The reply comes almost instantly.
Red:Good work, Martha. We knew you’d nail it.
Green:A runner? Does that mean a sexy little uniform? Asking for a friend.
Black:Focus. We need to coordinate our entry. Meet us at the house at 6? We can go over the plan. And Demi?
I watch the typing bubbles appear and disappear.
Black:Drive safe.
I stare at the messages as I chew on my lip. They aren't telling me what to do. They aren't taking over. They’re waiting for me and letting me be the lead, just like I asked. A weird feeling settles in my chest. It’s not the panic from this morning. It’s warmer, steadier. It feels like backup, like we’re a team.
"Okay," I whisper, opening the information packet Gary just emailed me. "Let’s go to Napa."
Chapter 7 – Damon (February 11)
The data stream on my monitor is a waterfall of numbers and code, but my eyes keep drifting to the small window in the bottom right corner. It’s not a security feed or a bank transfer log. It’s a biometric readout from the smartwatch Demi let me sync to my system yesterday.
Heart rate: 112 bpm.Galvanic skin response: Elevated.Movement: Minimal.
She’s sitting at a desk in a climate-controlled office, likely filing papers or typing up memos for that idiot Gary, yet her body is reacting like she’s in a firefight.
"She’s redlining," I murmur, tapping the screen.
Andre looks up from the kitchen island where he’s cleaning his Glock for the third time today. "Trouble?"
"Internal," I tell him, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my eyes behind my glasses. "Her stress levels have been spiking all day. Every time she has to interact with Thorne or even just be in that building, her physiology goes haywire. She’s holding ittogether, but the pressure is building. If she goes into the party like this, she’s going to crack."
Marcus walks in from the balcony, tossing a stress ball in the air. "So we go get her. Distract her." He grins, that wicked, dimpled grin that usually works on everyone. "I can think of a few ways to lower her stress."
I shake my head. "No. Andre and you... your energy is high voltage. You amp her up. Right now, she needs a ground wire."
I stand up, grabbing my laptop bag and a thermal container of the soup I made for lunch earlier. "I’m going to meet her when she clocks out. Alone."
Andre frowns, his possessive streak flaring. "You sure that’s a good idea? She’s still skittish. Showing up in her area may make it worse."
"That’s exactly why I’m going," I say calmly. "She expects you to try and dominate the situation, Andre. She expects Marcus to try and seduce her out of it. She needs to know she can just... be. Without performing. Without fighting."
Andre holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods once, sharp and decisive.
I find her on a bench along the Embarcadero, huddled inside her trench coat against the biting wind coming off the bay. The Bay Bridge lights are just starting to flicker on, cutting through the twilight gloom, but Demi isn't looking at the view. She’s staring at her hands, her knuckles white as she grips a paper coffee cup like it’s a lifeline.
She looks small. That’s the first thing that hits me. Blue is usually so large, her personality, her defiance, her sheer presence fills whatever room she’s in. But here, stripped of the Sapphire glam and the Blue armor, wearing the drab Martha costume, she looks like she’s disappearing.
I sit down next to her but don't touch her and don't say hello. I just sit, letting my presence register in her periphery.She jumps slightly, her head snapping toward me. Behind those thick, smudge-prone glasses, her fake brown eyes are wide and haunted.
"Damon," she breathes, her shoulders dropping an inch. "What are you doing here?"
"Your heart rate has been over a hundred for six hours," I say quietly, looking out at the water. "I figured you forgot to eat."
I reach into my bag and pull out the thermos and a spoon. I unscrew the lid, the steam rising in the cold air, smelling of roasted tomato and basil.
"Soup?"
She stares at the thermos like it’s an alien artifact. Then a small, watery laugh escapes her lips. "You tracked my biometrics and brought me soup? You’re like a terrifyingly competent grandmother."
"I prefer 'logistical support specialist'," I tease, handing her the spoon. "Eat. Your blood sugar is crashing."
