Page 133 of Hunt Me
She takes the shirt and pulls it over her head. “You’re bossy when you’re post-orgasm.”
“I’m always bossy,detka. You’re just pissed that you’re too blissed out to argue.”
Iris shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips, as she moves toward the bathroom without protest.
34
IRIS
Alexi’s hand settles at the small of my back as we push through the glass doors. The touch grounds me, reminds me I’m not walking into this alone.
Inside, the marble lobby echoes with our footsteps. Federal marshals stand at attention near the security checkpoint, their expressions carefully neutral but their body language screaming hostility.
“IDs and weapons.” The lead marshal’s voice carries zero warmth.
Nikolai produces his identification first, movements unhurried. Dmitri follows suit. I hand over my driver’s license, watching the marshal scrutinize it like he’s never seen one before.
They’re dragging this out on purpose.
“Arms out.” Another marshal approaches with a metal detector wand.
I comply, feeling the wand sweep over my body with deliberate slowness. Behind me, Alexi shifts his weight—a tell that he’s getting impatient. His fingers drum against his thigh in that rapid-fire pattern that means his brain is racing.
The security procedure takes fifteen minutes when it should take five. Every pocket gets checked twice. Every ID gets scanned and rescanned. The marshals communicate by radio in exaggerated formality, making us wait while they “verify credentials” that were verified days ago.
Psychological warfare. Making us understand we’re in their territory, subject to their rules.
I keep my expression blank, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing irritation.
Finally, they wave us through to the elevators. Dmitri presses the button for the fourteenth floor, and the doors slide shut with a soft hiss.
The moment we’re enclosed, the tension shifts. Nikolai checks his watch. Erik’s positioned outside with a visual on all entry points and our extraction route if things go sideways.
Alexi’s hand finds mine between us.
His fingers lace through mine, the gesture almost absurdly tender given where we’re headed. I glance at him, finding his green eyes already on me instead of the ascending floor numbers.
He squeezes my hand once. A silent promise.
Nikolai observes us with that inscrutable expression he wears like armor—part approval, part calculation, all business.
The elevator chimes as we pass the tenth floor.
“All external positions secure.” Erik’s voice crackles through the hidden earpiece tucked against my ear canal. “You have seven minutes from the moment things escalate.”
Seven minutes to get out before hell breaks loose.
The fourteenth floor approaches.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a sterile hallway that smells like industrial cleaner and filtered air. Director Kendall waits outside Conference Room 1407, her posture rigid, arms crossed.
She doesn’t offer a greeting.
We file into the room—same setup as last time. Long table, uncomfortable chairs, water pitchers nobody will touch. Kendall takes the head of the table. Deputy Director Walsh sits to her right, General Hawkins to her left. Three against four, except we all know the numbers don’t matter.
We arrange ourselves across from them. Nikolai in the center, Dmitri to his right, me to his left, with Alexi beside me.
Kendall doesn’t wait for us to settle.
