Chapter 9: The Rooftop Showdown
A sudden, sharp gust tore across the roof. It ripped at his jacket and snapped the loose cable of a nearby construction lamp against its pole. Something—a minuscule speck of debris, a flaw in the suit’s proprietary tech—caught the brunt of it. The lower half of her mask, from the nose down, flickered. A pale blue static shimmered across her lips and chin for one chaotic second before the optics failed completely. The mask retracted, folding back seamlessly into the collar, leaving the bottom half of her face bare.
Milo’s breath caught.
He’d imagined sharp cheekbones, maybe a severe mouth. He wasn’t prepared for the soft, full curve of her lips, now parted slightly in surprise. Her skin was pale in the city light, flawless. She looked devastatingly young.
Her hand flew up instinctively, but it was too late. The damage was done. The modulator was offline above her nose. Her next words were her own, unfiltered—a young woman’s voice, clear and laced with alarm. “Shit.”
The sound of it, real and vulnerable, seemed to hang between them, more intimate than a touch.
Milo’s brain, always calculating, filed the voice away. Young. Probably Asian-American, given the surname he’d blindly guessed for his file. A student? The pieces began to click, but he shoved the analysis aside. The opportunity was too perfect, too raw.
His gaze darkened, the practiced warmth in his eyes deepening into something more visceral. He’d seen a secret she never intended to show. The power shift was electric.
“Well,” he said, his own voice a low scratch. “There’s a plot twist.”
“It glitched. It’s never done that.” She was trying for control, but her real voice gave away a tremor of panic.
“I prefer it.” He didn’t move to touch her. He just looked, his eyes drinking in the exposed skin. “Now I can see if you’re smiling when you tell me no.”
“This doesn’t change the plan.”
“It changes everything,” Milo said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He didn’t step back. The space between them crackled with the newly exposed intimacy. “Now I know you’ve got a mouth that wasn’t designed by some tactical engineer in a lab. It’s a definite improvement.”
Abbie fought the urge to cover her face. The cool mist felt alien on her skin. “It’s a malfunction. Don’t read into it.”
“Too late.” A slow, genuine smile touched his lips, one she couldn’t see but could hear in his tone. “The plan is the same. The stakes just got more interesting.”
For me, anyway.” He leaned in, the city’s glow haloing his salt-and-pepper hair. His gray eyes held hers, the sharpness in them softened by a genuine, predatory curiosity. The scent of his cheap coffee and damp wool mingled with the metallic roof-top air.
Abbie’s breath hitched. The warning in her mind was a distant buzz. His focus was a physical pressure, a gravitational pull that muted the howling wind and the sixty-eight-story drop at her back. She could see every weathered line around his eyes, the exact shade of stubble on his jaw.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Their noses brushed, a faint, cold touch. His exhale warmed her newly bared skin. Her lips parted slightly, an involuntary surrender to the moment’s shocking quiet. They were an inch apart, the space between them humming.
A sharp, electronic whirr sliced the silence. The lower half of her mask snapped back into place with a definitive click, a cool, unyielding polymer barrier suddenly sealing her lips away. Milo’s kiss landed on black matte leather instead of skin.
He jerked back as if stung. A scowl of pure, unvarnished frustration twisted his features, wiping away all the practiced charm. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Behind the mask, Abbie gasped, the air rushing back into her lungs. Relief, cold and sobering, washed through her, followed immediately by a lance of shame at her own weakness. She took two quick steps back, putting the gusting wind between them. “It… recalibrates. To atmospheric pressure shifts.”
“Convenient,” he spat, the word sharp with annoyance. He ran a hand through his hair, recomposing himself, but the irritation still tightened his jaw. “Fine. Keep your secrets. The offer stands. Think about being the rarest item in his collection.”
He turned and walked toward the roof access door, his silhouette a blot against the bank of elevator machinery. “I’ll be in touch.”
Abbie didn’t wait. She launched herself toward the edge, the grapple line firing with a muffled thump into the night. She didn’t look back as she swung out into the void, the violent motion matching the chaos in her chest.
She landed hard on a lower rooftop two blocks away, her knees buckling slightly on the gravel. She crouched in the shadow of a water tower, her gloved hands pressed against the cool mask where his lips had been. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of alarm.
He’d almost done it. He’d seen her. He’d almost kissed her. And for a second, she’d wanted him to. The realization sickened her. It was the manipulation, the professional charm he wielded like a scalpel. He’d exposed her face, then immediately used the vulnerability to advance. He was playing a game where she was both a piece and the prize.
