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"Just a minor setback. Have the med kit ready."

The speedboat arrives within minutes, sleek and silent as it cuts through the waves. The crew helps me aboard, their faces carefully neutral as they take in my scorched flight suit and burns.

Back on the Golden Odyssey, I strip off the ruined suit and step into the shower. Hot water cascades over my scales, washing away salt and blood. The burns already start to heal - one of the perks of Vakutan physiology.

"Your clothes, sir." Soanzo's voice comes through the bathroom door. "And the doctor is standing by."

"No doctor needed." I wrap a towel around my waist and open the door. "But I'll take those clothes."

The fresh suit feels good against my scales. I adjust the tie, studying my reflection. The human disguise settles back into place, hiding any trace of injury.

"Cancel my afternoon appointments," I tell Soanzo. "I need time to think."

"Of course, sir. Shall I have the chef prepare something?"

"Just coffee. Strong."

I settle into the yacht's study, spreading maps and blueprints across the mahogany desk. The cannery's layout stares back at me, mocking. Those turrets weren't there by accident - Bob knew I was coming.

But now I know what I'm up against. And next time, I won't be walking into a trap. Next time, I'll be setting one.

Let Pyke and the others think I'm just another suit pushing papers. When I drag Bob and his Grolgath cronies back to base in chains, they'll remember who I really am.

CHAPTER 9

TYLER

Iburst through the door of Doggone Elegance, the bell jingling like an alarm clock I’d already snoozed five minutes too long. Cindy’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk plastered across her face like she’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

“Well, well, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “Late night, huh?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, rushing to the time clock. My fingers fumble with the card, and I jam it into the slot like it’s personally responsible for my tardiness. The machine beeps, and I’m officially late. Great.

Cindy’s already got a poodle in the tub by the time I join her, the smell of flea dip hitting me like a chemical slap to the face. She’s scrubbing away, but her eyes are on me, sharp and knowing.

“So,” she starts, her tone casual but her grin anything but. “How’d the date go?”

“Fine,” I say, grabbing a towel and avoiding her gaze. The word feels too small, too inadequate for what last night was, but I’m not about to spill my guts to Cindy of all people.

“Fine?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow. “That’s it? Just ‘fine’?”

“Yeah, fine,” I snap, my cheeks burning. I can feel her eyes on me, scanning, dissecting. Then her gaze lands on my neck, and her smirk turns into a full-blown grin.

“Oh, honey,” she says, laughing. “That’s not just a ‘fine’ kind of hickey. That’s a ‘we’re not getting out of bed until next Tuesday’ kind of hickey.”

My hand flies to my neck, and I can feel the heat of the mark even through my collar. “It’s not—I mean, it’s not what you think.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not buying it. “Sure it’s not. Here.” She tosses me a collared shirt from the lost and found bin. “Wear this. Unless you want Sandy to see it and start asking questions.”

I catch the shirt and duck into the bathroom to change. The fabric scratches against my skin, but it’s better than the alternative. When I come back out, Cindy’s still grinning, but she doesn’t say anything else. For now.

The rest of the shift drags on, every second feeling like an eternity. I can’t stop thinking about last night, about Lanz, about the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe that mattered. But then there’s the hickey, the mark on my neck that feels like a neon sign flashing “BAD GIRL” for the whole world to see.

I catch my reflection in the mirror while I’m drying off a schnauzer, and for a second, I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. She’s different, changed. And I’m not sure if I’m ready for what that means.

The clock finally hits noon, and Cindy grabs her purse, slinging it over her shoulder with a dramatic flair. “Lunch break. Let’s go before Sandy finds another dog to shove at us.”

I follow her out the door, the sun hitting my face like a warm blanket. We head to the little park across the street, where we usually eat on the bench under the oak tree. Cindy unwraps her sandwich, but I just sit there, picking at the edge of my Tupperware.