Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
I swear the temperature drops five degrees the second he locks eyes with me.
“Willow?” he says, voice low enough to rattle the tools on my bench. “Sergeant Crewe Hawthorne. I brought you a present.”
My brain stalls. I blink at the drone in his arms—banged up, twisted, and definitely not one of mine. Four rotors. Wires tangled. It looks like someone tossed it into a blender.
My stomach sinks. “That’s… not mine.”
“I know,” he says, calm and sharp. “That’s why it tried to rip through my hoist cable.”
Charming.
“Oh. Cool,” I say with a tight smile. “So we’re starting off with casual threats.”
He sets the drone on my bench gently, like it’s a puzzle he already solved. His gloves creak as he removes them. I try not to notice his hands—but I do. Scarred knuckles. Long fingers. Strong, capable. His face? Even worse. Defined jaw, a scar tracing from ear to chin like someone wanted to mark him as off-limits. Dark hair, darker eyes, and lips I 100% should not be thinking about at work.
Focus, Riley.
I tug on a pair of gloves, flip the drone over, and pop it open. “Where’d you find it?”
“Crash site. Blizzard conditions. It was flying like it owned the airspace,” he says. “Your design. Wrong hands.”
It takes me a second to process what he just said, mostly because he smells like soap and jet fuel and danger, and that is absolutely not fair.
I scan the insides. “Okay… whoever built this knew our system, or they got their hands on it somehow. Look at the arm configuration. And the bracing. That’s my structure.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me work, all quiet and still. Like he’s analyzing the entire room, cataloging exits, threats… and me. His gaze lingers on my hands. Most guys flinch when I talk drone guts. Not him. He just nods.
“You can tell that fast?” he asks.
“You learn to spot your kids in a crowd,” I say. “Mine just happen to be made of carbon fiber and emotional detachment.”
His mouth twitches like I just said something funny. I don’t get that reaction often. Definitely not from guys who jump out of planes for fun.
“Just to clarify,” I add, pulling the memory card, “you didn’t bring this as some kind of weird valentine, right?”
He leans in, and I swear the air between us tightens. “That’d be one hell of a love letter.”
Yup. That’s it. I’m sweating under a thermal hoodie.
I plug the card into my system. Lines of code spill across my screen—messy, fast, familiar. Very familiar.
“Oh no,” I breathe.
It’s my code. It’s my exact algorithm—the one I’ve spent the last year perfecting for wind resistance in mountain rescues. Except someone’s added… something. Something bad. My code is supposed to help save lives. But this version?
It attacks.
“That’s mine,” I whisper. Then point again. “But that is definitely not.”
Crewe steps closer to look, and now he’s way too close. I can feel him behind me, his presence like a shadow wrapping around my shoulders. He leans over, reading the screen. The way he smells—clean and sharp, like cold air and danger—does not help me focus.
“So it’s yours?” he asks.
“No,” I snap, then realize I sound defensive. “I mean… yes. Part of it. Someone took my code and added this. See? This line of logic tells the drone to treat a hoist cable like a threat. It’s not rescue anymore. It’s attack.”
His voice stays level. “How would someone get your code?”
“Either they got into my system, or they got into me,” I say, cheeks going hot. “I don’t share. I don’t even lend chargers. My code is basically my diary.”
“Then someone internal,” he says.
“Or I was hacked. But I’d know. I’m extremely paranoid.”
I pull up logs, hunting for access trails. He keeps watching, that steady quiet turning into something kind of comforting. Most guys who show up in this lab want to explain something to me. Crewe just listens.
Then he says, simple as anything: “You’re damn good.”
I blink at him. Compliments bounce off me most days. His settles deep, somewhere warm. My face heats like I’m the one running diagnostics.
“Thanks,” I say, voice slightly higher than normal. “I try.”
The system pings again—log file found. I open it, and everything in me freezes.
“No. No, no, no.”
“What is it?” he asks, instantly focused.
“There was a push to the codebase. Last night. 12:43 AM. From my credentials.”
Crewe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t jump to conclusions. Just says, “Were you on base at 12:43?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. I was at my friend’s house in Pine Valley. We were baking cookies and debating whether her ex is a narcissist. I—” I stop, realizing that sounds unprofessional. “Not here.”
“Anyone have access to your machine?”
“I lock it. I hide the key. But if someone really wanted in…”
“We’ll pull footage,” he says. Still calm. Still in my corner.
“Please do,” I mutter, trying not to look like I’m going to cry or explode. Possibly both.