You don't belong here

My second week was an exercise in pure frustration. I was used to commanding a room. In the Thorne world, my father's power was my power, but here, I had no power. No one knew who I was, not even I could recognize myself anymore.

"This is wrong!" Vane said, dropping a stack of invoices on my desk.

"What's wrong with it?" I snapped. I had spent four hours organizing the recovery logs for a fleet of blacked-out SUVs that had come in at midnight.

"You used the corporate tax ID for the human-side accounts on a private-party client. This client doesn't exist to the IRS, Eloise.

That’s the point of your job. You keep the two worlds separate."

"Maybe if someone explained 'the two worlds' to me, I wouldn't make mistakes! I keep getting mixed up with the servers! I stood up, my chair screeching.

"I’m doing the work of three people for twelve dollars an hour! I’m eating ramen noodles in a studio apartment that smells like a damp basement! Now I have to redo four hours of work! That is just torture!" I ranted.

Vane didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared at me with that predatory stillness. A smile creased the corners of his mouth, which he was trying to hold back. My tantrum amused him at the moment.

"You think you're suffering? You're alive. Now, fix the invoices!"

He walked out, leaving me fuming. I looked out the glass window of the office. Jax was down in the bay, whistling as he effortlessly tossed heavy steel rims into a recycling bin. He was handling them like they were frisbees. I watched his muscles ripple under his shirt; it was unnatural. No one was that strong without being bulky, but Jax was lean.

"Hey, Princess!" Jax called out, catching me looking.

"Don't let the Beta get to you. He just hates it when the paperwork smells like Chanel."

"Shut up, Jax!" I yelled back.

He was teasing me because he knew I couldn't afford Chanel perfume! Why did he refer to Vane as the Beta, I wondered, but continued with my work. The work I now had to re-do, because I used the human-side accounts instead of the "ghost" accounts. Meaning I had to use a separate account log to capture the finances for these "ghost" accounts, but to the IRS, these books do not exist.

Later that afternoon, the temperature in the shop increased. I looked down to see Cane working on a vintage motorcycle. He had stripped off his tank top; his back looked like a map of muscles and scars. He was shining with sweat. His movements, powerful and raw. He looked up and caught me staring. Instead of looking away, he held my gaze. The air between us felt thick, like a cord was being pulled.

"Miller," he barked.

"Down here. Now."

I scrambled down the stairs, my heart beating frantically against my ribs.

"Yes?"

"Hold this," he commanded, gesturing to a heavy iron casing.

"Steady. If you drop it, the gears will shear."

I reached out, my small hands gripping the oily metal. As I leaned in, our shoulders brushed. The contact was electric. A shock of heat surged through me, so intense I nearly gasped.

"You're shaking," he murmured, his voice low next to my ear.

"It's heavy," I lied.

Cane leaned closer. He wasn't looking at the motorcycle anymore. He was looking at the pulse jumping in my neck. His nostrils flared, and for a second, I saw his jaw clench.

"You don't belong here," he whispered.

"Your blood is too loud. It’s a distraction."

"Then go ahead and fire me," I jokingly challenged.

Cane’s hand reached out, his fingers wrapping around my forearm. His skin was unnaturally hot, like he was running a fever.

"I can't," he growled.

"And that’s the problem."

He moved closer, his massive body over mine, until I was backed against the workbench. He took the iron casing from me with his other hand, the weight of it seemingly nothing to him, but his focus was entirely on me. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning amber light. I could feel the heat from his chest. His gaze dropped to my lips, and for a heartbeat, the world outside, the grease and the noise all seemed to vanish.

His hand on my forearm tightened slightly, pulling me toward him, and I found myself tilting my head back, my lips were ready to receive his. I was drawn entirely to him.

"Cane." A voice suddenly cuts through the tension.

The voice was like a bucket of ice water.

Vane was standing at the edge of the bay, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He didn't look at me; he looked directly at Cane.

"The transport for the midnight delivery is ten minutes out," Vane said.

"We need the bay cleared. Now."

Cane froze. He let go of my arm and stood up, his chest heaving as he took a step back. The sudden distance felt wrong. He shoved the iron casing back into its slot on the bike with a force that made the entire frame rattle.

"Get back to your office. And stay away from the bays for the rest of the day."

I didn't argue. I ran back to my glass cage. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching him. He was agitated, snapping at Jax and Vane. The sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the garage floor. The energy in the shop changed. Vane and Jax stopped working, their heads snapping toward the back of the warehouse. Toward the red door.

"Miller," Vane said, appearing at my office door.

"Shift's over. Get out. Now."

"It's only four-thirty," I said.

"I have an hour left."

"I said, get out!" Vane snarled. His eyes were fully gold now, glowing in the dim light.

I didn't wait. I grabbed my bag and bolted. As I ran to my car, I heard a sound from inside. It wasn't a machine. It was a long, mournful sound that ended in a terrifying, bone-snapping crunch.