She stood, her legs steadying. The mission was the only thing that mattered. Not his eyes, not his voice, not the thrilling, dangerous heat of his attention. She repeated it like a mantra as she vanished into the city’s labyrinth of steel and shadow.
Milo slammed the roof door a little harder than necessary, the sound echoing down the sterile concrete stairwell. He grumbled, the taste of static and leather still on his lips. A near miss. A fascinating, irritating near miss.
By the time he reached his car, the frustration had cooled into analytical focus. He replayed the moment in his mind. Her voice, unmasked. Young. Clear, with no discernible accent. Asian-American, likely. The physique under the suit: petite, incredibly fit, but with a shape that spoke of youth, not the hardened bulk of a career soldier. The way she moved—a gymnast’s agility, a dancer’s precision. The reaction time of someone whose body was still a finely tuned, fresh instrument.
He slid into the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine. He opened his phone, pulling up the encrypted file labeled ‘MANTIS – PROFILE.’ His thumbs tapped rapidly, adding new lines.
Voice: early 20s. Unmodulated tone suggests college age or slightly younger. Physicality consistent with elite-level athletic training, possibly collegiate. Agility points to gymnastics, parkour, or martial arts discipline. Psychological profile: high risk-taker, morally driven, susceptible to flattery and personal engagement. See rooftop interaction 10/23.
He paused, then added another note.
Potential lead: Cross-reference local universities with competitive gymnastics/martial arts programs. Asian-American female students, 18-22.
It was a thread. Thin, but something to pull. He started the car, the engine’s growl a satisfying sound. The kiss had been a setback, but the glimpse had been a gift. He knew her a little better now. He knew what to look for.
An hour later, sipping bourbon in his silent apartment, he sent a text to her encrypted number. It contained an address on Terminal 91, a dock number, and a time: 3 AM. Two days from now. The message was all business.
Next shipment. “Golden Fjord” freighter. Dock 7. Paperwork says industrial ceramics. Thermal says otherwise. Need eyes on cargo before it disperses. Low profile. Evidence only.
The reply came twenty minutes later, a single word from the Mantis. Confirmed.
The docks at Terminal 91 were a cathedral of shadows and echoes. The Golden Fjord loomed against the greasy water, a wall of rust-streaked steel, its running lights smearing the fog. The air tasted of diesel, salt-rot, and the sharp tang of welding from a distant yard.
Milo watched from behind a pyramid of集装箱, his camera a silent weight in his hands. He’d seen her once—a fleeting silhouette against a gangway light—before she dissolved into the ship’s superstructure. His shoulder ached from the rooftop chill, or maybe from tension. He waited.
His earpiece crackled. Her modulated voice was a whisper of static. “Marked containers. Four of them. Seals are fresh, but the manifests list weights that are all wrong.”
“Photograph everything,” Milo murmured, his breath frosting. “Get the numbers, any markings.”
“Already done. They’re not guarded heavily. It’s almost… quiet.”
“That’s what bothers me.” He shifted, scanning the lit office window on the second floor of the dockmaster’s building. A shadow moved behind the blind. “Wrap it up. Something’s off.”
“I want a look inside one. Thermal is inconclusive. I need visual confirmation.”
“Mantis, don’t—” The protest died in his throat. He saw her then, a compact shadow dropping from a gantry onto the container stack. She landed in a silent crouch atop one of the marked units. She pulled a compact cordless drill from a thigh pouch, its bit aimed at the container’s lock housing.
The high whine of the drill was catastrophically loud in the sleeping port.
A spotlight snapped on, a blinding white sun that pinned her instantly. It came from the office window. A voice shouted in guttural Russian. Then another.
“Go! Now!” Milo barked into the mic, surging from his hiding place.
Gunfire shattered the night. Not the pops of pistols, but the controlled, full-auto rips of military-grade weapons. Tracer rounds streaked, carving neon lines through the fog. Chips of concrete and metal exploded around the container stack.
The Mantis moved, a blur of evasive action. She flung the drill at the spotlight, shattering the glass with a crash, and launched herself sideways. She wasn’t fast enough. The gunfire had her bracketed, cutting off her retreat. A round sparked off the container an inch from her head, the ringing impact stunning her for a critical second.
