Page 83 of Scarred Angel

I ring the doorbell. Wait.

There’s a low hum from the TV inside, muffled dialogue, and the jingle of a soundtrack. Maybe she’s in the shower. I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

Then I hear it. Sharp barks. Apollo. Hermes. They’re alert.

Good.

ME: Hey, beautiful. I’m at the door. Should I use the key?

As savage as I am, Mom taught me a few things—like manners. Just barging in unannounced for the first time feels...wrong. Too much, too soon. But if she doesn’t answer in five seconds, fuck etiquette. The blank screen taunts me, and I exhale hard, raking a hand across my chest, trying to smother the rising panic.

Apollo and Hermes know me. They’ve gotten used to my presence. But their restlessness from the other side of the doorisn’t their norm. They’re on high alert, ready to tear someone apart to protect her.

Same as me.

I shove the key in and turn.

They don’t move. Hermes growls deep in warning. I’m not the enemy, but I’m not fully trusted either. Not in this moment when I walk in without her consent.

“Good boys,” I murmur, a hand raised.

Apollo relaxes first, stepping forward to lick my hand when I offer it. Hermes follows, bumping his snout against my thigh in cautious recognition.

“Where’s Valentina?”

Apollo trots ahead, like he understands, and I follow him straight into the living room. The TV plays some romcom bullshit in the background, and the door to her bedroom is cracked open.

“Valentina, I tried?—”

The words stall in my throat when I see her cast split open on the floor. But there’s no sign of her. My pulse spikes, a deep, violent thrum behind my ribs. I move into the ensuite.

Empty.

Fuck.

Panic clamps down on my chest like a vise. I can’t breathe as every dark scenario comes crashing in. She wouldn’t leave like this. Not without saying something, and not without that fucking cast.

Something’s wrong.

I tear through the living room and out the front door. My feet barely touch the steps as I race down all five flights again, rage and fear tangling in my throat.

She’s okay. She has to be. She just stepped out. Maybe with Remi.

But why remove her cast?

None of this adds up.

I hit the bottom floor running, pull my phone again, and hover over Derek’s name. I need the surveillance feed. Hallway. Garage. I need to know she left on her own.

Then I hear it.

A motorcycle engine growls to life, echoing through the parking garage. I turn, tracking the sound as it rips past me. The rider, lean, white helmet, curves I’d know anywhere, glances my way.

Valentina.

She doesn’t stop or slow. But just before she disappears around the corner, her hand lifts from the handlebar, and she gives me the finger.

Thirty-Four