THE PROXIMITY PROTOCOL
1187 Words
Chapter 4: The Proximity Protocol
The darkness in the Sterling Museum’s ballroom lasted only seconds, but in the world of Dante Vane, seconds were an eternity. As the emergency lights kicked in a dim, ethereal amber the atmosphere shifted from high society gala to a hunting ground.
Sloane moved through the crowd, her heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. Her heart was a drum in her ears, nearly drowning out the quartet’s frantic transition into a minor key. She spotted her target: Marcus Thorne, the head of Vesper’s security. He stood on the mezzanine, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk’s.
Just a distraction, she told herself. I’m just an auditor. I deal with numbers, not assassins.
But as she reached the stairs, she felt a presence behind her. She didn't have to look to know it was Dante. His scent sandalwood and cold iron wrapped around her before he even spoke.
"He’s looking for me, not you," Dante’s voice murmured into the nape of her neck, sending a violent sher through her nervous system. "When you get within three feet, the skimmer in your clutch will activate. Hold it there for ten seconds. If he moves, I’ll intercept."
"And if he catches me?" Sloane whispered, her hand tightening on the silk bag.
"He won't," Dante said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive tone. "I don’t let anyone touch what’s mine."
Sloane’s breath hitched. What’s mine. The words felt like a brand. She turned, giving him a sharp, defiant look. "I’m not yours, Dante."
A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips the kind of smile that had likely ruined more than a few competitors. "For tonight, the world thinks you are. Use it."
She turned away, ascending the stairs with a grace she didn't know she possessed. As she neared Thorne, she intentionally stumbled. It was a classic move, but with the high slit of her dress and the frantic energy of the room, it worked perfectly.
Thorne’s hand shot out, catching her elbow. His grip was rough, professional, and devoid of the heat she had felt from Dante.
"Careful, Ms. Thatcher," Thorne said, his voice a low rasp. "The floors are slippery when the power fluctuates."
"Thank you," Sloane gasped, leaning into him just enough to bring her clutch within inches of the tablet holstered at his hip. "It’s all a bit much. The lights, the noise... I think I need some air."
"Mr. Vesper would be disappointed if you left so early," Thorne said, his eyes narrowing. He was suspicious. He didn't look at her face; he looked at her hands.
Three seconds. Four. Sloane felt the clutch vibrate almost imperceptibly. The skimmer was working.
"I'm sure Julian will understand," Sloane said, her voice dropping into a flirtatious lilt she had only ever used in her head. She reached up, adjusting her glasses with one hand while her other remained steady near his hip. "A girl can only take so much 'excitement' in one night, don't you think?"
Seven seconds. Eight.
Thorne’s hand moved toward his holster. He had felt something. Or perhaps his instincts were simply that sharp. "What’s in the bag, Ms. Thatcher?"
"Just my lipstick and a very expensive phone," Sloane said, her heart leaping into her throat.
"Let me see."
Before Thorne could reach for the clutch, a shadow fell over them. Dante appeared as if he had materialized from the darkness itself. He didn't look like a CEO now; he looked like a predator defending his kill.
"Is there a problem, Marcus?" Dante asked. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.
Thorne stiffened, his hand hovering near his weapon. "Just ensuring the lady is... comfortable, Vane."
"She’s with me," Dante said. He stepped between them, his massive frame shielding Sloane from Thorne’s gaze. He reached out, taking Sloane’s hand in his. "And I don't recall giving you permission to speak to her."
The tension was a physical weight. Thorne looked like he wanted to draw his gun; Dante looked like he was hoping he would.
"The data is encrypted anyway," Thorne spat, stepping back. "Enjoy your night, Vane. It’ll be your last."
As Thorne retreated, Sloane felt the strength leave her legs. Dante didn't let her fall. He swept her into a dark alcove behind a velvet curtain, his body pressing her back against the cold stone wall.
"Did you get it?" he demanded, his voice low and urgent.
"I... I think so," Sloane panted, opening her clutch. The small LED on the skimmer was solid green. "It’s done. We have the overrides."
Dante exhaled, a sound of pure, primal triumph. He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Sloane’s skin flush. "You did it. You actually did it."
The adrenaline of the theft, the danger of the room, and the overwhelming proximity of the man in front of her suddenly boiled over. Sloane looked up at him at the sharp line of his jaw, the scar on his lip, and the winter-sea eyes that were currently focused entirely on her.
"Dante," she breathed.
He didn't hesitate. He crashed his lips onto hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was an explosion. It tasted of expensive scotch and raw power. Dante’s hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Sloane groaned into his mouth, her arms winding around his neck, her fingers clenching in the dark silk of his hair.
For a moment, the audit, the Obsidian Circle, and the billions of dollars didn't matter. There was only the heat of him and the desperate, hungry way he claimed her.
He pulled back just an inch, his thumb tracing the swollen line of her lower lip. "That," he rasped, "was not part of the contract."
Sloane’s chest heaved. "Then consider it a bonus."
Dante’s eyes darkened, a possessive growl vibrating in his throat. But before he could reclaim her mouth, his earpiece crackled.
"Sir," his head of security's voice echoed in the small space. "Vesper’s men are moving. They’ve realized the skimmer was active. We have thirty seconds before the perimeter is sealed."
Dante’s professional mask slammed back into place, though his eyes remained fixated on Sloane’s lips for a second too long.
"Change of plans," Dante said, grabbing her hand. "The gala is over. Now, we run."
As they burst from the alcove, the ballroom erupted into chaos. Vesper’s men were no longer hiding their weapons. Guests screamed as the first shots rang out, shattering a priceless Ming vase near the entrance.
"Stay behind me!" Dante yelled over the din. He drew a suppressed pistol from a hidden holster at the small of his back.
They ran for the service exit, the midnight-blue silk of Sloane’s dress fluttering like a battle flag. Behind them, the elite world of the Sterling Museum was falling apart, but as Sloane looked at Dante’s broad shoulders and the lethal way he moved, she realized she wasn't afraid anymore.
She was part of the war now. And she was playing to win.
- Writer
