-Treasure.
The meeting left a faint aftertaste of polished lies in my mouth, the kind you get from too much corporate air and polite half-smiles. I settled into the front passenger seat of the SUV, the city's glass-and-steel skyline folding away behind us. The driver kept his eyes forward, hands resting steady at ten and two, and I let mine roam—mirrors, intersections, shadows that didn't belong.
Elias was in the back, angled toward the window, his voice low in Cassandra's ear through the headset. The sound of his measured replies blended with the soft hum of the tires over asphalt, steady until the streets began to thin. The blocks turned heavier here—low warehouses with paint sun-bleached into pastels, the smell of metal and old oil sliding through the vents. This route wasn't new, though it always felt like the kind of place that could swallow a car whole and no one would notice.
A break in the road ahead caught my attention. The white van sat across one lane at an awkward tilt, hazard lights pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Behind it, a tired sedan slouched on its suspension, two men standing nearby with their palms up, motioning lazily for approaching cars to ease through. Their gestures had the sluggish weight of people used to being ignored.
Our driver eased off the accelerator, eyes narrowing as he searched for space to slip past. My gaze swept the side streets, tracing angles, noting what shouldn't be there. That's when the motorcycle came—a quick dart of black and chrome cutting in from the right, engine coughing once before it halted directly in front of us. Close enough that I could see the chipped paint on the tank.
The driver's hand hovered near the gearshift, his knuckles tightening. Behind me, Elias's conversation with Cassandra thinned to silence. I could feel, without looking, the slow lift of his head from the phone in his lap.
When I finally glanced back, his eyes were already on the road ahead, brows drawn tight, phone lowered to his knee.
The air inside the SUV shifted. Denser, the way a room feels when the storm outside decides it's coming in.
The driver's fingers tapped once against the wheel, a sound too soft to mean impatience. It was a signal—his way of saying he saw what I saw. The men near the sedan weren't looking at their car anymore. Their eyes kept drifting toward us, then to the van, like they were waiting for a cue that hadn't come yet.
I adjusted in my seat, leaning just enough to get a clearer view through the windshield without looking like I was casing the street. The motorcycle rider had planted one boot on the ground, the other still resting on the pedal. His helmet visor was down, but the tilt of his head told me he was watching our mirrors.
I pressed my thumb to the mic clipped to my jacket collar. "Front team to Command One," I said, keeping my tone level. "We've got a white van blocking lane ahead, hazard lights on, sedan behind it, two males roadside. Motorcycle just cut in front of us from the right—full stop on our grille. Possible staged obstruction."
The response came quick in my earpiece, the low rumble of Michael's voice. Copy, Front. Hold position. Command Two is two vehicles back, eyes on your rear.
"Roger," I replied, still scanning. My pulse had found its rhythm, steady but heavy, the way it always did when the air around you stopped feeling casual.
The driver shifted us into neutral, foot firm on the brake. "No clean pass," he murmured without looking at me.
Behind, I caught a glimpse of our shadow SUV slowing in sync. The angle of its nose told me Sandro had already adjusted for an exit if needed.
Elias leaned forward slightly, one arm resting along the back of my seat. His cologne drifted up with the movement—sharp, expensive—and I could feel his gaze trying to follow what I was tracking. "Is this—" he started, then stopped when he caught the look I shot him in the side mirror. Not now.
I went back to the mic. "Command One, request instructions. Traffic's clear behind. Obstruction feels deliberate."
"Stand by," Michael said, voice clipped. A few seconds later, "Rear team moving up to assess. You keep eyes front, don't engage unless necessary."
The motorcycle rider tapped his boot against the pavement twice, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how long we'd sit here.
One of the men by the sedan broke from his position and started toward Elias's window. His stride carried an unhurried certainty, the kind that came from knowing exactly where he was going and why. The hood of his sweatshirt shadowed most of his face, but I caught the set of his jaw beneath it, tight and deliberate. His right hand stayed buried deep in his pocket, fingers moving against the fabric in small, telling motions.
