Page 10 of Heat Unwritten
"What are you talking about?" Anders snapped, looking at me like I’d finally cracked.
"Nothing," I lied.
But it was everything. It was the only thing.
I pushed the accelerator down. The speedometer climbed. 60. 70.
The windshield was a blur of violence. The trees whipped past like dark ghosts trying to snatch us off the road. Every instinct I had screamed that this was insane, that we were going to slide off the cliff and join the sea-battered rocks below. But the image of that red pulsing dot on the tablet burned in my mind like a brand.
Critical.
Someone was alone in the dark. Someone was breaking apart, just like Tessa had. And this mysterious T.L. Rose, this voice that had haunted my sketchbook for months, was not going to be another tragedy I archived for my portfolio. I wouldn't let her become another sketch of a girl falling.
I saw the structure looming ahead through the rain, a shadow darker than the angry sky. The Fortress. It looked less like a house and more like a tombstone made of glass and steel, perched on the very edge of the world.
And between us and it, a narrow suspended bridge that was swaying violently in the gale, looking like a spiderweb about to snap under the weight of a raindrop.
I didn't lift my foot from the gas.
"Simon," Anders warned, his voice rising an octave, stripping away the agent and leaving only the terrified man. "The cables."
"Hold on," I gritted out.
I wasn't an Alpha who commanded rooms like Anders. I wasn't an Alpha who soothed hurts like Daniel. I was the Alpha who saw the angles, the trajectory, the inevitable crash before impact.
And this time, I was going to be the one who caught the falling object.
I aimed the SUV at the center of the swaying bridge and drove straight into the mouth of the storm.
FIVE
Daniel
The heavy oak door didn’t just resist; it refused. It was a slab of solid timber reinforced with steel, locked tight against the storm and the world, a physical manifestation of the paranoia that T.L. Rose had woven into every contract clause and non-disclosure agreement I’d ever seen. It was a barrier designed to keep the universe out, and right now, we were the universe trying to break in.
"Move," Simon snarled, the command tearing out of his throat as he shoved past Anders.
Rain lashed against the back of my neck, freezing and relentless. It soaked through the heavy cotton of my flannel shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to my skin like a cold, wet second skin. We were huddled on the concrete stoop, the deafening roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs below us mixing with the violent crack of thunder overhead. The air was electric, thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the sharp, acrid spike of Simon’s scent spiking with a panic that tasted bitter on the back of my tongue.
Simon didn’t bother with the digital keypad. To a man like him, lean, wiry, and currently fueled by a terrifying adrenaline,technology was too slow. He drove the heel of his heavy combat boot into the lock plate.
Thud.
The wood groaned, but held.
"Open the damn door!" Anders shouted over the wind, his usually pristine charcoal suit dark with rain, his golden hair plastered to his skull. He looked less like a high-powered business man and more like a man watching his empire crumble.
Simon didn't answer. He kicked again. Once. Twice.
On the third kick, the wood splintered with a sickening crack that sounded too much like a bone snapping, a wet, fibrous tear that made my stomach turn. The door swung inward, caught by a gust of wind, and slammed violently against the interior wall.
"T.L. Rose!" Anders shouted, abandoning all professional protocol as he rushed into the dark gorge of the hallway. "T.L. Rose! Can you hear me? We have a medical alert from the suppression monitor!"
I followed them inside, the orange trauma kit heavy in my hand, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. The transition from the chaotic violence of the storm to the interior was jarring. The wind died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, pressurized silence that felt heavy enough to crush lungs. It was the kind of silence you find in a recording booth before the mic goes live, absolute, dead, and waiting for a sound that might never come.
The house was dark, save for the terrifying, rhythmic pulse of red light coming from somewhere deep in the open-concept living space. It washed over the sleek, minimalist furniture, shadow, red, shadow, red, like a heartbeat in a horror movie, revealing sharp angles and cold surfaces that looked entirely devoid of comfort.
"Jesus," Simon breathed, stopping dead in his tracks, his boots skidding slightly on the floor. "The smell."
