Not Jag.
My throat closes.He’s never been gone this long.Not even when he’s angry.We fight about school and money andboys,and sometimes he storms off for a day or two to cool down.
But a month without him?He vanished out of thin air without a fight or a pinky promise.
Something’s wrong.
I grip the switchblade in my pocket and continue along the sidewalk, awareness stretched wide, every sense open, my vision sweeping side to side.
Fifteen-year-olds with normal lives don’t process danger the way I do.Then again, they weren’t raised by Jag Rath.
Crossing the street, I veer left.Two blocks ahead sits a mini-mart with a busted security mirror.As I approach it, I angle myself to see the reflection behind me.
There.A shape.A man keeping pace with me.Too close to be innocent.Too far to be loud about it.
Okay.So I’m being tailed.
I don’t speed up.I don’t look back again.I do what Jag taught me long ago.
Don’t freeze.Don’t fold.Show them why they picked the wrong girl.
The mini-mart is too open, too many windows.If I go inside, he follows.If I stay outside, he corners me.
But three streets over, there’s a yard with a broken gate and a huge pit bull.The dog knows me.I give him jerky sometimes.
I turn left at the next intersection, quick but not panicked.The man mirrors me.Another left.He mirrors that, too.
Now I know two things.He’s not a random creep.He’s good at this.
Reaching the yard, I squeeze through the loose panel in the fence.The pit bull lifts his head, wags once, and settles back down.
Good boy.
I crouch low and wait.
The man steps into view.He pauses and looks both ways, searching for where I went, but he doesn’t check the ground for footprints.Amateur move.
He approaches the fence, and the pit bull surges to his feet.Kill switch activated.He gives a warning growl before erupting in loud, snarling barks that send the man stumbling back.
Such a good boy.I’m bringing himtwopieces of jerky tomorrow.
The man shakes out his shoulders as if annoyed he got spooked.As he moves away, I slip out silently behind him and match my footsteps to the rhythm of his strides so our sounds overlap.
When his pace quickens, I fade into the shadows, angling around him and staying low.Then I dart forward.
My shoulder slams into his ribs as I hook my foot behind his ankle, taking him down.We hit the ground in a burst of dust, and before he can recover, I press the switchblade under his jaw, right against the soft place that bleeds fast.
“Whoa!”His hands shoot up in surrender.“Okay, okay, hang on!”
“Why the hell are you following me?”
“You don’t know?”His eyes widen, darting across my face.“You’re wanted by—”
A crunch splits the air, wet and heavy, as a hunting knife slams through his skull.His body goes slack beneath me.
My breath stops, and my gaze locks onto the hand holding the knife’s hilt.Then the muscled arm.The bulging shoulder.I shove off the body, fall onto my back, and stare up at beautiful, hooded, amber eyes.
I don’t know who lunges first, but we collide in a tangle of arms and legs, hugging and stumbling until Jag lifts me off the ground.Whirling, he carries me off the street, into a narrow alley, and presses a finger to my lips.