The second man peeled away in the opposite direction, angling for the driver's side. The motorcyclist didn't move at all, visor lowered, body still as a statue planted in our lane.
I unbuckled in one fluid motion, the sound of the belt snapping free lost under the low hum of the idling engine. My hand settled on the Glock hidden at my hip, palm finding the familiar curve of the grip. The air in the cabin thickened, a pressure that pressed in behind my ribs.
"Stay down," I told Elias, my voice even but stripped of anything that could be mistaken for a suggestion. "Don't move."
A faint curl of a smirk tugged at his mouth, as if the warning amused him. His eyes, though, betrayed a sharper awareness, flicking to the figure coming closer. The smirk dissolved.
Behind us, the deep growl of the trailing SUV rose. Its tires bit into the asphalt as it surged forward. The doors flew open before the vehicle had fully stopped, and two of our guards spilled out, weapons low but ready. One came to my side, positioning himself just far enough forward to shield my angle. The other closed the distance to the motorcycle in three hard strides, hands locking on the handlebars and wrenching them sideways until the bike toppled with a hollow metallic thud.
The man approaching my door shifted his weight, a flash of tension running through his shoulders. I stepped out, shoving him back with my forearm, the impact jolting up into my shoulder. His body rocked but didn't retreat for long. He lunged again, the movement sharper this time, forcing my hand to complete the draw. The Glock came free in a clean arc, barrel leveling on him, my index finger resting straight along the frame.
"Back the fuck up!" The words cracked out of me, cutting through the noise, their edge carrying no room for doubt.
He froze mid-step, chest lifting once, then again, but his hand didn't come up empty. The metal glint caught first, a narrow flash beneath the shadow of his hood, before the shape resolved—a compact pistol, drawn halfway and angled low as if testing how much time he had.
My stance shifted forward before the thought could fully form. The Glock came up higher, sights aligned on the center of his chest. "Drop it, now!" My voice hit sharp enough to leave no room for him to weigh options.
His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing as though he might measure the distance, the speed it would take to bring his aim level with mine. The guard beside me closed in, feet braced, weapon mirroring my own.
"Last warning," I said, each word slow and deliberate, my focus locked on the pistol in his hand.
He froze mid-step, but the hesitation was nothing more than a beat to clear his draw. The pistol came out fast, black steel cutting through the air between us, muzzle snapping up until I was staring straight down its dark eye. My mind didn't bother with warnings or odds—just the single pulse of act now.
The Glock came up in my hand as I racked the slide, the sound a clean, mechanical bite that filled the space between us. My voice came with it, loud and flat, meant to hit him harder than the weapon itself. "Point that at me again and you won't get another breath."
He didn't flinch. His stance tightened, shoulders squaring, feet shifting for a better line. Somewhere behind me I heard the crunch of the backup team moving in, but they were too far for this second. This was mine.
He took one step forward, eyes locked on mine. His boot caught on a patch of uneven asphalt—barely a stumble, but enough. I moved before the sound of it faded, stepping in hard, weight low, and let muscle memory from years ago take over. My leg swung high and clean, heel connecting with the side of his wrist in a sharp snap of motion I hadn't used since the karate mats.
The pistol clattered against the pavement, spinning once before settling. I didn't give him the chance to think about retrieving it. He jerked back, breath ragged, and then turned on his heel, sprinting toward the mouth of the street where the others were already scattering.
The echo of his footsteps faded into the hiss of the van's tires and the low churn of our engines idling, leaving the air thick with the metallic taste of adrenaline. My grip on the Glock stayed firm, barrel still sweeping until I was sure every shadow ahead was moving away, not closing in.
Somewhere to my right, the white van's engine roared. It swung away from the curb in a tight turn, hazard lights still blinking, and disappeared down the side street. The sedan jolted into reverse, tires shrieking as it darted backward. The other men scattered, breaking in different directions until the street was left with nothing but the sound of our own breathing and the faint click of the driver's thumb disengaging the safety on his sidearm.