She stumbled, slipping on the wet metal. A shooter emerged from behind a crane cab, his rifle rising to a clean, unmoving aim at her center mass. She was trapped, prone, in the open. Time stretched. She saw his finger tighten.
Milo didn’t think. He was already running, not away, but across the line of fire. He hit her in a diving tackle that felt like slamming into a wall of reinforced leather. The momentum spun them both behind a massive tire of a parked straddle carrier.
The rifle shot cracked, once. A hot, white-hot punch exploded in Milo’s left shoulder, spinning him the rest of the way to the ground. The force stole his breath, replacing it with a nauseating, burning void.
“Milo!” The modulator broke, laced with raw panic.
“Car,” he gritted out, the word soaked in pain. He clutched his shoulder. Warm blood instantly seeped through his fingers, shockingly hot. “Now.”
She didn’t argue. Hauling him up, she half-dragged, half-carried him toward the service lane. More shouts echoed. A engine roared to life. She wrenched open the passenger door of his sedan and shoved him in. Sliding across the hood, she landed in the driver’s seat, her gloved hands fumbling for the keys.
She found them, started the car, and slammed it into reverse. Tires screamed as she whipped the vehicle around and shot toward the port gates. A final spray of bullets peppered the asphalt behind them.
The drive was a blur of hissed curses and Milo’s ragged breathing. He leaned against the window, his face pale and clammy, pressing his jacket hard into the wound. “My place. No hospitals. They’ll have listeners.”
She drove fast and silently, her knuckles white on the wheel. She took side streets, her eyes constantly checking the mirrors. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the underground garage of his building. Killing the engine, she rounded the car and pulled him out, supporting his weight into the elevator.
His apartment was a monument to organized neglect. She guided him to the couch, where he collapsed with a groan. “Bathroom,” he breathed, eyes squeezed shut. “Under the sink. Black medic kit. Get it.”
She returned with a heavy, professional-grade trauma kit. Kneeling before him, her hands hesitated. The suit was in the way. His blood was everywhere, a dark, spreading stain on his gray shirt.
“You need to get this off,” she said, her voice still digitally flat but undercut by a visible tremor in her hands.
“Then help me,” he snapped, pain shortening his temper.
Working quickly, she used scissors from the kit to cut away his jacket and shirt. The wound was a ugly, purpling crater high on his deltoid, oozing steadily. It wasn’t arterial, but it was deep. The bullet was still in there.
“It needs a surgeon,” she whispered, horrified.
“It needs you to dig it out and patch the hole,” he grunted, tipping his head back. “Antiseptic. Tweezers. Sutures. Do it.” He reached for the bottle of bourbon on the side table, took a long, unsteady pull, and handed it to her. “For the tools. And for you.”
Her mask stared back at him. A long, silent moment passed, filled only with his pained breathing. Then, her hands rose to the base of her neck. There was a soft hiss of releasing pressure.
The mask retracted fully, folding away.
Abbie Zhao’s face was pale, her dark eyes wide with fear and guilt. She looked nineteen. She was nineteen. Strands of black hair, damp with sweat, clung to her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her real voice small in the quiet room.
Milo just stared, his pain-hazed eyes cataloging every detail: the youthful curve of her cheek, the full lips he’d almost kissed, the startling ordinary human fear in her eyes. A college student. He’d almost gotten a college student shot.
“Don’t apologize,” he managed, his voice tight. “Just get the bullet out, Abbie.”
She flinched at the use of the name, then set to work. She poured bourbon over the tweezers and her hands, then, with a steadiness that belied her expression, probed the wound. Milo hissed, his free hand gripping the couch cushion until the fabric threatened to tear.
It was quick, clinical. She found the slug, a deformed piece of lead, and dropped it with a clink into a ceramic dish. She cleaned the wound, applied coagulant powder, and began suturing. Her focus was absolute, her small hands deft.
“Where’d a sophomore learn battlefield medicine?” he asked through clenched teeth, watching her.
“YouTube,” she said, not looking up. A faint, shaky smile touched her lips. “And a wilderness first responder course. For… for a hiking club.”
He barked a laugh that turned into a wince. “The great Mantis. Powered by YouTube and university extracurriculars.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, but the smile lingered. She finished the last stitch and taped a sterile bandage over it. “You saved my life. That shot was for me.”
“I ruined a perfectly good jacket,” he corrected, his gaze intense on her. “And compromised my source in one move. Pretty bad trade.”
