Chapter 20 · Who Holds the Clock

"Don't move a fucking inch," Marco growled, his palm slamming flat against the frozen steel beside my temple. The impact sent ice crystals showering down over my hair, stinging my neck. The subzero air felt like knives in my lungs, but his chest was pinned hard against my ribs, throwing off an impossible, suffocating furnace heat.

In the dead blackness of the cold room, the red emergency beacon swept past every four seconds, bathing his jaw in raw crimson.

"Get off me, Marco," "Keep your voice down," he snarled, his thumb pressing directly under my jawbone, forcing my chin up until my skull tapped the cold wall.

"You don't know who's wired into that circuit. You talk, and you give them our exact grid."

"There is no them—it's your crew!" I whispered fiercely, shivering as his weight pressed me into the metal. Every muscle in his broad frame was rigid, pure physical intimidation designed to crowd the breath out of me.

"You told me Bay Nineteen was welded shut!"

"It was," he rasped. His breath hit my lips, hot and smelling of black coffee and raw adrenaline.