The safehouse is a pressure cooker, the air thick with suspicion after Lena's bombshell about a traitor. My split lip stings, my arm's still raw from the gym graze, and Lena's avoiding my eyes, her fingers hammering her tablet like it's the enemy. Her warning about the hidden message in Sophia's call logs hangs over us like a guillotine. Evie's pacing, her red gala dress swapped for jeans, her usual smirk gone. Marcus is cleaning his pistol, his scarred knuckles flexing, his silence louder than any argument. I'm trying to keep us together, but Dorian's hack and the botched gym job have us rattled. We need to get that button camera off Crane's coat before he notices it, and tonight's our shot—a charity auction at the Grand Meridian, where Crane's flaunting his wealth and his "unbreakable" vault.
"Plan's simple," I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my gut. "I spill a drink on Crane, swap the button while 'cleaning' it. Evie, you're my eyes in the crowd. Marcus, cover the exits. Lena, run tech from the van." Lena's jaw clenches at Evie's name, and I feel the weight of her jealousy from the gala. That moment on the couch last night—her lips, her heat—feels like a lifetime ago.
"Got it," Lena mutters, her hazel eyes locked on her screen. "Crane's coat is still transmitting. He's at the Meridian now, schmoozing with the elite." Her voice is all business, but there's a tremble, like she's holding back a storm. I want to fix this, but the clock's ticking.
By 8 p.m., the Grand Meridian's ballroom is a sea of tuxedos and gowns, chandeliers casting golden light over champagne flutes. I'm in a borrowed suit, feeling like a wolf in sheep's clothing, my knife strapped to my ankle. Evie's in a black dress that hugs her curves, her blonde hair swept up, already charming a tech mogul for cover. Marcus is at the back, disguised as security, his bulk blending with the hired muscle. Lena's voice hums in my earpiece, guiding me through the crowd. "Crane's by the stage," she says. "Black tux, gold watch. Careful, Jax—he's got two guards close."
I spot him, Victor Crane, his silver hair gleaming, his sneer cutting through the room as he boasts to a cluster of investors. His coat's on, the button camera still stitched in, feeding Lena his every move. I grab a glass of red wine from a passing tray, my pulse racing—not just from the job, but from the way Lena's voice curls around my name. I weave through the crowd, my eyes locked on Crane, when a familiar face stops me cold. Dorian Black, in a tailored suit, his dark curls and smug smirk unmistakable, chatting up a woman by the bar. Lena.
My heart stumbles. She's out of the van, in a sleek green dress, her auburn hair loose, laughing at something Dorian says. Her eyes flick to me, and there's a challenge in them, like she's daring me to care. Jealousy burns, hot and sharp, but I shove it down. "Lena, what the hell?" I hiss into the comms.
"Backup plan," she snaps back, her voice low. "Dorian's here. I'm keeping him busy." Her words sting, but there's no time to argue. Crane's moving toward the stage, and I've got seconds to act.
I bump into him "accidentally," the wine splashing across his coat. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry," I say, playing drunk, grabbing a napkin and dabbing at his lapel. My fingers work fast, snipping the camera free, palming it into my pocket. Crane's eyes narrow, his hand grabbing my wrist, and for a second, I think he's onto me. "Watch yourself," he growls, his voice like ice.
"Apologies, sir," I mumble, slipping away as his guards close in. My heart's a jackhammer, but the camera's out. I'm halfway to the exit when the lights flicker, and an alarm screeches. Dorian. That bastard's done something—rigged the system, maybe, to screw us over. The crowd panics, guards shouting, and I see Evie darting through the chaos, her cover blown.
"Jax, move!" Lena's voice cuts through, but it's not just panic—it's fear. I spot her across the room, Dorian's hand on her arm, his smirk gone, replaced by something darker. My blood boils, but before I can reach her, a guard tackles me, his fist slamming into my jaw. Pain explodes, my vision swimming, but I roll, kicking his knee out and grabbing my knife.
The ballroom's a warzone—guests screaming, tables overturning, bullets flying as Crane's security opens fire. Marcus is a blur, slamming a guard into a wall, while Evie's dodging shots, her dress ripping as she dives behind a pillar. I fight my way to Lena, my knife flashing, cutting through a guard's sleeve. She's pulling away from Dorian, her tablet clutched tight, but he's not letting go.
"Get off her!" I roar, tackling Dorian. We hit the floor, fists flying, his smug face twisting as I land a punch. He's fast, slipping free, but not before I see Lena's eyes—fear, anger, and something that makes my chest ache. She's not just mad at Dorian; she's mad at me.
"Jax, exit now!" Marcus bellows, dragging Evie toward a side door. I grab Lena's hand, her skin warm despite the chaos, and we sprint through the gunfire. Bullets shred the chandeliers, glass raining down as we hit the stairwell, Marcus covering our rear. Lena's breath is ragged, her hand tight in mine, and for a second, it's just us, running, alive.
We spill into the alley, Lena's van waiting, engine roaring. She dives into the driver's seat, and I'm beside her, Marcus and Evie piling in back. The van screeches off, New Avalon's neon blurring past, but my mind's on Lena. Her eyes are stormy, her hands shaking on the wheel. "You okay?" I ask, my voice softer than I mean.
She doesn't answer, just floors it. The silence is louder than the gunfire we left behind. Evie's cursing in the back, Marcus grunting as he checks for wounds, but all I see is Lena—her jaw set, her lips tight. I want to pull her close, kiss away the tension, but Dorian's words echo in my head: "Game's just started, Jax."
As we hit the safehouse, Lena slams her tablet down, the button camera's feed still active, showing Crane's coat discarded in the chaos. We got it out, but at what cost? She turns to me, her eyes blazing. "Dorian left you a note," she says, tossing a crumpled paper my way. I unfold it, my blood running cold: The vault's not what you think.