She sat back on her heels, wiping her bloody hands on a towel. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a shaky exhaustion. And something else. He was shirtless, leaning against his couch, gray eyes watching her with an unreadable mix of pain and amusement. He was infuriating, arrogant, and he’d just taken a bullet for her.
A hot, confusing flush crept up her neck. She looked away, busying herself with repacking the kit. Her heart was doing a strange, accelerated rhythm that had nothing to do with the gunfight.
“You should rest,” she said, her voice quiet. “You’ve lost blood.”
“I’m fine,” he said, but he didn’t move. His eyes, however, did. They tracked her as she stood and walked the kit to the bathroom. The sleek leather of her suit clung to every curve, the aftermath of the night’s violence doing nothing to diminish the spectacular, athletic shape of her. That ass, perfectly defined, was a tragic waste on a naive kid.
But she wasn’t just a kid now. She was a source who owed him. She was a secret identity, vulnerable and exposed in his apartment. She was flushed and guilty and looking at him with those wide, grateful eyes.
The pain in his shoulder was a sharp, throbbing background noise. The plan reformed instantly, adapting to the new variables. Shelter the wounded hero. Build trust. Exploit the guilt. The emotional leverage was already there, a palpable force in the room. The physical attraction was a bonus, a predictable complication he could easily steer.
He watched her return, hovering awkwardly near the couch. She’d saved his life, too, in a technical sense. This was better than a kiss on a rooftop. This was a bond.
“You can crash on the chair,” he said, nodding to a large armchair. “Can’t have you swinging through the city looking like you just lost a fight. My reputation’s bad enough.”
She nodded, exhaustion finally winning. She pulled off her gloves, revealing small, delicate hands, and settled into the chair, curling her legs beneath her. The mask remained off. In minutes, her breathing evened out into sleep.
Milo didn’t sleep. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, the peaceful, young face now slack with fatigue. He calculated the angles, the next moves, the careful words he’d use in the morning.
A slow, deliberate smirk touched his bloodless lips.
The story was getting better by the minute. He let the pain in his shoulder anchor him to consciousness, mapping out the next twelve hours until the gray light of Seattle morning seeped around his blinds.
Abbie stirred first, her neck stiff from the chair. She found him awake, watching her, a tablet balanced on his lap.
“You look terrible,” she said, her voice morning-rough and human.
“You’re no morning glory yourself.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s in the freezer. A distant, optimistic purchase.”
She padded to the kitchen, a slim figure in the sleek black suit, her hair mussed. She found the coffee, then rummaged. “You have eggs. And bread that’s borderline. And... is this salsa?”
“A previous life’s condiment,” he called out. “It’s probably evolved sentience by now.”
“We’re risking it.” She cracked eggs into a bowl. The domestic sounds were surreal against the memory of gunfire. The sizzle of butter in a pan, the scent of toasting bread, it all felt like a fragile act. She moved with a focused efficiency, her back to him as she worked.
Milo watched the line of her shoulders, the way the suit hugged her waist and flared at her hips. The gratitude and guilt from last night would be a warm, malleable clay. He needed to shape it before it cooled. He stood, the movement tight and careful, and ghosted across the living room carpet.
She was flipping an egg when his lips touched the side of her neck.
She froze, the spatula poised in mid-air. A sharp, silent inhale. His mouth was warm, his stubble a rough contrast. He felt the fine tremor that ran through her.
“Milo,” she breathed, a warning that lacked force.
“Mm?” He murmured against her skin, his good arm slipping around her waist, pulling her back against him. She felt the hard, insistent pressure of his arousal against the small of her back. “You shouldn’t be up. You need to rest.”
“Disagree.” He kissed a slow trail up to her ear, his hand sliding under the hem of the loose t-shirt she’d pulled on. His palm was hot on the skin of her stomach. “I feel incredibly motivated.”
Her head fell back against his shoulder, a soft moan escaping her. “This is not the time.”
“It’s the perfect time.” His fingers found the clasp of her bra, fumbling with the simple hook.
His phone rang, a jagged electronic snarl from the living room.
Milo’s head dropped, his forehead resting against her shoulder with a frustrated growl. Abbie sagged, a sigh of profound relief escaping her as his hand withdrew. She braced herself on the counter, the eggs now burning.
“This better be the President,” he muttered, stalking to the phone. He scowled at the screen and answered. “What?”
