“So I know exactly where he is.”
Double shit.
“I’m going to find him.”
Absolutely not.
“And give him a piece of my mind.”
Hannah snatches up her purse, her keys, and her jacket in one furious sweep.
“Don’t wait up for me, Mr. Wiggles,” she declares, already halfway out the door.
She flings it open, then pauses just long enough to glance back at her cat, eyes bright and dangerous.
“Cupid is a liar,” she says flatly, like a verdict. “And Marco is a dead man.”
The door slams shut.
That’s when I know watching is no longer enough.
Because Marco isn’t just a douche.
He’s dangerous.
Damian
I launch out of my chair, sending it spinning.
I have about two seconds to decide whether to bring my gun, my lawfully owned, fully registered and licensed revolver, as I sprint for the door.
I think about Marco.
About what I know.
I detour to the locked safe at the bottom of my coat closet.
The government liked me straight out of college. Liked how quickly I learned. How easily I broke into systems that were supposed to be secure. How little trouble I had crossing lines if I believed the outcome justified it. They called it moral flexibility. Framed it like a compliment.
They trained me after that. Not just behind a screen. Weapons. Situational awareness. How to move. How to react when things went sideways. How to hold a gun like it was an extension of my body, how to fire without hesitation, how to put someone down if I had to.
Eventually, I got tired of their rules. Their hidden agendas. I don’t mind getting into trouble, but only if it’s on my terms.
My fingerprint opens the double-walled safe with a quiet click. I take the revolver, check the safety out of habit, and slip it into my waistband, hidden beneath my shirt.
Then it’s out the front door.
Hannah is already there, rightthere, storming down the hallway with purpose in her stride and fury written all over her face. She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hesitate. She sweeps past me without so much as a sideways glance.
I freeze.
Not because I don’t know what to do.
Because I’ve never been this close to her before.
She’s real in a way the screen never prepared me for. Warm. Solid. Breathing. The faint scent of cherry blossoms and something brighter, hope maybe, lingers as she passes, close enough that the fabric of her coat brushes my arm.
Panic thumps in my chest, frantic and caged, clawing for escape.
