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Choosing the opposite direction from the one Logan led me down when he brought me up here, I head away from the stairs. My lungs burn as I force my breath to stay slow and even despite the way my heart races every time I imagine I hear a sound.
The first door is a bedroom, and I slip in and look around. It’s… nice. Masculine and on the lived-in side of tidy, with surprising splashes of color in the décor that make it seem almost welcoming. I can pick up the distinctive scent of Dante’s cologne or aftershave, which makes me even more certain that this is his room. I quickly riffle through his things, finding nothing of interest before returning it all to the state I found it in.
The next door is another bedroom, and it’s quite definitelynotwelcoming. So, Logan’s.
I skim my fingers over the top of the crisply made bed, the cool colors aesthetically pleasing but somehow slightly intimidating in a way that no bed should ever be. The corners of the duvet are so sharp I can’t believe it’s really made of cloth until I actually touch it. The personal items are minimal and laid out with a disturbing precision that makes me wonder if the fucker ever gets laid.
If he does, he doesn’t keep a drawerful of condoms next to his bed the way Dante does.
I snort back a slightly hysterical laugh for no other reason than because I’m scaring myself and getting nowhere. It’s not like the guys are going to keep West Point’s secrets in their underwear drawers.
I pull open a couple more of Logan’s drawers anyway, but don’t touch anything. Every one of them is impossibly organized and more than one—including that condom-free nightstand—contain weapons I’d rather not have known about.
Dammit. This isn’t where I need to be looking. I need to find where they keep shit related to their business.
I glance around the creepily perfect room to make sure I haven’t disturbed anything, then leave, heading back in the direction of the stairs since there are no more doors this way. The fear of getting caught makes it harder than it should be to pass by the door to “my” room, but I do.
The next door is a bathroom, but there’s nothing of interest in it. But the door after that opens into what looks like an office or a library.
That’s more like it.
My heart lurches with excitement. A room full of books, files, and ledgers—a room that honestly looks more lived in than the bedrooms do—might actually yield something I can use.
I pause in the doorway, listening hard. It’s not easy over the insistent pounding of my heart, but I close my eyes and focus on my other senses. The only way I’m going to make it through this is to stay vigilant, and the stakes are too high to make a stupid mistake.
I ignore the sound of my own breath and focus instead on all the small sounds houses make. Occasional faint creaks. A distant ticking. The quiet shushing of the ventilation system.
But no footsteps.
No sounds of life or scent of cooking.
No sudden caress of moving air to tell me doors are opening or closing in other parts of the house.
As far as I can tell, I’m alone. Definitely on this floor, and possibly in the whole house.
I’d hear it if someone came up the stairs, wouldn’t I?
I tell myself I would, then curl my toes into the soft carpet, take a slow, deep breath for courage, and open my eyes. Still alone.
Thank fuck.
My pulse finally starts to slow down, and I step into the room and start looking around.
There’s a painting on the far wall that tries to suck me in. Bright, vibrant colors explode out from a dark center. It’s a painting of nothing and everything, and I shake my head when I catch myself wasting time trying to make sense of it, then tear my gaze away.
It’s not information on West Point, and that’s all that matters.
I go to a crowded bookshelf, running my fingers over the titles. Weapon manuals. Warfare tactics. Business strategy. A few biographies, but nothing that seems like it would hold information about West Point.
There’s an empty beer bottle tucked behind the leg of the plush chair in the corner, like someone reading set it down and forgot about it. A Zippo tossed down next to a lamp. A handheld gaming system next to a stack of engine schematics. A jagged brick with a worn inscription on one of the shelves, acting as a book end. A carved wooden box.
Small signs that the fortress I’m trapped in really is a home, and that the men who live in it have lives.
Lives I’m curious about despite my best efforts not to be.
I’m starting to doubt I’ll find anything about gang activity in here—about the Reapers or West Point—but the room still gives me a small glimpse of who these men are behind the calculating, cold, ruthless demeanor they present to the world, and figuring out what makes each of them tick could still be valuable.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pick up the Zippo, running my fingers over the smooth metal sides as I make a slow circuit of the room to take it all in. I trail the fingertips of my other hand over the bookshelves and the small personal touches in between the books, wondering about each of them. Guessing at which of the three men chose each piece. Trying to suss out why and what I can do with the information.
