POV: Rian
Recovery was a slow, boring process.
For two days, I lived in a haze of soup, high-thread-count sheets, and Varrick's hovering presence. He treated me less like a prisoner and more like a rare, fragile orchid that he was terrified of breaking.
But by the third morning, the fever was gone. The tremors had stopped. My head was clear for the first time in years without the chemical fog of the suppressants.
And I was bored out of my mind.
I stood in the center of the massive library, staring up at the shelves that stretched to the ceiling. It was a beautiful room—smelling of old leather and lemon polish—but it was still just another room in my cage.
"You're pacing again," a voice rumbled from the doorway.
I stopped, turning to face Kael. The head of security was leaning against the frame, peeling an apple with a knife that looked sharp enough to shave with.
"I'm not pacing," I lied. "I'm surveying my workspace."
"You're pacing," Kael corrected, slicing a piece of apple and popping it into his mouth. "You look like a cat trapped in a carrier."
"Where is Varrick?" I asked, ignoring the jab.
"Mr. Varrick," Kael emphasized, "is in a meeting with the port authority. He won't be back until dinner."
"Great," I muttered. "Another six hours of staring at the walls."
"You wanted work," Kael reminded me, pointing the knife at the mahogany desk in the center of the room. "He gave you work."
I looked at the desk. Stacked high on the surface were leather-bound ledgers and a secure tablet.
"Digitizing shipping logs," I scoffed. "It's busywork. He just gave me this to keep me quiet."
"Maybe," Kael shrugged. "Or maybe he trusts you to find the mistakes his accountants missed. You're a thief, Rian. You know how to hide money. Which means you know how to find it."
He pushed off the doorframe.
"I'll be in the hall. Try not to short-circuit any more elevators."
Kael left, closing the heavy double doors but leaving them unlocked—a small mercy.
I sighed and sat down at the massive desk. I felt small in Varrick's leather chair. It smelled like him—burnt cedar and power. It was distracting.
I opened the first ledger. It was dated three years ago.
Fine, I thought, cracking my knuckles. You want an auditor? I'll give you an auditor.
I started typing.
Four hours later, my eyes were burning, but my brain was buzzing with adrenaline.
Kael was right. Varrick's accountants were idiots. Or, more likely, they were thieves.
I had found three shell companies funneled through a subsidiary in the Cayman Islands that didn't exist. Someone was skimming off the top of the weapon shipments—small amounts, just a few thousand here and there, but over five years, it added up to millions.
I was so focused on tracing the digital paper trail on the tablet that I didn't hear the door open.
"You haven't moved in four hours."
I jumped, spinning the chair around.
Varrick stood there. He had shed his suit jacket and tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked tired, but the moment his eyes landed on me, his expression softened.
He walked into the room, carrying two glasses of water. He set one down on the desk in front of me.
"Drink," he commanded. "Dr. Aris said you need to stay hydrated."
"I'm fine," I said, waving the glass away. "Varrick, look at this."
I picked up the tablet, thrusting it toward him.
"Your logistics manager in Sector 7," I said, pointing at the highlighted column. "The 'breakage' fees? They're fake. He's marking 3% of every shipment as damaged, but the insurance claims are never filed. He's selling the 'broken' stock on the black market and pocketing the difference."
Varrick took the tablet. He scanned the data, his dark eyes narrowing.
He scrolled down. He tapped the screen. He looked at the ledger.
Silence stretched for a long minute.
Finally, Varrick looked up at me. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes—not directed at me, but at the betrayal I had uncovered. But beneath the anger, there was something else.
Respect.
"I have had three different firms audit these books," Varrick said quietly. "None of them found this."
"They were looking for math errors," I said, leaning back in the chair. "I was looking for the hustle. I know how to fence stolen goods, Varrick. I know exactly what it looks like on paper."
Varrick set the tablet down. He walked around the desk until he was standing right next to my chair.
He reached out, his hand resting on the back of my neck. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"You are dangerous, little thief," he murmured.
"I told you," I said, my pulse jumping at his touch. "I'm an asset."
"Yes," Varrick agreed. His fingers tightened slightly on my neck, a possessive squeeze. "And assets need to be protected."
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell the day on him—city smoke, gunpowder, and the underlying, rich scent of his Alpha biology.
Usually, the smell scared me. But today? Today, it made my mouth water.
"You smell different," Varrick noted, his voice dropping. He inhaled deeply near my temple.
"I showered," I said breathlessly.
"No," Varrick shook his head. "The sickness is gone. The chemicals are gone. You smell... sweet."
He lingered there for a second too long, his nose brushing my hair. The air between us grew thick, charged with a sudden, spiking tension. My skin felt hot where he touched me.
Varrick pulled back abruptly.
He cleared his throat, straightening his shirt cuffs.
"Good work on the ledgers," he said, his voice clipped. "We'll deal with the Sector 7 manager tomorrow. Come to dinner. Greta made roast."
He turned and walked toward the door.
I sat there, staring at his back, my hand coming up to touch the spot on my neck where his hand had been. My heart was racing.
I looked down at the ledger, but the numbers were swimming.
You smell sweet.
I swallowed hard, a sudden, sharp cramp twisting in my lower stomach.
I ignored it. It was probably just hunger.
I stood up to follow him to dinner, unaware that the countdown had already started.