Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I freeze when I see the name.
Mason Reid
The same smug bastard who used to date River back when I first started with the company. The one she doesn’t talk about. The one who likes to whisper shit about her in the break room when he thinks no one’s listening.
Mother fucker doesn’t know, I’m always listening.
“Mason’s dirty,” I say. “We’ve got him on the log download and a matching Cathedral handle—Scripture88.”
Arrow’s already tracing the IP. “Running full packet capture now. We need to confirm he’s still active. If he is, we’ll nail him.”
“I want to go after him now.”
“Not yet,” Knight says. “He may be a pawn. If we move too early, we spook the real admin.”
Ozzy hums. “The real admin being Regent.”
The Cathedral ringleader. The guy none of us have been able to ID. Whoever he is, he’s got layers of encryption, an ego the size of a small country, and apparently, a twisted obsession with River.
“This Psalm88 file?” Render finally chimes in. “It’s curated. It’s not just logs—it’s commentary. He’s watching her. He’s cataloging reactions. He’s building a psychological profile.”
I grip my keyboard hard enough to crack plastic.
“He wants to break her,” I say.
“No,” Arrow says. “He wants to make her snap. He wants to turn her into a meme. Something the rest of the trolls can laugh at. That’s what Cathedral does. They turn pain into content.”
Not River.
She’s too brilliant. Too stubborn. Too herself to be fed to a mob like that.
I turn toward her empty desk again. The mug she used yesterday is still there. No lipstick stain—she doesn’t wear any—but the handle’s still turned left like always.
“You gonna tell her it’s you?” Ozzy asks.
I don’t answer right away. Because I don’t know.
“I’ll tell her when it’s over,” I say finally. “When she’s safe.”
“You sure that’s not just you being a coward?” Render asks, softly.
Maybe.
But for now, she thinks Mask is just some faceless digital ghost who swoops in when things get too dangerous. That’s safer. It keeps her guarded. Keeps her careful.
If she knew it was me—the guy who steals her coffee and makes dumb puns in meetings—she might let her guard down.
And I can’t risk that. Not when the walls are closing in.
“Flag Mason. Watch all outbound data packets from his terminal. I want full log access. No pings without my say so.”
Arrow sighs. “Copy that.”
“And someone ping Legal,” I add. “Let’s see if we can get his contract reviewed without raising alarms.”
“You’re gonna play it clean?” Knight says.
I smirk. “For now.”
But if he so much as looks at River again?
I’ll show him what it means to cry.
FIVE
RIVER
I show up to work late. And I don’t care. Let them fire me, or send me another mindfulness worksheet.
The espresso machine is making that awful wheezing sound again, like it’s about to cough up a demon. I’m standing in the kitchenette staring at it like I can force it to work with the power of raw desperation.
“I think it’s dying,” I mutter.
Gage appears behind me like he was summoned by sarcasm. “Maybe it just doesn’t respond to passive aggression.”
“It’s your fault. You used it last.”
“I cleaned it.”
“Lying to my face before coffee? Bold move.”
He leans against the counter, way too smug for someone who regularly burns his toast in the communal toaster. “Maybe it’s just tired of being manhandled.”
“Like all of us,” I say flatly.
He grins. Of course he grins. And the sight slays me. “You wound me.”
“If only.”
Gage reaches past me—why does he always smell good?—like sandalwood and danger, with a hint of something warm and clean underneath, like he just stepped out of a hot shower and into my personal space.
His arm brushes mine as he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my hoodie. My breath hitches. Stupidly. Embarrassingly.
He presses a button on the espresso machine, slow and deliberate, and the machine sputters like it’s dying for attention. Just like me, apparently.
He doesn’t move away. He just stands there, so close I can count the tiny stubble along his jaw. His fingers rest lightly on the counter beside mine, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything—his hand, his shoulder, the way his chest rises and falls just a breath behind me.
The machine gurgles out exactly half a cup.
He grabs the mug and holds it out toward me, the steam curling between us like smoke from something about to catch fire.
“For you, milady,” he says, voice low and teasing, but there’s something else underneath it. Something charged. “I’ll take the sacrifice.”
I reach for the mug, fingers brushing his.
The contact is light. Barely a touch. But it lingers.
My skin tingles where we connect—ridiculous, fleeting heat like he short-circuited me with a graze.
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us speaks for a moment too long. The air between us stretches tight. He tilts his head just slightly, gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back up like he caught himself.