And fire.
Lark Dawson.
I yank off my jacket and toss it onto the couch, my mind already racing. I should call Arrow. I should call her brother, Gage. Hell, I should track the GPS ping I embedded in her burner phone just in case she tried something this stupid.
Again.
But I won’t.
Because if I call Arrow, or Gage, I’ll have to admit she hacked me.
Again.
And if I do that, Arrow will just grin and say what he always says.
“She’s good, man. You could use her.”
Idon’twant to use her.
I want to tie her to a chair and interrogate her until she explains how the hell she got past my encryption. Then I want to duct tape her mouth shut so she stops driving me insane. And then—God help me—I probably want to kiss her.
I rub a hand down my face and head to the fridge.
There’s a sticky note on the milk.
Nice try, Hayes. But I already drank the last one. — L
My blood pressure hits new heights.
Ihateher.
I really, truly do.
And worse? I respect her.
That video she sent? Shot from a perfect perch. Camera steady. Target framed. Audio crisp. She's got serious skills. She's not just watching our missions—she’s dissecting them. Mapping them. Learning us.
And now she's dropping little breadcrumbs like she's daring me to catch up.
I crack open a beer and take a long pull.
My phone buzzes.
Arrow:You good?
I text back.
Me:Peachy. We need to talk.
Arrow:About?
Me:Lark.
The typing bubble appears. Then disappears.
Then reappears.
Arrow:You didn’t kill her, right?
