Page 47 of Guarded Knight

I loop around to the passenger side, sweeping the street, corners, everything for any signs of danger. I haven’t forgotten that Cameron knows she’s here now. As much as I want to heal this rift between me and Lara, maybe learn how to be her friend so our next goodbye isn’t like our last, there will be nothing to heal if that bastard gets a hold of her.

All quiet. No lights in the windows across the road. No strange cars idling.

We walk in silence to her front door.

When we hit the top step, the door swings open.

“Hey!” Freya says, barefoot in sweats, mug in hand. “I made tea.” She spots me and raises a brow. “There’s enough for you, too, Mr. Knight. Unless you’ve got some brooding to do in the truck?”

I guess she’s forgiven me since yesterday. Before the bar and at it, I was nearly as wary of her as I was Lara. I have a feeling Freya knows how to turn her sunshine into lightning if she needs to.

Lar looks up at me as if trying to make peace. “Five minutes?”

I offer a thin-lipped smile.

She steps inside, and I follow, instinctively checking the landing behind us before shutting the door.

The apartment smells faintly of cinnamon and whatever overpriced candle du jour these girls are burning. They must spend a fortune, but I don’t begrudge Lara, or Freya, who I’ve now learned also looked death in the eye, anything. They’re good women, trying to do good things with the years they’ve been granted.

There’s a gentle hum from the heater, a mug on the counter, and a pan still sitting on the stove. It looks like it was used for the pasta now sitting in a colander beside the sink. Freya made Lara supper. The scene couldn’t be more domestic.

Freya pads barefoot toward the kitchen, talking about peppermint tea and some documentary she half watched while waiting for Lara to get home.

Lara shrugs off her coat and hooks it near the door. The whole scene’s so cozy my chest aches.

“Is peppermint any good, G?” Freya asks, already pulling a mug from the shelf.

I open my mouth to answer.

Ffft.

A faint hiss. Mechanical. Instant.

I stiffen.

Freya pauses mid-reach. “What the hell is…?”

Then the smoke hits.

Acrid. Bitter. Manufactured.

It curls from under the couch, thin and fast, and Lara gasps, already coughing.

“Back,” I bark, moving before the command finishes leaving my mouth. “Get out!”

I grab Lara by the elbow and shift her behind me.

Lara opens the door and steps out onto the landing, coughing now, sleeve pressed to her mouth, eyes watering.

That smoke could send her right back to the hospital for days.

Freya stumbles, knocks her mug off the counter, and it shatters against the tile. Her face twists in panic as she rushes out behind Lara while smoke quickly blooms in the small apartment.

I drop to a knee, sweeping under the couch. There’s a heat source…smoking. Fuck. I don’t think. I just move. A scorchedcanister, rigged battery, duct tape, and some sort of sensor. It’s crude, not C-4, homemade smoke, not explosives. I’ve seen enough real devices to know the difference.

I rip it out and race to the stove, slamming it into the cast-iron pan and clapping the lid down with a metallic clang. Smoke still leaks from the edges, but it’s contained. Mostly.

I stay low, lungs tight, gaze sweeping the apartment. Door locked. Windows shut. No sign of forced entry. And Freya’s been home?