Chapter 5
FIVE
Cooper
BODY HEAT
She absorbs my limited information with the same intensity she probably applies to ancient language patterns. She scans my face, cataloging details, searching for additional data.
“My colleagues who were killed—Sarah Williams, David Kim, Lisa Parker—did Phoenix murder them?”
“Yes.”
“Can you answer anything with more than one word?”
“Obsidian protocol.”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, puffing out a breath that moves the hair falling across her forehead.
“Great. Two words. One more than one.”
Despite the circumstances, watching her get riled up is entertaining as hell. The way her cheeks flush with frustration, the spark in those green eyes—I’m getting a kick out of pushing her buttons.
“I know that word. Obsidian. It appeared in several of the coded files I found. I thought it was a codename, but it’s not. What is it?”
“It is a codename.”
“For what?” As her exasperation grows, my interest increases. There’s something sexy about her the more frustrated she gets. She’s smart. Too fucking smart for her own good.
“Phoenix kill protocol.”
“How many people has Obsidian killed?”
“Nobody knows.”
She’s quiet for several minutes, processing this information. The basement’s mechanical systems hum around us—heating pipes clicking, ventilation fans cycling, electrical systems humming their constant background noise.
Above us, the fire alarm finally stops. Emergency vehicles arrive on campus, sirens wailing. Phoenix teams will blend into the chaos, pose as concerned security personnel responding to the threat.
Professional. Disciplined. Patient.
“Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“Are we going to die down here?”
The question comes out small and vulnerable. She’s finally hit the wall—the moment when the reality of her situation penetrates her academic curiosity and hits pure survival instinct.
“No.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because I’m very good at keeping people alive.”
She shifts against the tunnel wall, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist.
“Can you tell me about Cerberus? How did you know how to find me? Why are you helping people fight Phoenix?”
“We’re a private military contractor specializing in protection services. Got the call yesterday.”
“From whom?”
“Ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“My boss.”
“His real name is Ghost?”
“Mason Blackwood. We call him Ghost.”
“Military nicknames?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your nickname?”
The question catches me off guard. Most clients don’t care about team dynamics or operational details. They want protection, extraction, and survival. Dr. Eliza Wren wants to understand everything.
“Whisper.”
“Whisper?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “You? Mr. Monosyllabic Grunts and Single-Word Answers? I’d think they’d call you Caveman.”
Despite the circumstances, her reaction almost makes me smile. Almost.
“Sniper. Move quietly. Strike silently.”
“Ah.” She nods as if this explains everything. “So you’re the team’s long-range specialist.”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Surveillance. Reconnaissance. Target elimination.”
“Target elimination.” She repeats the words carefully. “You mean assassination.”
“When necessary.”
Most people flinch when they learn what I do for a living. Dr. Eliza Wren just nods and moves on to the next question.
“How many people are on your team?”
“Five active. Two inactive.”
“What happened to the inactive members?”
Ryan and Celeste’s situation is classified, but explaining it requires more words than I prefer using. “Phoenix. Had to disappear.”
“They’re alive?”
“Yes.”
“But they can’t come back?”
“Not while Phoenix exists.”
Understanding flashes across her features. “So this is personal for your team.”
“Everything’s personal when Phoenix is involved.”
She shifts again, pulling her knees closer to her chest. Her lips show the first hint of blue, and her hands shake slightly as she rubs her arms.
Time for a tactical adjustment.
The temperature down here hovers around fifty degrees. Concrete leaches heat from anything it touches. She’s already shivering slightly, arms wrapped around herself. The jacket I gave her helps, but not enough.
“You’re cold,” I observe.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“It’s fifty degrees in a concrete pipe. Of course I’m shivering.
Basic thermodynamics. The human body maintains a core temperature of 98.
6 degrees Fahrenheit. In an environment this cold, without proper insulation, heat loss occurs through conduction to the concrete, convection in the air, and radiation—”
“Come here.”
She stops mid-lecture. “What?”
“Body heat. Basic survival.”
“You want me to—cuddle with you? For warmth?”
“Unless you prefer hypothermia.”
She stares at me in the dim light, probably weighing her options. Freeze slowly over six hours or share body heat with a virtual stranger who makes her nervous.
