Page 8 of Whisper

Hand back over her mouth. “Quiet. Now.”

Phoenix is on the third floor. Thirty seconds.

She’s already talking. Already asking questions. Already compromising operational security with her inability to shut the fuck up.

This extraction just became my personal nightmare. A chatty academic who can’t stop verbalizing every thought while professional killers hunt us through a hostile city.

Fucking perfect.

THREE

Eliza

FIRST CONTACT

A hand grabsmy arm from above—strong, calloused, uncompromising.

I’m yanked out from under my desk with enough force to send me sprawling, my knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. Pure panic drives my fist toward whoever’s attacking me, and I connect with something solid—a jaw, maybe—before another hand covers my mouth, cutting off my stream of “No no no no?—”

“Cerberus Security.” The words are quiet, controlled, and whispered directly in my ear. Male voice. Deep. Authoritative. “Morrison sent me.”

Morrison. FBI. Help, not harm.

My body goes limp with relief so suddenly I nearly collapse, but strong hands steady me against what feels like a tactical vest. The man holding me smells like gun oil and soap, something woodsy underneath, and he’s solid as a wall. Warm. Alive. Here to save me, not kill me.

He releases my mouth, and I finally get a clear look at my rescuer.

Oh. Oh my.

He’s tall—easily six-two—with dark hair and the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen. Not the kind of green you find in nature, but something deeper, more dangerous. Arctic ice over deep water. The fluorescent lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting cheekbones that could cut glass and a jaw that belongs on ancient statuary.

He stands with perfect stillness, that kind of controlled readiness I’ve only seen in documentary footage of special forces operators. Every line of his body radiates coiled power—broad shoulders filling out a tactical vest, arms that clearly know their way around a weight room, thighs that—I should not be noticing his thighs right now.

But I am. God help me, I am.

My gaze drops lower before I can stop it, and heat floods my cheeks. The impressive bulge behind his tactical pants has nothing to do with weapons or equipment. Everything about him screams dominant male, from the way he holds himself to the careful control in every movement.

He looks exactly like my fantasies. The gladiator who wouldn’t ask permission. The warrior who’d simply take. The kind of man who could make me stop talking with just a look—or better methods.

“Can you run?” His voice cuts through my inappropriate cataloging of his physical attributes.

I nod, not trusting my voice yet.

“Stay quiet. Move when I move. Stop when I stop. Understand?”

Another nod. He releases me fully, and I immediately miss the contact. Which is insane. People are trying to kill me, and I’m having absurdly sexual thoughts about my rescuer.

“Thank God, I thought—Morrison saidsomeone was coming but—are you really—who are you—are those real guns?—”

His hand covers my mouth again. “Quiet. Now.”

The footsteps in the hallway are getting closer. Heavy boots. Multiple sets. They’re almost at my door.

He pulls me behind him, positioning his body between me and the door. One hand moves to his weapon while the other keeps me pressed against the wall. His body heat radiates through the tactical vest, and despite everything, I notice the solid wall of muscle protecting me.

The doorknob rattles. They’re checking if it’s locked.

He guides me silently toward the back corner of my office where an old supply closet door connects to the adjacent classroom. I’d forgotten it existed, hidden behind a filing cabinet. How does he know the building layout better than I do?