by Angel Lawson
“You can’t see my face,” she says.
Quinn doesn’t reply, too focused on finding some sort of clue. Minutes pass and the exterior camera reveals nothing. The interior catches Atticus talking into his headpiece while Quinn watches quietly from the passenger seat. Even without sound it’s obvious how annoyed Atticus had been that night with Astrid and her refusal to follow orders. He bangs his fists on the steering wheel when she disconnected.
“I was being a total jerk. I can’t believe I did that. How angry was he?”
“Not angry. Worried,” Quinn says, watching the following scene. He remembers it vividly. He asked the mentor if he should follow her. Make sure she was okay.
“You too?”
“Me? I barely knew you, so I wasn’t sure if you really had the capability to take on the operation. I also didn’t know if this was something you normally did.” He points at the screen where he’s walking in front of the car, tugging his hoodie over his head. “I offered to go track you, just in case.”
“Good thing,” she says quietly. “It was stupid. I risked everything, and that got Atticus killed.”
Quinn glances away from the screen and studies the woman next to him. “Nothing you did jeopardized him.”
“No?” she asks, nodding at the screen. Atticus is sitting the car alone, anxiously waiting for them to return. He looks to his left, out the side window. An expression flits across his face. Surprise? Yes. But there’s something else. “Pause it.”
Quinn hits the pause button, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “He doesn’t look concerned.”
“No,” she agrees. “He looks surprised, though? See the way his eyebrows are raised? Keep going.”
He resumes play but slows the speed. Atticus watches something—or someone outside the car. On the split screen, a pair of legs is visible. Dark pants. Dark shoes. He reaches for the window, moving to roll it down. He never gets a chance. His eyes widen and the glass shatters. Quinn is second too late slamming on the pause button and they both watch Atticus’ head snap back from the force of the bullet.
Astrid cries out, hands covering her mouth, and Quinn reaches for her, tugging her face into his chest. Nausea rolls over him like a tidal wave and he buries his face in Astrid’s hair, wanting and wishing for the image of Atticus’ death to fade, but he knows better than that.
It will stick with them both for a lifetime, he realizes, wrapping his arms tighter around her. With a glance at the screen he also knows that the only thing that will erase the feeling of helplessness in his chest and ease Astrid’s mind is finding his killer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Astrid
With the image of Atticus’ death burned into her mind, Astrid stands by her bedroom door holding Harry close to her chest. Looking at that recording had been awful—necessary, but awful--and no matter what she thinks about the visual lingers.
The other thing she can’t get away from is Quinn.
Not that she wants to. But now that he’s been staying here for over a week, his smell, his presence, even just his body has become a familiar part of her every day. In the gym, getting out of the shower, eating breakfast. All of it done with casual ease of someone perfectly attuned to his body, his needs, and his desires.
And yeah, there’s that. Desire.
Quinn wants her.
There’s no doubt in her mind. She can smell it on him. Hear it in his heartbeat and the shifting tone of his voice. She feels it in the hairs on her neck that raise when he passes by, his pheromones calling out to her.
It’s enough to drive a girl mad.
But that’s the thing, he doesn’t act on it. He’s totally cool. There’s nothing about him that would bother a normal person. But Astrid isn’t normal. And the longer he’s around, the more her heightened senses are lulled into his desire until it’s brought her own to life.
Even now, with the wave of despair and depression rolling over her from the video. Probably because of the video, because she wants to feel anything but the pain of losing Atticus.
And what better way than falling skin-deep in sensory overload?
As if sensing her thoughts, Quinn looks up from the book he’s reading on the couch, setting the gaze of those crystal blue eyes on her.
“Hey,” he says, lowering the book.
“Hi.”
She walks across the room and sits next to him. Her body hums with the closeness. She’s gloveless, having gotten used to not wearing them around Quinn.
He opens his mouth to speak but she doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to hear anything, but she does feel the need to get something straight. She holds up her hand, stopping whatever words are on his tongue, and says, “I’ve lost too many people, Quinn, just like you have. There’s something about me—about us—that makes the people around us targets.”
He nods. “I agree.”
“And it seems like just when I get close to someone—like I think I’ve formed a family, they’re taken. And I can’t do that again.”
Disappointment shades the blue of his eyes but he nods again in understanding. “I don’t want to either.”
“But this hurts, being near the first person that doesn’t trigger the echo since I was a child and feeling like I can’t do anything about it because if I do…if I do something, with you…that may be the sign I’m going to lose you, too.”
She slips her fingers into his, linking them tight. The warmth sets her abuzz, and she scoots closer and she isn’t surprised that he looks completely confused.
“I want something in the middle. Something that takes my mind off the pain while not becoming my everything.”
“You want a fling? A booty call? A one-night stand?” His tone doesn’t seem judgmental.
She stares at their hands and says quietly, “I just want to feel something other than what I’m drowning in now. Is that too much to ask?”
He shakes his head the tiniest bit, the longer dark strands in the front falling in front of his eyes. Astrid reaches to push it aside and he touches her chin. “I told you when I first got here that I’m willing to do and be whatever it is you need from me.”
