Page 70 of Wicked and Claimed

SIG in hand, Nash watched in his peripheral vision as Haisley set the locked humidor back on the shelf with shaking hands, then spun to face him.

But Zeph’s text had made one thing clear: company was coming. The sound of footsteps treading down the hall—straight toward them—made that all too real.

How the fuck were they going to get out of this without being spotted? Or worse?

Haisley’s eyes widened as she held up her hands, silently asking what to do. Good question. The room’s lone window was a four-story drop straight down to concrete, so that was a no-go. Benedict’s office only had one other escape, and whoever was walking down the hall was blocking their path and heading straight for them.

Fighting their way out wasn’t optimal, and Nash didn’t want to do anything that might risk Haisley. But he wasn’t sure he had a choice. He’d do whatever necessary to make sure she made it out alive and unscathed, even if that meant killing the intruder or sacrificing his own life.

Jesus, he really should tell this woman he was in love with her. Now simply wasn’t the time.

The footsteps were nearly on them, and time was ticking down. He grabbed Haisley’s arm and dragged her to the dark corner behind the door.

With his heart thundering, he readied himself for combat. The hinges holding the heavy slab creaked, and the door opened, sandwiching them between the portal and the wall. Nash peeked around the obstruction and spotted a lone figure entering and thankfully eschewing the lights.

The person making their way across the shadowy room was petite and female. She sniffled once, then again. Allergies? Illness? Or…

She reached for the humidor and found it locked. Then she broke down in sobs, leaning against the bookcase. “G-George…”

Was that…Benedict’s wife? What the hell was going on with her?

Behind Nash, Haisley poked his ribs.

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

Mila,she mouthed.

Holding in a curse, he nodded, then tucked himself behind the door again, using his big body to shield Haisley. A few minutes passed before Mila Benedict sniffled one last time, lifted her chin, and made her way out of her husband’s office, softly shutting the door behind her. Moments later, he heard her enter the office just down the hall. She closed the door. Nash nearly sagged with relief.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he whispered. “I have the burner phone. Let’s go.”

She grabbed his sleeve. “Maybe you should go, and I should tell Mila that I left something here and?—”

“No. I don’t want anyone knowing you were here tonight.”

“But—”

“Baby, I’m not risking you. Let’s go.” He took her by the hand and used his other to slowly open Benedict’s door before locking it behind them.

Together, they tiptoed down the hall, treading ever so slowly past Mila’s office. Light seeped under the door, and he heard more sobbing.

Haisley squeezed his hand, and he felt her tremble as they crept toward the elevator—and escape. He hated like hell that she was scared. He should have fucking insisted that he go without her, but a tricky deadbolt secured the main office door. He could have gotten past it…but it would have taken precious time. And he’d been stupidly swayed by how insistently she’d lobbied to come along. Their banter had felt…normal, like the old days. He hadn’t wanted to cut her off.

And now she might pay the price for his weakness.

Finally, they cleared the hall and sprinted on tiptoes across the hardwoods of the main office, then around the reception area. Cursing the fact the emergency stairwell dumped out directly onto the most surveilled half of the lobby, he hit the elevator button.

“We made it,” she whispered, breathing hard.

“Almost.” He was relieved as fuck when the elevator showed up quickly.

The ding of its arrival chimed way louder than he remembered. His heart thrashed in his chest. Goddamn, that sound might as well have been a fucking blow horn. Could Mila hear that, cocooned down the hallway in her nine-to-five sanctuary?

While he worried, the elevator doors seemed to take forever to open. For fuck’s sake, molasses in January moved faster. Snails could race more quickly. They needed to get the hell out of here.

And inside the car, the goddamn lights were on bright.

“Who’s there?” Mila suddenly called in a shaking voice across the big, open space.

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