Page 29 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

"Thermal confirms three," Michael said. "Two walking patrols, one stationary in the interior room. Power grid's isolated but vulnerable—likely running off an internal backup loop."

He handed me a comm bead. I pressed it into my ear and adjusted the channel while Marcus pulled bolt cutters from the rear hatch.

"Entry point?" I asked, eyes already scanning the side of the structure.

"North wall," Michael answered. "Service panel's padlocked. One cut and we have a clean entry. No alarms and no sound."

Marcus tapped his earpiece, frowning. "James, you're breaking up. Say again?" A burst of digital static filled the comm channel. "Switching to backup frequency."

We moved. Four bodies spread out across the loading perimeter, our spacing calculated to keep all angles covered. I splashed through puddles, but they barely registered.

The scent of the harbor clung to everything—diesel, salt, and the distinctive smell of rotting fish. Somewhere inside the building, Dorian was suffering, and if they'd caused permanent damage, I'd tear the building down with my hands.

The lock snapped open with a dull clink, and the service door folded inward with a groan. Inside: near darkness in all corners, broken only by a single overhead lamp swinging near the center of the space.

I took point. No argument. Marcus watched my six while Michael flanked left and Elias cut through the machinery rows on the far side.

Footsteps. Two men. Talking low, casual, unhurried—like they were guarding inventory, not a hostage.

I edged forward, tracking them with my ears more than my eyes, until the pool of light revealed the makeshift holding cell—a fabricated steel room inside the warehouse. One man leaned against it, weapon slung loose. The other held a tablet, the same model as on the steps of the federal building.

I signaled once. Marcus moved like smoke. A soft thunk split the air, and the rifleman folded without a sound.

The other spun, too slow. I stepped out from behind the column and put two rounds in his chest. The man collapsed, sounding like a dropped bag of tools.

They'd welded the door of the cell shut. Primitive but effective. Through a narrow vent near the top, I detected movement.

"Dorian?"

A pause. Then: "Matthew?"

His voice sounded like sandpaper, but he was alive.

He grunted out, "You shouldn't have come."

"I couldn't do otherwise." I turned to Marcus. "Cut it."

A plasma torch screeched to life. Sparks flew. The door finally fell inward with a groan.

Dorian slumped in a metal chair, one arm zip-tied to the frame, and the other free. Blood streaked his hairline, and one eye was swollen shut. Through it all, he looked up at me. And he smiled.

"Service sucks," he said.

I was already at his side, cutting the zip ties. "Can you walk?"

"Eventually."

He tried to stand and collapsed. I caught him around the waist and pulled his arm over my shoulder. He grunted but didn't stop me. His body was lighter than it should've been—less resistance than I remembered.

But he was here. He was still with us.

"I've got you," I said, my mouth against his ear.

And I wouldn't let go.

We got out, but that's not the same as coming back.

In the back seat of the SUV, Dorian sagged against me, half-conscious, his head lolling against my shoulder. Elias checked his pulse twice in five minutes. I kept my hand on Dorian's knee, not to comfort him, but to prove he hadn't disappeared.

At a red light, Marcus glanced back. "He's gonna be okay."

I didn't respond.

I wasn't sure which version of Dorian I'd rescued—the man I loved, or whatever was left after they carved through him.

Either way, I already knew one thing with absolute clarity: If I'd been ten minutes later, and he was dead, I would've burned Seattle to the ground.

Michael led us all to a safehouse. It was a box of poured concrete with fluorescent lights, one cot, two chairs, and a door that locked from the inside. Michael called it a fallback point—no address and no official record that it existed.

He handed out new phones—clean devices without connections to our previous devices. "Operational security," he said. "Everything we used before gets turned off and stays off."

Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, ribs bandaged, left wrist wrapped where the zip ties had left gashes. Elias did the best he could in bad light. There was a split above Dorian's eyebrow that would scar if we didn't treat it better, but I couldn't bring myself to care about symmetry.

He hadn't said much since we got him out. I stood a few feet away, pretending to go through the supply bin again. What I was really doing was listening to him breathe. Making sure it stayed steady. And that it didn't stop.

"Shower's through there," I said, pointing with my chin. "Hot water works. I checked it."

He didn't move.

"Extra towels on the—"

"I thought I wasn't going to see you again." His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. "They showed me a picture of you on the steps. I thought that was it."

I turned.

He looked up at me, eyes wide and hollow, but focused. He was slipping back into himself by increments.

