Page 44 of What We Burn

“This is military-grade,” Holden says.

“It’s better than military-grade. The military outsources to the lowest bidder. I built this myself.”

“Where did you get⁠—”

“You don’t want to know. And more importantly, you can’t prove anything.”

For twenty minutes, I watch Milo work. He talks while he does it—narrating for the room, half to us and half to himself. Access logs. Traffic analysis. Encryption verification. He checks each server one by one, hands-on, pulling drives and running diagnostic tools I’ve never heard of. He checks our phones too—mine first, then everyone else’s. Running scans, checking for anything that shouldn’t be there.

“Clean,” he announces each time. Then moves to the next.

I’m trying to follow what he’s doing, but the cold is winning. I rub my hands together, blow on them, tuck them under my arms. Nothing helps. My teeth are chattering, which feels dramatic.

Knox crosses the room and wraps both arms around me from behind, pulling me into his chest. The warmth is immediate, and I sink into it without thinking, my back pressed against the solid wall of him, his arms a fortress around my ribs.

“Better?” he murmurs, hunching over me so his mouth is at my ear.

“Mmm.” I turn in his arms so I’m facing him, my hands sliding under his jacket, palms flat against his stomach where the heat radiates through his shirt. He’s a furnace. He’s always a furnace. I reach up and pull him closer, press my cold nose against his neck and feel him shiver.

I kiss him there. Just below his jaw. A soft press of lips against warm skin that smells like cedar and soap and Knox. His arms tighten. I feel his pulse jump under my mouth.

He pulls back and looks down at me. Those dark, steady eyes. One hand comes up and tilts my chin, thumb tracing my lower lip, and then he kisses me. Slow. Deliberate. Knox is never in a hurry. His hand cradles the back of my head and his mouth moves against mine leisurely. I hum contentedly.

“Hey!” Milo spins in his chair, pointing at us with a USB drive. “No sexy stuff in the server room. I can’t afford to get jizz on this stuff. That is a hard rule. Nonnegotiable. Especially”—he gestures at his screens—“when I’m busy working and can’t participate.”

Knox doesn’t break the kiss. He just lifts one hand off my waist long enough to give Milo the finger, then puts it right back.

“But Milo,” Micah starts, pushing out of his chair. “It’s freezing in here.”

He comes up behind me, his chest against my back, his mouth finding the spot below my ear that makes my brain go static. His hands slide over my hips, and the sensation of being held between them—Knox’s heat from the front, Micah’s warmth from behind—is so good it’s almost cruel.

“You two are shameless,” Holden says from across the room, but his voice has that rough edge it gets when he’s watching and pretending he isn’t.

“She’s cold, Holden,” Micah says against my skin, all innocence. “We’re providing a public service.”

“Body heat is the most efficient warming method,” Knox adds. His lips brush my jaw. “Science.”

“Oh, is that what this is? Science?” Holden pushes off the server rack and walks over, slow and deliberate. He stops in front of me, cages my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilts my face up, and kisses me—hard and brief, a stamp of ownership that leaves my lips tingling. Then he stays close, his mouth a breath from mine. “If we’re going to warm her up, at least do it properly.”

“I hate all of you,” Milo says, typing furiously. “I’m doing critical national security work over here and you’re running a group grope three feet from my encryption keys.”

“Come join us then.” My voice comes out breathless.

“I can’t. I have six more drives to scan. This is persecution. This is a hostile work environment!”

“Lodge a complaint with HR,” Knox mutters. His mouth finds my neck again.

Micah’s hand slides under the hem of my shirt, his thumb tracing circles on the bare skin of my hip. Holden’s watching me with heated eyes, one hand braced on the server rack behind Knox, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him.

And Eli.

Eli is against the wall. Arms folded. Jaw locked. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but he also hasn’t looked away. He’s watching with the stillness of a man who’s swallowed something sharp and is trying not to let anyone see it cut. His eyes track Knox’s mouth on my skin, Micah’s hands on my hips, Holden’s proximity.

Our eyes meet over Micah’s shoulder.

I don’t look away. Neither does he.

Then someone knocks on the basement door.