answer?" I challenge.
"No." He grabs a shirt from his room and pulls it on, hiding the evidence of whatever battles he's survived. "But at least it would be honest."
"Fine." I turn my laptop so he can see the photo. "Who was she?"
"You know who she was."
"I know she worked at Randall Industries. I know you were her bodyguard. I know something happened to her." I stand, moving closer. "What I don't know is why you're so afraid of history repeating itself."
"I'm not afraid." But his jaw tightens, betraying the lie.
"Really? Then why did you stop kissing me?"
The question hangs between us like smoke, dangerous and suffocating. Noah's expression hardens, but not before I catch a flash of something in his eyes—desire? Regret? Pain?
"We're not talking about this."
"Of course not." I slam my laptop shut. "Because God forbid you actually let someone in. Let someone help you carry whatever burden you're?—"
"You want to know what happened?" His voice is low, dangerous. "You want to know why I can't let you get close? Why I wake up every night hearing gunshots? Why I—" He stops, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Yes." I step closer, close enough to see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "I want to know everything."
"No, you don't." He backs away, but I follow. "You think you do, but trust me, Olivia. Some truths are better left buried."
"Like whatever truth Jessica discovered?" I press. "The truth that got her killed?"
His hand shoots out, gripping my arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop me. "Don't say her name."
"Why? Because it reminds you of your failure? Because?—"
His lips crash into mine, cutting off my words. It's not like last night's kiss—this is angry, desperate, full of pain and need and warning. His hands tangle in my hair as he backs me against the wall, and I respond with equal fervor, pouring all my frustration into the kiss.
Then, just as suddenly, he tears himself away.
"This," he says roughly, "is exactly why I can't tell you. Because you push and push until something breaks. Until someone breaks."
"Like you broke?"
The words are cruel, but I need to know. Need to understand what turned the smiling man in that photograph into this fortress of pain and secrets.
"Yes." His admission is barely a whisper. "Like I broke. And I won't let it happen to you."
He turns to leave, but I catch his wrist. His skin is warm under my fingers, his pulse racing.
"Noah." I soften my voice. "Whatever happened... whatever you're trying to protect me from... I'm already involved. The only difference is, I'm going in blind."
He looks down at where I'm touching him, like he can't quite believe the contact is real.
"You're right," he says finally. "You need to know what we're up against. But not like this. Not with emotions running high and judgment clouded."
"Then when?"
"Tonight." He gently disengages from my grip. "After we review the new intel from your source. After we're thinking clearly."
I want to argue, to demand answers now, but I recognize the olive branch he's extending. It's probably the most I'm going to get from him right now.
"Tonight," I agree. "But I want the whole truth, Noah. No more deflections. No more half-answers."
He nods once, then leaves before I can see whatever emotion is fighting its way across his face.
I lean against the wall, my heart still racing from the kiss, from the promise of answers, from the way he looked at me like I was simultaneously salvation and damnation.
The photo still glows on my laptop screen, a reminder of happier times. Of trust betrayed and lives destroyed.
What secrets are you hiding, Noah Harrington?
And more importantly—will learning them get us both killed?
And more importantly—will learning them get us both killed?
The afternoon stretches into evening as I dive back into my investigation. Noah's set up a secure workstation in the living room, complete with multiple monitors and encryption software I've never seen before. Despite my protests, he insists on reviewing every document before I access it.
"These file names are coded," he says, pointing to a series of numbers that look random to me. "Standard Randall Industries protocol. They changed their system after..." He stops, jaw tightening.
"After Jessica?" I ask softly.
He nods once, eyes fixed on the screen. "The first two numbers indicate department. The next four are date codes, but they're offset by three months to throw off anyone accessing the system."
"How do you know all this?"
"Because I helped design it." His voice is flat, but his fingers have stilled on the keyboard. "Back when I thought I was protecting company secrets, not covering up crimes."
I lean closer, trying to see what he sees in the streams of data. His shoulder brushes mine, and despite everything, my skin tingles at the contact.
"Here." He highlights a sequence. "These financial transfers... they're using the same pattern we discovered three years ago. Moving money through shell companies, but leaving just enough of a trail to?—"
"To make it look legitimate to anyone who doesn't know what to look for," I finish. "But you do."
"So do you." He glances at me, something like admiration in his eyes. "Your notes on their shipping manifests... you spotted irregularities that took our team months to identify."
