Page 234 of Damsel in Disguise

Adrian reaches for the folders with the exhausted expression of a man accepting responsibility for a disaster. “Now that we’ve confirmed you’re capable of remaining alive for at least five consecutive minutes, we can discuss employment.”

Adrian picks up one of the folders. “As CEO of CynoTech, I’ve reached a conclusion.”

Alistair sighs. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably. We require a Chief Research Officer,” and hands him the contract.

Alistair looks at the papers. Then at Adrian. Then, back at the contract, skimming through the page.

“You understand that employing me is an objectively terrible decision.”

“Most of my decisions are.”

“I’m wanted by multiple governments.”

He isn’t exaggerating.

The televisions outside this room are still showing photographs of Dominion members who had escaped.

Interpol notices. Government statements. Blurry security images.

Alistair’s photograph appeared often enough that I had to physically look away from the screens.

The founder was dead, but the other two co-founders had somehow escaped. Two senior council members had vanished. Several researchers are still missing.

The authorities had converted the entire affair into an international manhunt.

Which is exactly why we are hiding inside a private clinic owned by one of CynoTech’s subsidiaries.

Apparently, being rich enough allowed my brothers to redefine the meaning of discreet.

Adrian glances at the contract. “We appreciate experience.”

“I’ve committed acts that would violate several international treaties.”

Adrian nods thoughtfully. “We’re a technology company. Adaptability is important.”

“I engineered illegal human experimentation.”

“Excellent research background, by the way.”

Even Alistair seems uncertain whether they are joking or not. “I’m beginning to suspect this is a trap.”

Adrian gives his ever-familiar business-coded smile. “We simply prefer long-term investments, Hertley.”

I watch them.

Three brilliant men discussing felonies as though they are debating weather forecasts.

Alistair rests the contract carefully on his bandaged torso. “You trust me?”

“No,” Asher answers immediately. Adrian shakes his head simultaneously. “Absolutely not.”

“Then why offer me the position?”

Asher leans against the wall. “Because our dumb little sister here insists you keep taking bullets for her.”

I grab the nearest object from the bedside table—a rolled-up hospital magazine—and smack him across the bandaged cut on his forearm with it.