Page 18 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
The air between us tightens. She should walk away, call in security, return to her perfect control. Instead, she stays. I see the fight in her: the push to stay detached, the pull to lean closer. It's the same war I've been losing since the moment she stepped into Saltmoor.
I lower my voice. "You hide behind control, Allison. You wear it like armor. But I see what's underneath."
Her chin lifts, defiant. "And what do you think you see?"
"A woman who's stronger than she lets herself believe. And a woman who's terrified of what happens if she stops holding everything so tight."
Her breath catches. I press closer, the heat between us undeniable. My fingers brush hers on the table, just enough to jolt. She doesn't move away.
"You think you know me," she whispers.
"I'm beginning to."
The silence thickens until it presses against my skin. I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing the edge of her lower lip, offering her every chance to retreat. She doesn't. Our mouths meet, slow at first, then searing, a kiss that tears through reason and replaces it with raw hunger.
She tastes of defiance, salt and fire, and underneath it the sweetness of surrender she doesn't want to admit. Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer, her body pressing flush to mine, the heat impossible to ignore.
Before either of us can speak, a crash reverberates from the corridor outside. Heavy, deliberate. Allison stiffens, reaching instinctively for her weapon. I grab her wrist, steadying her. "We move as one," I say, my voice low and unyielding.
She nods once, brisk and certain. Whatever waits beyond that door just made the mistake of interrupting us.
We follow the sound into a narrow passage behind the library. At the end, a locked door stands forced open, fresh scratches marring the brass keyhole. Inside, scattered papers cover a desk beneath a single lamp. Sketches of the mask, translations, references to hidden caches inland.
"Someone's been busy," Allison whispers, scanning the documents.
I gather the papers. They mirror my own notes, but with more detail. Whoever worked here knew as much as I do, maybe more.
"They're after the same thing," I say. "But they're ahead of us."
Allison steps closer, lamplight carving shadows across her face. "Then we close the gap."
A sudden clang reverberates from below, the unmistakable slam of the front doors. Allison's eyes cut toward the corridor. "They're not done."
"No," I say, my grip tightening on her hand. "But neither are we."
The fire in her gaze locks with mine, an unspoken vow sparking between us. Whoever stalks these halls has no idea what they've unleashed.
CHAPTER 7
ALLISON
The slam of Saltmoor's front doors still echoes through my head as I prowl the east wing with a pair of security guards at my back. Nolan follows close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and relentless, like he's welded himself to my shadow. We found no one in the foyer after the doors slammed closed. No breeze to blame it on, no staff foolish enough to admit to slamming them. Which means it wasn't an accident. Someone is trying to tell us something.
I hate indirect messages. If you want to tell me something, just bloody tell me without the drama.
By the time I step into the secure wing, my nerves are wound tight. This corridor is meant to be off-limits to everyone but the Murphys, vetted staff, myself, and Nolan. Motion sensors, reinforced locks, double cameras—Saltmoor's best attempt at a vault within its gothic bones. Yet the closer we get, the stronger the wrongness twists in my gut. A guard fumbles the key code and the door sighs open. Cold air washes out, biting against my skin.
Inside, the room is still as a tomb. The hush presses close, broken only by the faint tick of an old clock on the mantel and the dim glow of shaded sconces. Mahogany display cases line the walls, their brass fittings gleaming in the low light. And right in the middle of the polished table lies the thing that makes my stomach drop.
A replica mask waits on the polished table, its surface split from crown to chin in a single brutal stroke. The cut runs clean and merciless, a wound that makes the whole thing gape as if it had been killed in effigy.
The cut isn't ragged. It's surgical and deliberate—the sort of incision meant to slice confidence as cleanly as cloth. I lean closer, expecting only the hum of the AC, but a colder breath slips from the gap. It bites at my skin like a dare, as if the mask resents being opened. For a heartbeat I think I hear laughter buried in the quiet.
The torn edges curl away, sharp and deliberate, like a lip pulled back to show teeth. Whoever breached the secure wing went to the trouble of leaving this for me: a reminder, a warning, a promise.
For a long moment I stand rooted, breath caught, chest tightening as the truth sinks in. This isn't just about the mask anymore—it's a warning. The message is clear, sharp as the slice through cloth: stand down, or there will be consequences.
Nolan's hand hovers at the small of my back. He doesn't touch me, not yet, but his presence anchors me when I want to snarl, scream, maybe even break something. I bend closer to the ruined mask, scanning for residue, for fingerprints, for any mistake the intruder left behind. Nothing. They were careful. Too careful.