He listened, his expression shifting from irritation to sharp focus. “Tonight? That’s sudden.” A pause. “No, it’s perfect. The short notice means less scrutiny on new guests.” His eyes found Abbie, who was salvaging the breakfast. “I have a plus-one. A donor. Young, new money, interested in civic restoration. She’ll be there.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the couch. “The Curator’s annual charity dinner for the Seattle Art Museum. Black tie. It’s tonight.”
Abbie set two plates on the counter. “You can’t go. You can barely move your arm.”
“I’m not going. You are.” He picked up a piece of toast. “You’ll infiltrate as my date, Abigail Chen. Tech heiress, recently relocated from San Jose. You’ll need a dress. Something expensive and unforgettable.”
“You want me to walk into his house?” Her voice was flat.
“I want you to slip a camera into the Ethernet port behind the desk in his study. Second floor, east corner. The blueprints are in the file I’ll send you.” He took a bite, talking around it. “The dinner provides cover noise and guest movement. You get lost, find the room, plant the device, and leave. Simple.”
“Simple.” She echoed, staring at her eggs. The specter of the mansion, of the man who collected dangerous things, loomed in the kitchen. “And if I’m caught?”
“Then you’re a clumsy socialite who wandered into the wrong room.” He met her gaze. “But you won’t get caught. You’re a professional. This is what you do.”
She pushed her food around the plate. The memory of his mouth on her neck warred with the cold fear of the mission. He saw the conflict, the reluctant acceptance dawning.
“What’s the play?” she finally asked, her voice resigned.
“The device will siphon data from his private network for seventy-two hours. Emails, transaction logs, server links.” He finished his toast. “It gives us the map to his entire operation. Not just the warehouses. The banks, the politicians, the judges.”
She was silent for a long moment, then gave a single, sharp nod. “I’ll need the dress. And the background. Every detail.”
“Already in the works.” He allowed a thin smile. “Eat up, Abigail. You’ve got a big night ahead.” Milo held up the dress—emerald silk that shimmered like crushed sea glass, the neckline plunging enough to make even seasoned fashion editors pause. The slit in the skirt rode high to mid-thigh, and the back dipped low to the tailbone. “This will make every man in the room forget the server room exists.”
Abbie recoiled, her fingers twisting into the hem of the borrowed T-shirt she’d slept in. “It’s a costume. I look like I’m on display at a mall kiosk.”
“Exactly.” He draped it across the back of the couch, letting the silk pool like liquid jewel tones. “The Curator enjoys predatory elegance. He’ll underestimate you the moment you walk in the door, and that’s when you move.”
She folded her arms across her chest, determined to keep the fabric from her view. “I’m not some trophy to parade around.
This isn’t how I operate.” She turned away, arms still crossed.
Milo leaned against the counter, watching her. “You’re not operating, Abby. You’re hiding. That suit, that voice, that whole persona—it’s all armor. Tonight, you need radar. You need to slip through the noise like a ghost in a crowded room.”
Abbie exhaled sharply through her nose. “And if he recognizes me?”
“He won’t.” Milo’s voice dropped, low and confident. “Because tonight, you’re someone else entirely. Abigail Chen.
Tech heiress from San Jose. Eighteen months in Seattle, seed money from her father’s semiconductor patents—itself a lovely fiction. You speak fluent Mandarin, a hobby for the trust-fund set. You interned at Google X for six months before dropping out to “find yourself.” You’ll mention the internship once—subtly, to a well-connected donor. It’ll check out. You’ll mention art history classes at Stanford—another lie that’s plausibly true.” He pulled out his phone, thumbs tapping faster than she could follow. “I’ll send a Wikipedia-level summary to your burner. Memorize it by six.”
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, leaving the dress to glimmer like a silent challenge on the couch.
The emerald folds seemed to absorb the dim apartment light, a jewel waiting to be claimed.
She grabbed the dress—refused to argue, her fingers already tracing the silk’s cool weave. No more armor. Tonight, she was Abigail Chen, tech heiress from San Jose with a Stanford degree she’d never earned and a Google X internship that existed only because Milo had forged the transcripts.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror was a stranger—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes widened with something like dread, the suit’s ghost still clinging to her skin. She peeled off the borrowed T-shirt, letting the dress glide over her shoulders like a second skin. The neckline dipped dangerously low, the back even more so, the fabric clinging to every curve. She turned, checking the zipper in the mirror—a single pull and it sealed her fate.
