Glass And Steele Series Novels & Stories

The memory of the last few hours crashes into me like molten iron. Me. Gathering my men. “Yes, Boss,” Cameo said when he stepped into my office at the bank. “Get one of the boys to shut down all the security footage leading to the Roshids’ residence. Everything. The neighborhood. The street.” I ordered darkly. I pressed the button beneath my desk. The wall behind me gave way, sliding open to reveal the vault. My arsenal of weapons. Air conditioned. Clean. Sophisticated. “Sir? What are you planning?” Cameo asked from behind me as I stepped into the air-conditioned space.

He hadn’t told her he was coming. He didn’t know if he should. But when he saw her silhouette appear behind the glass, his chest tightened. She looked smaller than before. And stronger. Vivienne noticed him a moment later. Their eyes met through the glass. She pressed her hand against the window. So did he. Separated by inches of reinforced steel and years of manipulation, they stood there, breathing the same city air, sharing the same silence. Her phone buzzed. Vivienne: You shouldn’t be here.

I walked around with a fucking bullseye on my forehead every day. I pushed off the glass, letting Adrian step forward. “Last week, you delivered a bulk deal of M1911s. But the crates were full of gutted, nonfunctional clones. Care to explain?” Adrian’s gun hit the glass with a thump. I didn’t need to look, I already knew Luca was sweating bullets. Adrian’s blank stare could do that. But I wasn’t watching Luca. I was watching the heiress, dressed in a shade of yellow so garish, my fingers itched to tear it off and reveal the naked skin I’d seen last night at the hotel.

Of course, they did. The hall outside Salle C opened onto a long arcade of stained-glass windows. The late afternoon had slipped toward evening, the light fading from washed-out gray to bruised color. Sun slanted through the glass in bands of red, gold, and blue that painted the stone walls and the polished floor in shards of borrowed fire. Her muscles hummed from the fight, a pleasant ache in her arm where the foil had bitten into her grip. She could still feel the ghost of Noah’s shoulder against her chest. The sharp, ugly sound he’d made when she’d turned him.

It’s part of my mutation, a little price to pay for possessing the indestructible features of steel. I feel sickened with myself for not looking away, I just can’t tear off my eyes from her. She is the thinnest woman I have ever seen. Shit! I can even count her ribs. Bruises at different stages of healing, tell her story, which I know very well. “Maybe I can lick them to heal fast,” Titan links with me. Now the bastard he wants to talk. “Shut the fuck up.” I link back and focus on the fragile woman in my arms.

The heavy glass shattered into several large, jagged shards. Grace ignored the risk of the automated sensors detecting the breakage; she grabbed a long, razor-sharp sliver of crystal and rushed back to the corner of the room. Using the glass shard as a makeshift lever, she jammed it into the gap beneath the molding and pried upward with all her strength. The composite molding resisted for a moment, then popped loose with a sharp, plastic snap. Behind it lay a hollow recess inside the concrete foundation—a dead-drop compartment hidden from the primary security cameras' line of sight.

Their stolen glances and hurried whispers confirmed what I already knew, they’d heard the rumors. I didn’t care. My focus was the glass-walled office at the far end. Marching across the floor, I ignored the stares and flung the door open without knocking. Darius Rivera shot up from his chair, his expression caught between surprise and apprehension. “Adrian Steele,” he greeted, trying to muster a polite tone. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I stepped closer, slamming a thick folder onto his desk. The sound reverberated through the room, and Darius flinched slightly.

The half-eaten food beneath it was—chips, burgers, cola, pizza, roast chicken, roast lamb, even a plate of rice with stew. They howled like beasts. Words failed them, and only screams came out. Then they hurled themselves at the glass with the last strength their frost-hollowed bodies could muster. Cyrus lifted his cup, watching them through the steam. "Who said glass has to be weaker than metal?" he said calmly. He hadn't chosen ordinary glass. He had refused the cheap metal reinforcement the security firm offered and paid a fortune for a single, custom-made sheet of bulletproof glass instead.