Page 9 of Fated By Fire
I need to look somewhere else.
I lift my arms overhead and yawn. The urge to get out of here is motivated by more than a need to find more information. I have to stretch my legs before I go out of my freaking mind. And I can think of a great place to stretch them.
Downstairs.
I’ve been hearing about a vault in the basement; it’s off-limits to everyone except senior staff, and even they don’t go near it unless absolutely necessary.
The vault is my target.
I glance at the clock. It’s 4:45 pm, and most of the office has already left for the day. Gwen, the HR director, is in a meeting, and my supervisor, a mild-mannered man named Greg, is off sick. And with Brenda out of the office, I’m completely alone. This is my chance.
I grab a stack of file folders and head for the elevator.
The basement is cold and sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights and a faint smell of overheated metal. I follow the signs for the archives annex, glancing around to make sure I’m still alone.
The vault is nowhere in sight, but there’s a second elevator that catches my attention as I walk past it. I’m aware of a faint hum of electricity when I pause near it. At least, that’s what Ithink it is. The little hairs on my arms prickle up, and my skin tingles. Static, maybe?
That has to be it. It’s a massive steel door set into the wall, flanked by security cameras and a biometric scanner. A sign on the door reads:Security Vault.Authorized Personnel Only. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.
Great. I’ll never get in there.
I hesitate. The vault itself is out of reach, but the adjoining office might have something useful. I slip inside, my heart pounding.
The office is small and cluttered, with a desk piled high with papers and a computer that’s still running. I set the folders down and start rifling through the desk drawers. There’s nothing incriminating—just receipts, memos, and a half-empty packet of gum—but then I notice a notebook lying open on the desk.
It’s filled with scribbled notes, most of them incomprehensible, but one phrase jumps out at me:Blackthorn Consulting—Priority.
Blackthorn? They know about my client?
Before I can read more, I hear footsteps in the hallway. My stomach drops. I shove the notebook back onto the desk and grab the folders, trying to look busy.
The door swings open, and I freeze.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice is low and cold, with an edge of menace that makes my skin prickle. I turn around, forcing a smile.
“Sorry, I was just—” The words die in my throat.
It’s him. The man from my first day at Craven Industries. I’d met him in passing during onboarding—Dorian Craven, the Chief Operations Officer. He’d been charming and flirtatious, with a lazy smile and a glint in his amber eyes. But this man isn’t smiling.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and eyes that burn like molten gold. He’s dressed in a tailored gray suit that somehow makes him look more dangerous, not less, and his expression is ice cold.
“This area is restricted,” he says, his voice sharp as a knife.
“I—I was just delivering these files,” I stammer, holding up the folders like a shield.
“Files?” He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “To an empty office?”
“I thought…” My mind races. “Greg asked me to drop them off. He’s off sick.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick to the desk, and I see the moment he notices the notebook lying open.
“You’re lying,” he says softly.
I suck in a breath at his blunt accusation and take a step back, my pulse roaring in my ears. There’s something about him—something watchful and territorial. It’s not just the way he’s looking at me, like he can see straight through my carefully constructed facade. It’s the way hefeels… as if he’s ready to strike.
“Who are you?” he demands.