The emerald silk felt less like a dress and more like a membrane, something she’d been secreted into. It whispered against her thighs with every step up the gravel drive. The Curator’s estate was a fortress of old stone and new money, lights blazing against the deepening Puget Sound twilight, the distant water a sheet of beaten lead.
A valet took the keys to the rented Audi with a gloved hand. Abbie—no, Abigail—adjusted the thin strap of her clutch, feeling the weight of the tiny camera inside. It was smaller than a thumbnail, its surface cool to the touch. Milo’s voice played on a loop in her head: Second floor, east corner. Ethernet port behind the desk. In and out. Smile.
The grand hall was a roar of cultivated sound. The clink of crystal, the low thrum of a string quartet, the seamless weave of a hundred conversations about portfolio diversification and vineyard acquisitions. The air was thick with the scent of gardenias, expensive perfume, and slow-roasted beef.
She saw him almost immediately. Adam Schofield—the Curator—held court near a massive marble fireplace. Sixty, but engineered to look fifty, his silver hair swept back from a tan, unlined forehead. He wore a tuxedo that probably cost more than her tuition, his laughter a deep, practiced boom that made the people around him lean in closer. His eyes, a pale, watery blue, scanned the room even as he told a story. They passed over her, paused, and returned.
Abbie felt the gaze like a physical touch. She turned, pretending to admire a hideous modernist sculpture, giving him her profile. The dress did its work.
“Ms. Chen.” The voice was at her elbow, smooth as the whiskey in his glass. “I’m Adam Schofield. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
She turned, offering a carefully calibrated smile—bright, but not eager. “Mr. Schofield. Your home is incredible. That Calder is stunning.” She nodded toward the mobile drifting near the staircase, a guess based on the style.
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “You know your artists.”
“I took a class at Stanford. Modernism and Its Discontents.” The lie slipped out, flavored with Milo’s crafted backstory. “It was mostly about the discontents, honestly.”
He laughed, a shorter, more genuine sound. “A woman of taste and wit. A rare combination.” His hand found the small of her back, guiding her subtly away from the crowd. The touch was proprietary. “You’re the talk of the party, you know. The mysterious heiress from Silicon Valley.”
“I prefer ‘investor with a low profile,’” she said, sipping the champagne a waiter offered. The bubbles tasted like acid.
“A wise policy.” His hand stayed put, a warm, insistent pressure through the thin silk. “I have a particular interest in those who value… privacy. And beautiful things.”
His gaze traveled down the line of her neck, over the dress. It was a clinical appraisal, the same look she imagined he gave a new acquisition before deciding where to place it.
“I heard you have an incredible library,” Abbie said, steering the conversation with an effort. “My father collected first editions. It’s a passion I suppose I inherited.”
“Is that so?” The pale eyes lit with genuine interest. Predatory, but focused. “Then you must allow me a small indulgence. The truly valuable pieces aren’t down here with the caterers.”
The tour was a performance. He led her up a sweeping staircase, his commentary flowing over Chinese porcelain, a small Turner sketch, a lock of Napoleon’s hair under glass. His knowledge was deep, his passion seemingly authentic. It was disorienting. This was the man who brokered shipments of stolen art and illegal arms. He pointed out a first-edition Dante, bound in crumbling leather.
“The divine comedy, in its original form,” he murmured, standing close behind her. His breath stirred the hair at her temple. “The journey through hell, guided by a flawed mentor. It resonates, don’t you think?”
Abbie’s skin crawled. “It’s beautiful.”
“The study is just through here,” he said, his hand slipping from her back to her arm, his fingers curling around her bare elbow. “My true sanctuary.”
The study was exactly as Milo’s blueprints had shown: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the black void of the bay, shelves of books, a grand piano. The desk was a behemoth of dark wood, positioned with its back to the view. The Ethernet port was there, just behind its right leg, nearly hidden by a tangle of power strips.
“Magnificent,” she breathed, walking toward the windows, drawing his gaze away from the desk. “The view is paralyzing.”
“It helps me think.” He followed her, standing close. Too close. He was looking at her, not the view. “About legacy. About what endures.”
Her heart was a frantic bird in her throat. She had maybe sixty seconds before this turned. She gave a soft, deliberate laugh and turned from the window, brushing past him toward the bookshelves near the desk. “And what do you think endures, Mr. Schofield?”
“Power,” he said simply, watching her. “And beauty. Though beauty is more fragile. It requires a… protective hand.”
She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, stopping near the desk. She crouched slightly, as if to examine a lower volume. “Like this Dante?”