She runs her fingers across his cheek, down his neck, and grips the hard muscle of his shoulder. “Just help me feel something other than pain—for a little while—can you do that?”
He doesn’t reply, just presses his mouth to hers while lifting her into his lap and helps her forget.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Astrid
The group stands in front of their instructor with their hands behind their backs, eyes forward and breathing heavily. All six are dripping sweat. They lost two recruits over the past week. One walked, or rather crawled, out after the six-minute-mile challenge. The other is across the gym, pummeling a punching bag with such intensity that Astrid expects the chain attaching it to the roof to snap. She can’t quite keep her eyes off that one, hasn’t all week. Not since the night of their epic make-out session on the couch upstairs. It hasn’t gone further than a lot of rubbing and kissing and general sensory overload.
For both of them.
Feeling her gaze, Quinn turns to meet her eye.
The feeling seems mutual.
A cough, followed by, “Suck up,” breaks her distraction.
“What’s that?” she asks Rowe. There’s not even the slightest uptick in his pulse as she stares at him. Increasingly, she suspects the recruit may be a sociopath. Nothing phases him—nothing but losing—and when she’d announced that McCrae had been promoted after that first day, the time bomb in his chest slowly started ticking.
Rowe doesn’t reply, just juts his chin higher in the air.
She fights the urge to take him down. Kick him out for attitude. She can. The problem is that Rowe is a capable fighter. His skills are impressive and his cool demeanor may be useful in the field.
She ignores him and says, “I wanted to let you know the status of your evaluations and the program as a whole. Obviously things were d
elayed a bit with the death of Atticus. He was the founder and facilitator between the Elite candidates and the FBI. After discussing it with the agency, I will make recommendations to his direct contact, Agent Jensen, who will make determinations about field assignments from there.”
Most of the candidates look relieved to have a bit of information—the transition has been a challenge for Astrid. Not only keeping focused but continuing the program Atticus devoted his life to. Well, his public life.
Rowe doesn’t look relieved or impressed. He crosses his arms and says, “What does a recruit have to do to get a fast-pass like McCrae over there?” The twist of his lips says he thinks he already knows.
“Well, first of all, he passed the first test, which was giving you a beat down. Second, he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I bet he does.”
She hears a slam across the room, the chain on the bag jerking hard from the powerful punch Quinn just delivered. The whole gym, not just the candidates in front of her, turn to the sound of the crash. Underneath the sweat, beating hearts, and heightened adrenaline in the room, Astrid hears the charge of electricity spark as he removes his gloves and drops them on the floor before walking over.
“You’re excused,” Astrid says to the group. She gives Rowe a pointed look. “All of you.”
Five scurry away but Rowe, lord, he take his time, slowly removing the workout gloves on his hands. As he walks over, Quinn’s chest rises and falls, from anger as well as exertion. The hairs on her arms rise on end—he’s that charged up.
Astrid sighs and looks between them. Rowe clearly won’t be happy until there’s a rematch to prove he can take Quinn down. Quinn? Yeah, he’s not allowed to actually do that. Not now. Not when he’s on the payroll.
“Whatever this is…it’s not happening,” she says when they both get in reach. “Rowe, I’ll kick you out. I’m already close, but you’ll force my hand. Altercations with another candidate, much less an instructor, are forbidden.”
He eyes Quinn, like a tiger hunting prey. “Who said I was looking for an altercation? Just a friendly re-match.”
“It’s not happ—”
“I’m game,” Quinn says.
She shoots him a hard look. “No. You’re not.”
“Why not?” He shrugs, flashing his teeth at Rowe who is nodding enthusiastically. What she can’t tell the candidate is that a deadly current is rolling off Quinn in waves and she’s not entirely sure he’s in control of it.
“Because I’ll kick you both out,” she declares, dead serious. “And mark it on your records with the agency so neither of you will ever get a job again.” She eyes them both. “Got it?”
Rowe, for some reason, doesn’t want to get kicked out of the program even though he pushes every button along the way. Quinn? He can’t afford to. They reluctantly back down.
“You,” she glares at Rowe, “get out of here.” Then she shifts her attention to Quinn. “And you go cool off. You’ve got clients this afternoon.” They have a brief standoff but with his jaw tight, he turns and walks back to clean up his workout area. Rowe saunters away, like he just won some battle she doesn’t understand.
Men.
Sighing, she makes her way across the gym to the back office to write up her daily logs on the candidates.
She’s jotting down notes when the door opens. Quinn walks in without as much as a knock. She feels that charge coming off of him—not deadly but definitely heightened. She opens her mouth to speak but he cuts her off, “I don’t like him talking to you like that.”
“It’s part of the process. I evaluate everything.” She holds up her notes. “Jensen will hear about it.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Well it’s not up to you,” she says, aware of his boiling anger. “Why are you so upset about this?”
“Why are you not?” he snaps back.
