Page 163 of Primal

Her grip tightens. “Kade.”

“No. Not yet.”

She falters, blinks up. “What—?”

“His laptop.” I drag in a breath. “The footage—”

“Then smash it. Burn it. I don’t care.”

“If it’s uploading, destroying it could trigger a dead man’s switch.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Never mind. Only the footage with us. That’s all I’m scrubbing. The rest we use to nail him.”

“Stay.” She pushes past me. “I’ll get it.”

“Payton—don’t close it,” I rasp after her. “Or yank anything loose.”

She squares her shoulders, steps slowing the closer she gets to the altar.

My gut burns. Not only from the gunshot wound but from the memory of my fingers in her cunt. The way she fought—then melted.

I sag against the pew. The altar wavers—too fucking far—she’s already there. Reaching behind it …

“Kade.”

I blink. Somewhere between shallow breaths, I must’ve sat down. The laptop’s balanced on my thighs, still running.

Live feed minimized in the corner. Upload bar in progress.

The screen bleeds in and out of focus. 82% ... 83% …

The password prompt mocks me in crisp white letters against custom black interface.

“Fuck.” I smack the trackpad.

The numbers keep climbing. 84%.

Payton’s hands cover mine. ”Tell me what to do.”

No time to explain SSH protocols or brute-force scripts. “Three tries. Then we’re fucked.”

Her grip tightens. ”So guess good.”

The cursor blinks.

My right hand’s a throbbing mess. Split open deeper than I thought.

But my fingers can still move. Good enough.

I type the first obvious one:

CUT_PRINT

Access denied.

85%.