“Forty-eight hours. Then we work on plan B.”
Twenty-Four
Scarlett
When I walk into my self-defense class at four o’clock, there’s still a spring in my step that shouldn’t be there. I can’t help it, though. For the first time in a long time, I’m filled with a sense of purpose that’s so strong and driven, I can’t possibly fail.
There’s something wildly different about being on a crusade to save someone else’s business, compared to attempting to become successful myself without drawing the judgment and censure of my peers.
This feelspure.Noble. Exciting.
I’m sure Legend doesn’t see me as a badass riding to the rescue, but that’s too bad. That’s exactly how I feel.
At least, until I see the man I presume is my self-defense instructor.
Oh. My. Giants.
The man in front of me is around six-four and a wall of muscle. He’s not as bulky as a bodybuilder, but he’s got muscles on top of muscles that I can’t begin to name.
“You Scarlett Priest?”
I nod because words aren’t coming easily in the face of this terrifying man.
“You’re on time. Good. Let’s get started.”
Oh. Shit.
He waves me forward, and out of instinct, I hold out a hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Black. Are you sure this is a beginner-level class? I’m not sure what Christine told you, but ...”
He doesn’t reach for my hand to shake it, so I let it drop to my side.
“She made it worth my while, and that’s why you’re here. By the time we’re done, you’ll be able to disable just about anyone, and maybe kill a few people. You ready?”
Hell.This should be interesting.
* * *
When I plop onto my bed at ten, I’m sore in places I’m not sure I’ve ever been sore, but I do now know a half dozen ways to disable people and two ways to kill them, so that’s new and different.
As I scroll through my social media feed, I see a comment from a troll that my team hasn’t already caught, so I tap on the profile and look at the cat picture. It’s definitely a stock photo or stolen, because the owner of a fluffy Ragdoll wouldn’t really say that I should put my head in an oven and turn it on. Would she? Or he?
I don’t know, but I screenshot it, delete it, and send the photo to the police detective who has my file, along with a note that there’s a new profile. Then I navigate away from my page to see if my favorite families have any new photos of their messy lives, because I amnotgoing to YouTube yet.Not for at least twenty more minutes.
That’s when a message pops up on the top of my screen fromRouxDoggo.I would have ignored it, but the dog looked familiar.
Wait.Is that the dog from Gabriel Legend’s office? Brindle. Big. Looks like it could eat me?
I tap on the message.
RouxDoggo: Whatever you need, it’s yours. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Oh. My. God. Is that ... Could it be ...
I tap on the profile and find an account with no followers and only one post, a photo of a dog smiling up at the camera as a big hand scratches her ears.
I may not recognize his hand by sight, but I’m willing to bet it’s his. I tap out a reply.