She shrugs but his questions batter at the walls she’s built around herself. She moves to the cabinet next to the door and when she passes his hand reaches out for her, gripping her arm. She balls her leather-clad fist.
“Are you only strong with that mask over your eyes?” he asks. “Is that the only time you’ll fight for yourself? Reveal your true self?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“What? Tell the truth? Call it out?” He releases her but doesn’t move away. She can smell everything about him right now. The sweat. The anger. There’s another one, assaulting her senses and bringing about her own surprising emotion.
Arousal.
“What is that?” she asks him, more curious about the smell than their argument.
“What’s what?”
“What are you feeling?” She sniffs the air. Sniffs his shirt, the crook of his neck. “It’s overwhelming.”
His jaw tenses and his heart kickstarts. Quinn’s pulse doesn’t rise when he’s angry or even scared. No, it reacts to one thing: her.
“I don’t like him speaking to you like that. I don’t want him looking at you. Thinking about you.” He swallows. “God save him if he ever touches you. I’ll break his fingers one by one.”
His words startle her. His passion matches his scent, but it’s not jealousy. That she recognizes. The twist of arousal in her belly calls it something else. An idea strikes her and she blurts, “Possessive.”
“What?” He frowns but guilt now mixes in.
“Rowe makes you feel protective of me. Possessive.” She looks up in his blue eyes and spots the truth. The ache in her bones tells her the same. The way he looks more attractive—if that’s even possible. She has the urge to be near him. Not for safety, but out of desire.
“I’m not an animal.”
She narrows her eyes. “Aren’t we all?”
She slowly peels the gloves off her hands and drops them on the desk. It’s a green light and Quinn catches the signal, tugging her by the waist and crashing his mouth against hers.
Each time they do this, it changes. Their kisses grow more heated, fueled by a different set of emotions. He pushes her against the desk, rattling the objects on the surface. She runs her hands up and down his bare arms. Jesus, his arms. She’d never, ever had any idea touching someone on the bicep would be so incredibly thrilling.
Astrid’s leggings are thin as are Quinn’s shorts and wow, it’s much different, better, bigger than through layers of protective leather. His lips move to her neck and her fingers roam down to his waist, pushing the sweat-soaked shirt up enough to get her hands on his—
Whoop, whoop, whoop
She stops with a jerk, dropping his shirt and pushing him back. A red light flashes on Atticus’ desk.
“What? What the hell is that?” he asks.
She jumps across the desk, slamming her hand on the flashing light, then runs to the door that leads from the office to the private part of the building, including the Lair and her apartment.
She swings open the door and says, “Someone’s breaking into my apartment.”
*
Atticus had custom security all over the building, according to Astrid. Quinn follows her now, shifting gears from kissing to action in a snap. She takes the stairs down to the Lair, where she flips a switch on the wall. A dozen monitors flicker to life, filling the room with a gray-white light. The images are black and white and Quinn leans over, placing a hand on the desk to look at them all.
Atticus certainly was thorough; the cameras cover nearly every angle, inside and out, of the building. The gym looks normal—clients and trainers working out just as they’d been when he left earlier. A small, flat table screen shows a blueprint of the building, including a heat sensor. Two red dots in the lower levels are Quinn and Astrid. One other tiny dot identifies the trespasser on the third floor.
A shadow catches his attention on the upper right-hand screen.
“There,” he says, pointing to a screen that shows a man with a black mask on climbing into the window of her apartment.
“How the hell did he get in
there?” She asks. “Atticus has the place locked tight.” Astrid presses a lever and the camera zooms in.
Quinn moves, headed for the door, but Astrid clamps her hand down on his.
“No. There’s nothing for him to find up there. Let him take what he wants—if he’s even there to steal anything. We can track him down later.”
Quinn had agreed to keep anything related to their alternate personas downstairs, locked up tight. She’s right that there’s nothing important up there but it’s still a violation—a crime.
He watches the man roaming through her apartment. “Seriously? He’s right there.” But even as he says it, the prowler stands in front of the hidden camera and peers at the lens. A thin, dark scar runs down his cheek. “What’s he doing?”
He lifts his hand, like he’s waving, and in a blink, the figure is gone. Vanished like he’d never been there.
“Fuck. Where’d he go?” Quinn scans all the monitors. He’s not in any of them. He’d disappeared. Except…a single red dot bobs across the screen with the heat sensor. Astrid leans over, watching closely. A deep look of concentration is on her face. Frustration builds and Quinn tosses his hands in the air. “I don’t get it? Is he a ghost? What are we waiting for?”
Astrid holds up her hand and just as quickly as he enters, the dot exits the same way it came in. Through the exterior window. They watch it bob and bounce down to the street below. Once the guy is off the property, the dot completely vanishes.
Astrid says (when she gets a good look at the annoyance on Quinn’s face), “We’ll wait ‘til dark and then suit up. I think I know who that is and he’s going to lead us directly to Atticus’ killer.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Peter”
Easing the window shut, Peter scales the side of the building, using the exposed brick for handholds. He moves quickly, bracing himself for the final jump to the street below.
