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“What the fuck was that?” Raul snaps, eyes blazing as he glares at Sam.

Sam shrugs, brushing off his knuckles. Calm as hell.

“He was telling the truth. And if he doesn’t keep his end of our agreement…” He leans down, fingers tugging at the guy’s shirt, revealing a name tag. “We know where to find him.”

Marcus Leonard.

“We need to go,” I say, voice sharp, and Raul reaches out to help me up. “Sam’s right. That guy was scared shitless. His heart nearly exploded.”

“Run!” Raul barks the command.

And we obey. My pulse thunders. We’re out of time.

This whole thing stinks. Cages. Titanium.Test subjects.Whatever’s going on here, we weren’t supposed to see it.

Which means now, we’re a problem.

I don’t want to kill some poor bastard for doing his job. But if he talks—if any of them talk—it’s on us.

And it’d be a damn shame if someone has to die for a paycheck that barely covers rent.’’

11

STACY

No way. I’m not staying in Dawson for lunch.

I force a polite smile as I shake my head. Even the suggestion leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

There was a time when those lunches were the highlight of my trip—a warm little ritual with Monica and Erica. Laughter that bubbled over glasses of wine, easy teasing, stories that pulled us back into our shared past like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans.

Not today. Not after Ray.

Ray’s rejection sours everything. What should feel comforting now stings—like salt rubbed into an open wound.

The ride I’d fantasized about? Never happened. No sweeping curves of mountain roads, no wind tangling my hair while I held him close. No quiet jokes whispered over the engine’s roar. Not even a touch. Not even a damn glance.

It hurts more than it should. Of course, Monica and Erica don’t get it. Or maybe they do, and they’re trying to distract me with food and familiarity.

“It’ll be another two weeks before you come back,” Monica says, her smile a little too hopeful.

“You realize I’m making lobster ravioli? Your favorite,” Erica adds, nudging my arm.

“I’m going to miss you,” Monica says again, softer now.

I love them. God, I do. But they don’t get it. Sitting at that table pretending everything’s fine while scanning the street for his bike? Torture. And I know myself—I wouldn’t be able to stop looking. I’d spot a flash of blue gleaming in the sunlight—and every cell in my body would ache with the reminder.

You didn’t get what you wanted. Wait another two weeks. Try again.

No, thanks. I hand Monica her keys with a quiet apology and the vague promise of “next time,” then get the hell out.

The drive back is dull. Lifeless. Like all the color’s drained from the world.

On the drive up Friday, my chest was light and fluttery. Every mile that brought me closer to Ray felt like hope. Now? It’s like I’m hauling disappointment in the back seat. The engine hums, the tires whisper, but my pulse doesn’t. I lose count of how many cars pass me. Vans, trucks, motorcycles—every one of them going somewhere fast, full of an urgency I can’t summon.

By the time I pull Nora’s backup car into my extra parking spot, it’s after three. The car groans into place between a green Mazda and a battered black Camaro. It rattles like it’s giving up, too.

I grab my keys and climb out, not bothering to look up. And of course, my pants leg snags on a jagged edge of the Camaro’s bumper. I curse under my breath and tug at the fabric.