Survival wins.
She scoots closer, tentatively at first. The tunnel’s curve forces her to lean against my side. I shift to accommodate her, creating a pocket of warmth between my body and the wall.
“This is purely for survival,” she says.
“Obviously.”
“I don’t want you getting any ideas.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But when she settles against me, her head fitting perfectly against my shoulder, her warmth seeping through my tactical vest, ideas are exactly what I’m getting.
Bad ones. Unprofessional ones. The kind that involve finding out what sounds she makes when she’s not talking.
What it would take to make her speechless.
Her hair tickles my jaw. That vanilla scent is stronger now, mixed with adrenaline and fear and something uniquely her. Despite everything—the danger, the cold, the concrete—she feels right pressed against me.
Which is fucked up on multiple levels.
“Better?” I ask.
“Warmer,” she admits. Then, because she can’t help herself: “Did you know the phrase ‘body heat’ is actually redundant? All heat is technically body heat in the sense that it’s energy produced by matter, and in thermodynamics—”
“Dr. Wren.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.” Those green eyes flash with irritation.
“Don’t order me around.”
Stubborn woman. “It’s not an order. It’s a tactical necessity.”
“Everything’s tactical with you, isn’t it?”
“When it comes to keeping you alive, everything I tell you to do, you consider it an order and obey instantly. Don’t ask questions. Do what I say when I say it.”
Her breath catches slightly, and something shifts in her expression. Despite her verbal protests, her body language tells a different story—the way her lips part, the slight dilation of her pupils, the unconscious lean forward.
She responds to authority.
To dominance.
Shit.
Interesting as hell, considering I prefer women who submit in bed. The thought of having her underneath me, responding to commands with breathless obedience instead of endless questions, sends heat straight to my groin.
Wouldn’t that be fun?
Fuck. Lock it down.
The metal surface provides marginally more warmth than concrete, but not enough to matter.
“There. Happy now?”
Her shoulder brushes mine as she settles into position, and the contact sends electricity straight through my system. She smells even better up close—vanilla and something distinctly feminine that makes me want to bury my face in her hair.
Professional distance. Maintain professional fucking distance.
But sitting beside me isn’t how you conserve body heat effectively. The concrete floor will continue leaching warmth from her body through her jeans.
“Better.” I lean forward and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her basically into my lap. “Get your ass off the concrete.”
She squirms and tries to push away. “What are you doing?”
“Body heat conservation. Stop fighting me.”
She continues to struggle against my grip, and my jaw clenches with frustration.
“That’s an order.”
Immediately, she goes still. Her body relaxes against mine, that unconscious response to authority surfacing again. Another tell. Another piece of evidence that Dr. Eliza Wren responds to dominance whether she admits it or not.
Which is going to be a really big fucking problem, because now she’s sitting directly on my lap, her ass pressed against my cock, which is starting to respond to having a beautiful woman positioned exactly where I want her.
“How is this going to help you conserve body heat?”
“Don’t worry about me. I can handle it.”
She settles against me, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders as warmth starts transferring between us. Her brain’s working again, processing the situation.
“Phoenix is a robot that kills people.”
“AI. Not a robot.”
“Thank you for that crucial distinction.” Sarcasm drips from every word. “I feel much better knowing it’s artificial intelligence trying to kill me instead of mechanical assassins.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches. She’s got a sharp tongue when she’s irritated.
“Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you married?”
The question comes out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard. “What?”
“Married. Girlfriend. Significant other. Someone who worries when you disappear on protection details.”
“No.”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Long-term relationships?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I prefer quick hookups in bars where no names are exchanged.
No questions about seeing each other again.
Just fuck someone, scratch the itch, and walk away clean.
Explaining my lifestyle to civilians never works.
Most women can’t handle what I do for a living.
Relationships require emotional availability that my job doesn’t allow.
“Job makes it difficult.”
“Difficult how?”
“Travel. Danger. Classified work.”
“Lots of military personnel maintain relationships.”
“Not like this.”
She’s quiet for several minutes, processing this information with the same thoroughness she applies to ancient ciphers. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“It must be lonely.”