When she broke away, her eyes were bright with challenge and desire. A flush had climbed her neck to stain her cheeks, her pupils blown wide with the same hunger clawing at my restraint. “Are we clear?”
I didn’t apologize—wouldn’t apologize for wanting to protect her—but I nodded once.
“Crystal,” I answered, hands still gripping her hips like I couldn’t trust myself to let go.
Maeve stepped back but stayed close. She turned to the computer, absently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture hit me with unexpected force—this small, feminine movement from someone whojust faced me down without flinching. “So what have you found so far?”
I pulled a chair closer for her, shifting the laptop between us before moving to the kitchen. “I’ve accessed the administrative directories, but the file structure is massive—thousands of entries with only numerical designations.”
I returned with coffee and a sandwich, setting both firmly beside her. “Fuel up,” I said, watching her eyes dart across the screen, already completely focused on the mission.
Maeve’s fingers continued their relentless rhythm on the keyboard. Not even a pause.
I leaned against the table, waiting. Nothing.
“Maeve.” I tried again, deliberately placing my palm flat on the keyboard, blocking her access. “The sandwich isn’t decorative.”
“Give me a second,” she muttered, trying to angle the screen away from my hand.
I moved my hand to the top of the screen, a deliberate threat. “Eat now, or I’m shutting this down.”
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “You wouldn’t.”
“Already calculating how fast I can close the lid against how quickly you’ll try to stop me.” I met her glare, unblinking. “My reflexes are better than yours even when you’re not running on empty.”
A low growl vibrated from her throat—the sound startlingly feral coming from someone her size. It resonated through me, awakening something equally primitive that recognizedand responded to the challenge. She seized the sandwich with unnecessary violence and took a defiant bite, maintaining eye contact like a battle of wills.
“Keep eating,” I said, not hiding my satisfaction.
Her eyes narrowed over the sandwich, and I caught the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but close. She took another bite, and I watched the struggle play out behind those sharp eyes—pride warring with practicality. Practicality won, but only narrowly.
I took the chair beside her, close enough that our thighs brushed. The contact sent an electric current through me, a reminder of how her skin felt against mine. I shifted imperceptibly closer, drawn to her warmth by some force I could neither name nor fight.
We lost track of time as afternoon faded to evening, neither of us bothering with lights. The laptop’s blue glow became our world, punctuated only by the rhythm of keystrokes and Maeve’s occasional muttered profanity that sometimes pulled an unexpected smile from me.
As darkness claimed the room, our shared isolation intensified, creating a strange intimacy. Each accidental brush of her arm or knee against mine became something I anticipated, casual contact that registered more powerfully than it should.
I rolled my shoulders, easing the tension built from hours of staring at the screen. Maeve’s eyes tracked the movement, lingering on the play of muscle beneath my shirt before darting back to the screen.
“Fucking hell,” she muttered, typing another search string. “Nothing again.”
The room had become a cave of shadows, the windows transformed into black mirrors that reflected only our frustration and the screen’s glare. Her coffee sat forgotten, a cold accusation. “How is this even possible?”
“As I said…there’s a lot of data stored there, making the one we actually need accessible harder,” I pointed out. Brock did his best to keep his operation hidden. When we worked together, many of our clients requested my hand specifically for killing, but Brock’s talent lay in other departments, whether I wanted to admit it or not. Unfortunately, this was one of them.
Maeve looked up at me, desperation sneaking into her gaze.
“Try Xavier’s prisoner ID number,” I suggested.
Maeve’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “Already did. Three times.”
I kept my expression neutral despite the frustration coiling like barbed wire around my spine. Without conscious decision, my hand settled on her shoulder, thumb instinctively finding the hard knot of tension at the base of her neck. She leaned into the contact—a fraction of movement that felt like surrender from someone so fiercely independent.
Maeve typed “JD-2741” for the dozenth time. Zero results.
“God damn it!” She slammed the laptop shut with enough force that I flinched—a reaction I recognized as new, born in the moments since knowing her. “We’ve tried everything—Reaper, JD-2741, Blackout, Specter, Prima—nothing!”
She shoved back from the table, dragging both hands through her hair. The tremors had returned to her fingers—microscopic vibrations I could detect even from this distance. Her body betrayed what her determination wouldn’t acknowledge: too much strain, too little recovery time.