"You're here." It was all I could manage.

His mouth opened. Closed. Then he stood—not steadily, but under his own power—and crossed the space between us in three steps that cost him everything. His hands landed on my chest. Not gripping. Resting. Contact.

"Matthew," he whispered.

He didn't ask for permission. He shoved me. Hard. Right into the wall, and then kissed me like the world had tilted and we were sliding off the edge.

There was nothing gentle in it. His teeth clicked against mine. His breath hitched with pain when I reached for his side, but he didn't pull away.

Dorian bit my lower lip like he needed proof that I tasted the same. And then he pushed again, and this time I went where he aimed—backward, onto the bed, dragging him down with me.

His body felt too warm and too wired. He straddled my thighs, hands trembling as he shoved my hoodie back, pressing his lips to my collarbone.

I rolled us gently, careful of the bandage on his side. "We're not safe yet," I whispered against his cheek.

"Don't care." He hooked a hand into the waistband of my jeans, breath hot in my ear. "I need to feel something real."

We shed only what was required. We'd be too exposed and vulnerable otherwise. Just enough fabric was pulled back to reach bare skin.

His torso displayed fresh damage in vivid detail, but when I touched the unmarked hollow of his throat, he leaned into it, full of desire.

He was trembling, but it wasn't fear. I felt the vibrations up through my jaw. He shuddered when my palm slid under his ribs, upward along the contours of muscle and bone.

I was careful around the tender places—not only the fresh injuries, but the deeper aches that had never quite resolved. Healing happened in layers, and some layers took longer than others.

Our movements had no planned choreography—only Dorian's thigh wedged between my knees. He tried to flip me over like we were wrestling for dominance back in the cabin.

I pinned his right wrist above his head and breathed him in. He stank of disinfectant and the brackish tang of adrenaline sweat. His pulse banged against my fingers, and his face was open and defenseless. Something broke in my throat.

He arched his hips up, and I let my hand drift between us, feeling his hardness through denim. He kissed me again, less violently this time.

Somewhere in the next room, Michael and Marcus argued in low, strategic voices—debating escape routes and possible timelines. Dorian ignored them and clawed my shirt off my shoulders. I couldn't tell whether he was trying to get closer or tear a piece off of me to keep for himself.

I slid my palm down the bruised slope of his abdomen. He made a noise when I pressed there—a sound between a whimper and a yelp of pain.

I undid his belt buckle, pushing the denim down just enough to expose him. He dragged my hand to his cock, forcing my fingers around him. I saw raw hunger in his eyes.

When I kissed him again, he bit back a sob. He rocked his hips into my grip, every movement animal and frantic. I ached for him, and kept my lips locked against his, taking his tongue into my mouth.

He came quickly, all the tension erupted in a single violent spasm, and after, he wouldn't let me go. Sweat cooled on his skin, and he rolled me under him, burying his face against my neck until his breathing steadied.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, Matthew. I thought I'd never—" He cut the sentence off with another kiss.

"You can let go. I'm not going anywhere."

He laughed, sharp and a little wild. "You're going to have to prove that. Once wasn't enough."

I pulled him down, letting my fingers brush the sensitive underside of his cock—still flushed and twitching in the afterglow. "I can try again."

He hissed, and I heard a chuckle. "You're an asshole."

I grinned against his throat, scraping my teeth against his stubble.

He raised himself to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on my shoulder, while the other worked my jeans open. He took me in his hand, ruthlessly jacking until my vision blurred.

I bucked my hips and tried to slow him, but he leaned in and bit my shoulder. He milked me with both hands, with his chin hooked over my shoulder, panting hot in my ear.

I came hard enough that the edges of my vision went white, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting. Dorian held me, cheek pressed to my chest, listening to the staccato pounding of my heart.

After, we lay tangled on the stripped mattress, our legs and arms a mess of old scars and new bruises. Dorian's eyes searched the concrete ceiling for patterns. He reached for his shirt and then let it drop halfway, as if he could not yet bear to dress again.

I propped myself on an elbow, watching him in the fluorescent glare. His hair stuck to the bandages at his hairline, and his lips were split, and still he was beautiful, beautiful in the way a dying star was beautiful: incandescent, impossible, already halfway to ruin.

I stroked his cheek. "You with me?"

"Yeah." He cleared his throat, and his voice was ragged. "We need to move. Michael's got a car out back, plates swapped."

We'd won the night, but the war wasn't over—and Hoyle wouldn't wait long to retaliate.