My eyes stayed fixed down the lane until the last shape disappeared. The backup guard beside me angled his head toward the scattered pistol, but I shook mine once, still catching my breath through the grit in my teeth.
I tapped my mic. "Command Two, don't hold position. Follow that van, now. Keep it in sight."
Michael's reply was immediate in my ear, a low, steady confirmation. "Copy. Moving."
Behind me, I caught the deep growl of the SUV's engine as Sandro's team swung wide around us, the sound building into a full-throated rush as they took the curve and shot down the side street.
The alley narrowed in my view, the van's idle vibrating faintly in the still air. Sandro's SUV blocked the mouth clean, his guard posted with his weapon lowered but ready. My grip on the Glock didn't loosen, but my mind was already running the calculus—Elias was still sitting in the back of our SUV, and every second we lingered was another chance for something to go sideways.
I keyed the mic. "Command Two, maintain block but do not engage. We're breaking off. Priority is getting Principal home."
"Copy, Front," Michael's voice came back without hesitation. "Rear team will hold until you're clear."
I turned, moving back toward our SUV. The driver's eyes caught mine in the side mirror; I gave him the nod to roll. The engine responded with a low growl, tires easing forward even before my door shut behind me.
Elias was still watching me, his posture relaxed like he'd been on a casual drive instead of minutes away from being boxed in. I didn't bother explaining. "We're going back. No stops."
The driver pulled us past the alley, the van shrinking in the side mirror until it was nothing but a smudge between warehouse walls. Sandro's SUV stayed put at the block, their presence a plug in the street while we slid into open road.
The city's industrial skeleton began to fall away, replaced by the slower pulse of late afternoon traffic. I kept scanning the mirrors, tracking every vehicle that lingered too long behind us, every sudden lane change in the periphery.
Elias leaned back, closing his eyes like the decision had been entirely his to begin with. "Efficient," he murmured, almost to himself.
I didn't answer. The mic was still hot, and my focus was already on the next turn that would take us off this route and put the house in reach.
The rest of the ride was a slow grind of scanning mirrors, cross-checking intersections, and listening to the ebb and flow of comms chatter. Sandro's voice came through once more, confirming the van had turned off into a different block and disappeared into the industrial grid. Even with that, I didn't ease my watch.
We slipped through the final security gate at the estate, the guard on duty already waving us through without a check. The driver rolled to a smooth stop in the front courtyard, engine idling as I got out first.
"Hold here," I told him, then opened Elias's door. "Inside, straight to the main hall. Interior security has you from there."
Elias stepped out without a word, his gaze trailing briefly to the high walls around the property before settling on the open front doors. A pair of uniformed interior guards waited there, hands clasped in front of them, eyes sharp. They took over without fuss, falling into step as he crossed the threshold.
Once Elias disappeared into the main hall with interior guards at his side, I tapped my mic. "Command One, Principal inside. Handoff complete."
Michael's voice came through from the SUV behind us, "Copy. We're pulling in now."
I cut across the courtyard to the side entrance leading toward the operations wing. The hall smelled faintly of polish and coffee, the muted buzz of activity growing as I neared the comms and logistics office. Mark was there, leaning against the edge of a desk, eyes on a live feed from the perimeter cameras.
He straightened when he saw me. "Report."
"Van staged across the lane with sedan behind it. Motorcycle cut in front of us. Two males advanced—one armed. He aimed at me. I drew, forced him off, disarmed with a kick. Suspect fled. Backup SUV neutralized the motorcycle and blocked the van. No shots fired. I called for immediate extraction, van was tailed until it disappeared into the industrial sector. No follow-up contact."
Mark's jaw shifted, but his voice stayed even. "Alright. Write it up while it's fresh. I'll coordinate with the tech team to flag any matching vehicles on city cams. And Treasure—good call on the pull-out. No asset is worth keeping the principal in a hot zone."
I gave a short nod, the weight in my shoulders easing only slightly. "Understood."
