Page 87 of Claimed By the Band

The corporate bullpen is exactly what you'd expect with bland cubicles, generic office furniture, and motivational posters that probably haven't been updated since the 90s. It's a far cry from the gaudy opulence upstairs, which tells me Vince doesn't spend much time down here where the actual work happens. Typical alpha CEO, all flash, no substance.

My shoes click softly on the linoleum as I make my way to the nearest security camera. Climbing onto a chair, which is way harder in these pants than it should be, I pull out my modified phone and connect it to the camera's feed. A few quick keystrokes, and the feed loops empty office footage. No evidence I was ever here.

The research and development offices are easy to spot. They're the only ones with actual walls and doors instead of cubicles. The nameplate on the biggest office reads "Dr. Adam Trakiss, Head of Research." Perfect.

The lock is pathetically simple to pick. These people really need better security if they're going to keep developing illegal pheromone weapons. Then again, I probably shouldn't complain about their incompetence making my job easier.

Dr. Trakiss’s office is surprisingly cluttered for someone so high up the corporate ladder. Papers cover every surface, and whiteboards filled with molecular diagrams line the walls. His computer sits dark and silent on the desk, waiting.

I slip into his chair, pulling out my equipment. The computer's security is slightly better than the door's, but not by much. Within minutes, I'm in his system, copying everything to my secure server.

As the files transfer, my eyes scan the papers scattered across his desk. Most of it is standard research stuff. Trial results, molecular structures, grant proposals. But if he has any connection to the shady shit that's been going on, I'll be able to find it later when I comb through all of this in greater detail.

I freeze as a clatter echoes down the hallway, my heart leaping into my throat. The sound of voices follows, at least two people having what sounds like a heated discussion.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

I hastily finish up, willing the file transfer to move faster. The progress bar seems to mock me, crawling forward at a snail's pace.

89%...

90%...

91%...

The voices are getting closer. I can't make out what they're saying yet, but their footsteps echo off the bare walls of the corporate hallway. My pulse pounds in my ears as I glance between the door and the computer screen.

93%...

94%...

"...don't care what he says, this is too risky," a male voice says, close enough now that I can make out the words. "If anyone finds out..."

"No one's going to find out," another voice responds, this one female and sharp with authority. "We've handled it all perfectly."

"Yeah, but Vince?—"

"Vince is a moron," she scoffs. "He wouldn't notice a bonfire right in front of his face."

96%...

97%...

I start disconnecting non-essential equipment, shoving it back in my hidden pockets. The voices are almost at the R&D section now. I can't risk being caught in here, but I also can't leave without these files. Not when we're so close.

98%...

99%...

Bingo.

I yank out the drive and slip it into my pocket, feeling nauseous as I ease the office door shut behind me. The voices are closer now, just around the corner in the main hallway. There's no time to make it back to the elevator without being seen.

Dropping into a crouch, I duck behind the nearest cubicle wall. The carpet is rough against my palms as I crawl to a better vantage point, careful to keep my movements silent. Years of practice make it almost second nature, even in these tight dress pants.

"You worry too much," the female voice says, closer now. Close enough that I can smell her. Definitely an alpha, her scent sharp and commanding.

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