THE VELOCITY OF FRICTION

CHAPTER FOUR

The grey light of dawn filtered through the sleet, turning the safe house into a cage of glass and steel. The fire had long since died to white ash, but the room remained stiflingly hot.

Spencer woke first. He was slumped in the oversized leather chair, Elena’s head resting against his shoulder, her silk dress twisted around her hips. For a man who lived his life in three-minute increments and billable hours, the stillness was deafening. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, the raw reality of her skin against his white dress shirt—now unbuttoned and discarded.

He had broken his only rule: Don’t get personal. Gently, he shifted her weight to the cushions and stood, his muscles aching with a tension that wasn't just physical. He paced to the window, staring out at the mist-shrouded pines. The adrenaline of the night before had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity. He wasn't just a fixer anymore; he was a target. And by touching her, he had made Elena the bullseye.

A soft rustle of fabric signalled she was awake.

"You're brooding," Elena said, her voice a low, sleep-heavy rasp that sent a fresh jolt of electricity down his spine. She sat up, pulling his discarded suit jacket over her shoulders to ward off the morning chill. "It doesn’t suit you, Spencer. You look better when you’re arrogant."

Spencer didn't turn around. "We have four hours before the encryption on my secondary server resets. Once that happens, my client’s offshore accounts will be visible to anyone with a laptop. They’ll be coming for us with everything they have."

Elena stood, the oversized jacket hanging off her frame, making her look deceptively fragile. She walked over to him, stepping into his space until she could see his reflection in the glass. "Is that why you're standing five feet away? Because you're afraid of what happens when the sun comes up?"

He turned then, his eyes dark and tired. He reached out, his thumb tracing the swollen line of her lower lip—a vivid reminder of the hours they’d spent tangled together. "I’m afraid that I can’t protect you and win this at the same time, Elena. One of those has to give."

"Then don't protect me," she whispered, her hand covering his, pressing his palm flat against her cheek. "Fight with me. Give me the access codes. Let me publish the story from here. If it's public, killing us becomes a liability, not a solution."

Spencer let out a harsh, dry laugh. "You’re asking me to hand you the gun to shoot my career."

"I'm asking you to choose a side," she countered, her gaze unwavering. She stepped closer, her body heat radiating through the jacket. The air between them thickened again, the memory of the night’s intimacy blurring the lines of the morning's logic. "Are you the man who silences the truth, or the man who survived the night with me?"

Spencer’s grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against him. The conflict in his eyes was visceral. He looked like he wanted to kiss her and push her away all at once.

"If I do this," he growled, his forehead dropping to hers, "there is no going back to the life I had. I lose everything."

"Not everything," Elena breathed, her hand sliding up his neck to cradle the back of his head.

The moment was shattered by a low, rhythmic thrumming in the distance. It wasn't thunder. It was the heavy, mechanical beat of a helicopter rotor cutting through the mountain mist.

Spencer’s entire body went rigid. "They're here."