When I left Mark's office, the hall felt longer than usual. My steps echoed against the polished floor, each one too loud in my ears. I knew my breathing was steady, my face probably giving nothing away, but inside I was still carrying the jolt from that street.
I had never stood in that place before—not the physical spot, but the role. On every job, Devon had always been the one in front. He was the shield, the first to step into the heat. My position had always been close enough to matter, but never the tip of the spear. Today, that changed. Today, I had to be the one who acted. There hadn't been time to think about the shift; the moment came, and my body moved before my mind caught up.
There was pride in that, buried somewhere beneath the noise. I hadn't frozen. My hands had known where to go, my voice had known what to sound like, my leg had remembered exactly how to break a man's grip on a weapon. I didn't stumble over orders or second-guess the call to get Elias out. I had been the one to make that choice, and we were all standing because of it.
But the pride was tangled in something else—a feeling that felt almost feral in my chest. My pulse still hadn't fully slowed. Every muscle was still keyed tight, as if waiting for another shadow to break from a doorway. There was a part of me that wanted to laugh and another that wanted to throw up. I kept thinking about how close it had been, how easily the story could have gone another way. That closeness crawled under my skin, left me feeling raw and stretched thin, like the inside of me was buzzing at a pitch I couldn't turn down.
I knew it would fade. It had to. But walking down that hall, all I could think about was how insane it felt inside my head—chaotic, alive, and terrifying all at once.
Mark had barely finished speaking when my earpiece clicked with Cassandra's voice, crisp and direct: Mr. Maxwell would like to see you. No further explanation. No reason given. Just the summons.
By the time I reached his door, I could feel the residual adrenaline still threading through me, not as sharp as before but alive under the surface. I knocked once and pushed it open. Elias was there, his posture loose, eyes settling on me in a way that made the air shift. He didn't speak. Instead, he stepped forward and took my wrist—not with force, but with a certain purpose, like he'd already decided where I needed to be.
He guided me through to the bathroom, the tiles cool underfoot, the faint scent of bergamot in the air from some candle left burning low in the corner. The steam had already started to curl from the surface of the bath, the water a rich, soft blue under the overhead light.
"I'd really like a little time on my own. Just… a little," I told him, my voice steady but quieter than I meant it to be.
His reply was easy, without hesitation. "Oh, this bath isn't for me. It's for you. You deserve it."
Before I could shape a word, his hands were already on me, finding the first clasp with the kind of certainty that made my pulse trip. The motion was unhurried, almost ceremonial, but there was no mistaking the quiet claim in it. The faint scrape of metal on fabric rang far louder than it should have in the hush, each click blooming in my chest like a heartbeat I couldn't control. His fingertips pressed just enough to guide, the pads of them warm, the edges of his nails grazing lightly as they worked—not clumsy, not tentative, but assured in a way that left me rooted to the spot.
The fabric shifted under his touch, loosening in a slow, inevitable surrender. The cooler air stole in through each gap, curling against skin that had been hidden and heated all day. I felt it rise over my stomach, slip across my ribs, brush at the insides of my arms until goosebumps gathered in its wake. Somewhere between the first and second clasp my breath had gone deep, my lungs drawing him in with every inhale, my body softening in a way I hadn't given permission for. My shoulders dropped, my weight settled through my heels, and that slow warmth began to coil lower—not a bright flare, but a heavy, spreading heat that felt older and truer than the sudden rush of lust.
His fingers worked with an unbroken rhythm, the fabric parting under his hands until he found the last clasp and coaxed it free. The final release made the garment sigh as it peeled from me, sliding down in a slow caress over my hips, brushing the backs of my thighs before pooling at my feet. The air wrapped around me instantly, cool enough to sting in the most newly exposed places, then warming just as quickly under the force of my own heat.
