Page 26 of Fang

“Resourceful,” I comment, while making a mental note to get it away from her as soon as possible. “Just try not to stab me if I snore.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. “No promises.”

The preparation for bed becomes an awkward dance of careful movements and maintained distance. I grab a clean t-shirt from my drawer and toss it to her. “If you want something fresh to sleep in.”

She catches it one-handed, then glances toward the bathroom. “I’ll change in there.”

While she’s gone, I quickly change into a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. Normally, I sleep naked, but this will have to do. I’m more worried about keeping my balls than about my clothes. A smirk spreads across my lips. She’s feisty. I’ll give her that.

I hear the water running in the sink, then the sound of teeth being brushed. These mundane activities feel strangely intimate in the context of our high-stakes alliance.

When Mina emerges, she’s wearing my t-shirt like a nightgown, the hem hanging to mid-thigh. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of the day’s tension, though the wariness remains in her eyes. She looks younger without the hard shell she’s worn since I met her, more vulnerable, though I suspect she’d hate hearing that observation.

“Left side or right?” I ask, gesturing to the bed.

“Left,” she says immediately.

I nod and move to the right side, pulling back the covers and sliding in. She gets in on her side, keeping as close to the edge as possible without actually falling off. The switchblade glints in the dim light from my computer’s standby mode as she places it on the nightstand, within easy reach. I could take it now, but I’d rather wait until she’s asleep. She’ll feel better if she thinks she has some measure of protection against me. Not that I’m going to try anything. She’s cute and all, but this is a job. Nothing else.

“I’m turning off the light,” I warn, not wanting to startle her. I reach over and click off the lamp, plunging the room intodarkness broken only by the soft blue glow of my computer’s power indicator.

In the near-darkness, I’m acutely aware of her presence, of the controlled rhythm of her breathing, the subtle scent of my soap on her skin, and of the careful way she holds herself rigid to avoid any accidental contact. We lie like two repelling magnets, the invisible force of mutual caution keeping us firmly separated.

“Thank you,” she says after a long silence. “For helping me.”

The simple gratitude catches me off guard. “Don’t thank me yet,” I reply. “We haven’t gotten him out.”

“Still,” she insists. “Not many people would go against their club for a stranger.”

I consider mentioning Tommy again, explaining how the ghost of my missing brother drives me to help others in similar situations. But the words stick in my throat, too personal to share with someone I barely know, regardless of our temporary alliance.

“Get some sleep, Mina,” I say instead. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

She makes a soft sound of agreement, and I feel her finally relax slightly into the mattress. The switchblade remains on the nightstand, her hand resting near it even as her breathing gradually slows and deepens.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to the subtle changes in her respiration that signal her drift toward sleep. The threat of bodily harm hangs between us like an unusual lullaby, oddly comforting in its straightforward honesty. In a world where loyalties shift like encrypted data and trust is as rare as unhackable software, there’s something refreshing about someone who tells you exactly where you stand.

Even if where you stand is one wrong move away from being unmanned.

My lips curve into a smile in the darkness. Whatever happens tomorrow, at least I’ll know I followed the most important code—the one that says family should be protected, no matter the cost.

Chapter 11: Mina

Fang’s motorcycle rumbles beneath me, a mechanical beast carrying us deeper into the bayou, where the city’s grid fades into wilderness. My arms encircle his waist—necessary for balance as we navigate the rutted path. The humid air slaps against my face, carrying the primal scent of moss and decay. Each breath also brings a whiff of something else, his piney scent. Masculine and rugged—not something I’d typically associate with a hacker.

The juxtaposition of hacker and biker is something I’m still getting used to. The assumptions I had about him are crumbling faster than I expected. I thought it would be harder to convince him to help me, but he mentioned having a brother. Based on what he said and his tone, I’m sure his brother died. In the moment, I wanted to ask about him, but I held back. The last thing I want to do is press my luck and push him away by bringing up bad memories. Still, I’m curious.

We’re on our way to meet Scalpel. Fang seems to have confidence in the man, so I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and trust him too, at least until I see a reason not to.

Fang leans into a curve, and I mirror his movement automatically, my body anticipating the shift. Spanish moss hangs like tattered curtains that occasionally brush against my shoulders, forming a gray-green tunnel. Sunlight filters through in broken patterns, flashing across my visor.

“Almost there,” Fang calls back, his voice nearly lost in the rush of air and engine noise.

I nod against his back. My thoughts circle back to Rory, trapped in his hospital bed surrounded by cartel thugs. My brother never asked to be a pawn in this deadly game, but I did what I had to do to save him. For ten years, I’ve been the wall between him and the monsters who’d let him die if I stopped being useful. Today, that changes. Today, I rewrite our story.

The bike slows as we approach a clearing where a squat building hunkers beneath cypress trees. A weathered sign barely legible reads: Gator’s Rest. The parking lot is gravel and dirt, home to three pickup trucks, a rusted sedan, and—most importantly—an ambulance whose red and white paint has faded to the color of old blood and dirty bandages.

Fang cuts the engine. He dismounts first, offering a hand. A jolt of electricity passes between us when our hands touch, something I’ve been trying to ignore since we first met. I don’t want to start thinking about him as anything more than a means to an end, but my body’s got other thoughts about this man. Dark, sinfully delicious ideas that I’d best ignore.

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