Page 36 of Scarred Angel

Fuck that—she isn’t blood.

And maybe sheismine.

I make it onto her street in record time, somehow dodging every cop on the way. I mean to pull into the garage, but the side exit door swings open and there she is, brown bag slung over her back, crutches clicking, heading for a car that isn’t Remi’s and isn’t one I recognize.

Could that be fuckingTeddy?

“Huh. Where are you going, Kolibri?” I mutter to myself.

Horns blast behind me. It’s a woman, screaming, mouth full of curses, because I stalled her for an extra goddamn five seconds. Fuck her.

I drop it into reverse and back up until she’s forced to yield and fall back. Valentina slips inside the passenger door of the mystery white sedan, and they peel away. Again, I’m breaking traffic laws, recklessly maneuvering through lanes, and cutting corners to keep up. Consumed by my thoughts, I don’t notice the bright lights and flashing signs until I’m driving through a dirt lot and twinkling music filters into the cabin.

Pennsylvania State Fair.

State fair?

I throw the car in park and climb out, eyes locked on Valentina as her mystery driver idles near the entrance. She steps out and gives a brief wave, friendly, not personal.

Just a ride.

I pause as she disappears into the crowd, and I question my sanity.

What the hell am I doing?

My focus should be on business—on moving money, product. Valentina is a distraction. The byproduct of guilt, not just for the accident, but for the years I spent unknowingly keeping my distance. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe that’s how it should’ve stayed.

We might come from the same world, born of the same darkness, but mine and hers collide violently. I don’t do this—whatever it is between us. There’s too much history. Too many feelings I can’t afford.

She’s not Mrs. Caldwell—a woman I’d fuck, humiliate, use, and dispose of without a second thought. But her? My Kolibri.

I punch the hood of my car, swallowing hard. My feet move before I realize it, eyes sweeping the crowd, hunting for a glimpse of her ponytail, her crutches, anything. I push through bodies, spin a full circle.

Nothing.

Snatching my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovers over her name when?—

“Where’s your agent friend? I thought you had a date?”

I turn sharply. She’s standing beside an axe-throwing booth, smug little grin on her lips…and something else in her eyes I can’t name.

“Just signing a lease,” I say, scanning the crowd before focusing on her again. “Where’s Teddy?”

“Maksim Belov,” she says, arching a brow, “did youfollowme?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. No shame.

She pushes off the booth, leaning into her crutches, chin tilted up to meet my gaze. “Why?”

“Because you’re at a fucking carnival on crutches. Did you forget you were almost trampled not that long ago, and here youare, meeting some asshole who couldn’t even bother to drive you.”

“Wrong,” she fires back, eyes flashing. “I wasn’t almost trampled. I was dodging bullets behind bleachers.”

My stomach lurches, and I stare at her, waiting for the punchline that never comes.

“You—what?”

“Some asshole with a bruised ego decided to get bold. No one was hurt,” she says with a careless shrug.