I realized I was standing taller now, my chest lifting, my chin tipping slightly upward as though answering something in him. His gaze moved over me without rush, each pause a subtle possession. I could feel the trace of where his hands had been still mapped into my skin, a ghost-pressure that refused to fade. The space between us seemed to hum, thick and electric, holding me in place while the rest of the world receded until there was only the sound of my own breathing, the faint rustle of fabric at my feet, and the pulse of anticipation that had lodged low and deep, demanding nothing but the next touch.
When I stepped in, the warmth wrapped around me in a way that felt more than physical. It was as if every nerve eased at once, the tension unwinding from its coiled place inside me. The surface of the water kissed my collarbones, and I sank deeper, letting it hold me. I'd never felt like this—like I was being treated as something important, as if the room itself acknowledged my worth.
Elias stood nearby, watching with that unreadable steadiness of his. "What would you like me to do right now?"
"I don't know," I admitted, my eyes closing briefly as the heat seeped into my bones. "Just… stay here."
"Sure," he said, and after a pause, "Would you like me to read you something?"
"Sure. You can read me something."
He crossed to a small backless chair tucked against the wall, pulling it closer so it sat beside the bath. Then he moved to a cabinet built into the bathroom's far wall. When he opened it, I blinked in surprise—it wasn't filled with towels or toiletries but stacks of paper, bound and loose, some yellowing at the edges.
"Do you work even in your bathroom?" I asked, watching him with a faint, incredulous smile.
He glanced over his shoulder with one of his own, genuine and brief. "I get bored."
He turned back, sifting through the shelves until he drew out a thin, familiar volume. The cover caught my eye at once. Sand and Foam.
"What's with you and Khalil Gibran?" I asked as he settled into the chair.
His eyes softened as he thumbed the pages. "He's fantastic. He's good at speaking thoughts out loud—the ones you didn't know you were carrying until you hear them. Sometimes it's baffling how something written over sixty years ago can still speak to you now. As if time folds in on itself, and the same truths keep surfacing, no matter how far along we think we've gone."
I leaned back against the porcelain, letting the sound of his voice and the faint lapping of the water become the only things in the room.
Elias's voice pulled me out of it before the feeling could settle. He had found a page in the small, worn book on his knee, the candlelight catching on its edges. "I was forever walking upon these shores, betwixt the sand and the foam," he read, his tone low, the rhythm unbroken.
The words seemed to fold into the room's heat. I let the water close over my shoulders, the line between my body and the bath dissolving.
"One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night," he went on, and I thought of how close that man's pistol had been, of how the moment had demanded a version of me I wasn't sure existed until now.
He turned a page, the faint rasp of paper filling the pause. "Solitude is a silent storm that breaks down all our dead branches, yet it sends our living roots deeper into the living heart of the living earth." I breathed in through my nose, feeling that one drop into a place in me I didn't touch often.
"There must be something strangely sacred in salt," he continued, his eyes flicking briefly to mine, "It is in our tears and in the sea." I swallowed, the earlier metallic taste ghosting in the back of my mouth.
Then his voice softened, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need."
He closed the book without ceremony, setting it on the stool beside him. The lines he'd chosen stayed with me in the quiet, mingling with the heat, the scent of the candle, and the knowledge that for the first time, I had stood where Devon always had—and survived it.
I closed my eyes, letting the heat of the bath hold me while the words he had read lingered in my head. They moved in slow circles, like ripples that refused to fade, each line threading itself into the corners of my thoughts. I imagined them without the sound of his voice, just the weight of the meaning, and for a moment it felt like the room was balanced on those sentences.
Without opening my eyes, I asked, "Are you used to this kind of mess around you? Because you seemed pretty calm about what happened earlier on the road today." My voice was steady, but the question pressed in close, almost brushing against him.
There was a brief pause, the kind that felt like him deciding how much he wanted to give me. "I kind of don't get the sense of danger most of the time," he said at last. "I don't feel like I'm in danger. It's as if it is too far away, and even when it's near, I just have this feeling inside me that I can convince whoever is threatening me with harm that they shouldn't do this… and they wouldn't."
