Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
A gleam flickers in those blue eyes, but his expression remains smooth as the alpha male holds out a hand. “May I?”
Swallowing hard, I pass over the folder, the plug inside me shifting as I move, and I know by the way he’s watching that he knows. He can tell something is up. The look in his eye is predatory. Like he’s just waiting for the right time to strike.
Brent flips through the pages, expression unreadable. Then he closes the folder, places it back on the cart, and regards me with an intensity that makes my knees want to buckle.
“You have your father’s eyes,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I don’t know what to say. My throat feels tight. I stare at the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face, cheeks flaming.
Brent doesn’t move. The silence stretches, heavy as the files on the shelf.
Then he does the last thing I expect.
He smiles. Not wide, but just enough to flash the edge of a canine. He leans down until we’re nearly eye-level, and says, “If you’re going to take a risk, Ms. Williams, you need to be better at covering your tracks.”
My breath is shallow. I feel a flush creeping up my chest.
He straightens and turns for the door. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says. “We’ll discuss what you found. You have three minutes to clean up and follow me. Don’t make me wait.”
And just like that, the man is gone, leaving me in the cold, concrete crypt, pulse slamming in my throat.
I shove the files back in the box, tuck my phone into my bra, and try to compose myself. It’s not easy. My legs don’t want to cooperate, and the plug is now a throbbing reminder of how close I am to the edge.
I take one last look at the “WILLIAMS, S.” box. My father’s secrets, and now mine.
I square my shoulders and head for the elevator, ready to face whatever’s waiting for me upstairs.
Brent doesn’t take the elevator. He climbs the stairs two at a time, and I almost have to jog to keep up. His body radiates a heat that should be impossible because it’s like being bathed in the powerful rays of the sun. The handsome attorney says nothing until we hit the fourth floor, then he holds the stairwell door open, steps aside, and waits for me to enter ahead of him.
I walk past him, eyes down, my heart hammering a cartoon rhythm. The toy inside me is suddenly more than a secret—now it’s a live wire, a booby-trap for disaster. But Brent says nothing, just walks at my back, close enough I can hear his steady breath. His cologne is all spice and shadow, and it fills the narrow hallway.
He leads me to an office at the end of the hall. This isn’t his regular command post; it’s a storage room, floor-to-ceiling with boxes and loose case files. He closes the door behind us and sets his phone on the desk, screen up.
He stands with his hands behind his back, broad shoulders like a tank.
“Ms. Williams,” he asks in a deceptively calm voice, “do you know why you’re here?”
I make a show of looking confused, but my face is already burning. I want to lie, to spin something, but the best I manage is, “No, sir.”
He cocks his head. “That’s unfortunate because you’re a terrible liar.”
I wince. He waits.
“You could have asked me for access to the archives,” he drawls. “Instead, you disregarded protocol. You risked your job for files you shouldn’t even know exist.”
I keep my mouth shut. It’s the only strategy I have left.
Brent regards me for a long moment. “You’re not here for the experience. You’re not even here for the pay. You’re here for your father’s case.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
He moves closer, crowding my personal space, and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His grip is gentle, but there’s nothing soft about it.
“You have Stanley’s eyes,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. “And his stubborn streak.”
He lets me go, but the ghost of his touch lingers. I can’t meet his gaze.
He paces, slow and deliberate. “You know what I remember about your father?”
I shake my head.
Brent smiles, but there’s no mirth in it. “Stanley never quit. Even when it was hopeless. Even when he knew they’d execute him anyways.”
The words hit like a slap, but I keep my composure. Barely.
“I know what it’s like to fight for something impossible,” he says. “But you’re going about this all wrong.”
I finally look up at him. “What should I be doing, then?”
He leans back against the wall and folds his arms. “You should be honest. With yourself, and with me.” He’s studying me, not just my face but my posture, my breathing, the tremor in my hands, and my large, quivering breasts. He knows. He’s always known.