"Our team?"
He turns back to the screen, but not before I catch the flash of pain across his face. "The internal investigation team. Before everything went wrong."
I pull up my own notes, comparing them to the patterns he's identified. "These shipments... they don't match any known Randall Industries products."
"No." His voice is grim. "They don't."
"Then what were they shipping?"
Noah's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then: "What do you know about Project Oracle?"
"Only rumors." I flip through my files. "Something about experimental technology, but all my sources clammed up when I mentioned it. Even Jackson warned me to stay away from that angle."
"Good advice." Noah runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as stress. "Oracle wasn't just experimental tech. It was... something else. Something Jessica discovered by accident."
My heart races. This is it—the first real crack in his armor. "What did she find?"
He starts to answer, then catches himself. "Not yet. First, show me everything you have on Marcus Randall's personal accounts."
I pull up the relevant files, trying to hide my frustration at another deflection. But as we work through the data, I start to see why Noah's so careful with information. Patterns emerge that I would have missed, connections that only make sense if you know where the bodies are buried.
And Noah knows where all the bodies are buried.
"There." He points to a transaction date that means nothing to me. "That's when it started. When Jessica first..." His voice catches.
Without thinking, I place my hand over his where it rests on the desk. He stiffens but doesn't pull away.
"She was like you," he says quietly, staring at our joined hands. "Brilliant. Fearless. Too damn stubborn to let anything go."
"What happened to her, Noah?"
He turns his hand, interlacing our fingers. The gesture is so gentle, so at odds with his usual guardedness, that my breath catches.
"She trusted the wrong person." His voice is barely a whisper. "And I couldn't?—"
A shadow moves past the window.
Noah's up in an instant, pushing me behind him as he draws his weapon. The gentle man of moments ago vanishes, replaced by the soldier I sometimes forget he is.
"Panic room," he orders. "Now."
"But—"
"Olivia." His eyes meet mine, fierce and desperate. "Please."
Another shadow, closer this time.
Another shadow, closer this time.
"Olivia." Noah's voice carries that same desperate edge from last night. "Panic room. Now."
My feet won't move. The shadows outside dance across the windows like deadly ballet, and all I can think about is the photograph. About Jessica. About how Noah looked when he said she trusted the wrong person.
"I'm not leaving you," I say.
His jaw clenches. "This isn't up for debate."
A twig snaps outside—close, too close. Noah moves like liquid lightning, pushing me behind the kitchen island while simultaneously drawing a second weapon from his ankle holster.
"Take this." He presses the gun into my hand. "Safety's off. Point and shoot. But only if?—"
A figure appears in the window, just for a second. Tall. Professional stance. Night vision goggles.
Noah's already moving. "Panic room. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. Three knocks, pause?—"
"Two knocks. I know." The gun is heavy in my hand, foreign yet somehow reassuring. "Noah?—"
"Whatever you hear," he cuts me off, "whatever happens, stay in that room." His eyes lock with mine, intense enough to burn. "Promise me."
I want to argue. Want to tell him that I don't make promises I might need to break. But there's something in his face—raw fear that I know isn't for himself.
"I promise."
He nods once, then he's gone, slipping out the back door like a shadow himself. I force myself to move, to follow his instructions. The panic room is exactly where he said it would be, hidden behind a false wall in my closet.
I barely make it inside before I hear the first gunshot.
The sound echoes through the mountains, followed by the crash of breaking branches. More shots—different calibers. At least two shooters, maybe three.
I grip the gun Noah gave me, remembering the shooting lessons my dad insisted on after I became an investigative reporter. Point and shoot. Just like target practice.
Except this isn't practice, and somewhere out there, Noah is fighting. Maybe dying. Like Jessica died.
The thought makes me sick.
Minutes tick by like hours. The gunfire has stopped, but now the silence is worse. My phone sits useless in my pocket—no signal in this metal box. No way to call for help. No way to know if Noah is alive or?—
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
I almost sob with relief as I punch in the exit code. The door slides open to reveal Noah, breathing hard, a cut above his eye bleeding freely.
"Are you?—"
"I'm fine." He quickly checks me over, his hands efficient but gentle. "Are you hurt? Did anyone?—"
"I'm okay." I reach up to touch the cut on his face, but he catches my wrist.
"Don't." His voice is rough. "I need to secure the perimeter. Stay here."