My eyes opened, finding him where he sat with the book now resting on the stool. "Are you serious? You don't get scared?"
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly. "I get scared," he said, "but not because of dangerous situations. I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."
Something in my chest tightened at that. I didn't say it out loud, but the thought was sharp and certain—there was something off in that. What did he mean, he didn't feel danger? How could someone with his profile not have an awareness for it?
"So what happened today," I said slowly, "was just another part of the day to you. Nothing serious."
Elias's gaze didn't waver. "In this line of work I have threatened a lot of people with things. Business is no different than politics, and I'd even say it's more important. Business brings money. That means some people are worried I'll be taking their share, or that I'm developing something too advanced for them to replicate. So they decide they have to take it away from me, or stop me, or whatever else. I recognize my worth. I know what I have, and I know that other people feel threatened by it. Which is fine. I feel flattered."
The laugh that slipped out of me came with a cough. I shook my head, letting the steam brush past my face. "You're gonna bring a whole lot of trouble then."
Elias's mouth curved, not into a smile but something with weight in it. "This is why you get paid a lot," he said, the words unhurried, as if he wanted me to hear each one separately. "You weren't even supposed to be the one on the front line today. Others were meant to handle it, if there hadn't been that delay in the meeting and the break in communications. But you were there, and you handled it… beautifully."
He leaned forward, closing the space between us until I could see the finer shades in his irises. His hand came up, brushing back a strand of my hair that had fallen near my temple. His fingertips were light, as if testing the texture before tucking it behind my ear.
"You don't look fit for dangerous situations," he said, his gaze deliberate, traveling over my face like he was mapping it. "Your skin catches the light too cleanly. It stays even, no matter how the day bends around it. Your hair falls the way water would—dark at the roots, soft where it frames your face, the ends carrying that wet sheen like it's been pulled from a pool." His eyes lingered on the curve of my cheekbone. "Your mouth… it doesn't carry tension, even now. It's shaped like it was made for stillness."
He leaned just a fraction closer, as if studying a detail he hadn't noticed before. "And your eyes… they're clear, almost translucent at certain angles. They don't harden when you're watching someone, they just take them in. That softness tricks people, makes them think you're harmless, even when you've already read them in full. It's the kind of thing that makes someone underestimate you right before you decide not to let them."
The steam from the bath curled higher between us, carrying the faint scent of whatever oil he had put in the water. I felt the heat settle deeper into me, not just from the bath but from the way he was looking, how his voice seemed to step closer with every sentence.
I swallowed, my hands resting under the water, fingers curling against the smooth porcelain. "Looks can be misleading," I said, though it came out quieter than I'd intended.
He didn't move back. His gaze stayed fixed, as though he were still measuring something about me. "Maybe. Or maybe they're exactly what they appear to be, and it's the world that keeps underestimating you."
The water shifted slightly when I moved my legs, the sound of it folding into the quiet between us. My chest rose and fell with a steadier rhythm than before, though I could still feel the earlier adrenaline somewhere in me, folded into the heat.
Elias straightened slightly but didn't take his eyes off me. "You make people believe you're not built for moments like today. And then, when it happens, you move like you've been doing it forever."
His words didn't feel like flattery, not entirely. They felt like he was placing something in my hands and waiting to see what I'd do with it. The thought stirred something in me—pride, unease, and the strange realization that I wanted to hear what he would say next.
I stayed quiet, letting him fill the space. He had a way of speaking that made silence feel like an invitation rather than a pause.
"Tell me," he said after a moment, "when you were out there today, and you moved in like that… was it instinct, or was it choice?"
I lifted my head slightly, meeting his eyes without leaning forward. "Instinct," I said. "The choice would've taken too long."
He nodded once, slowly, as if he'd been expecting the answer. "Then you're rarer than you think."
The candlelight pressed soft shadows across his jawline, and the scent of the oil seemed to grow warmer in the space between us. I wasn't sure if it was the bath or his words that made my skin feel too aware of itself.