Page 24 of Black Heart

Ethan shoves a bag of gummy worms in my face so unexpectedly that I yelp.

“Whoa. You okay?” Ethan’s warm brown eyes, magnified by his thick lenses, blink at me with concern.

“Yes, just…” I rub between my brows. “Sleep deprived.”

“Then you absolutely need some. I find it helps with the post-Netflix brain fog. Or any brain fog, really.”

I force a smile and reach for a few gummy worms. They’re sour and sweet, and the taste is a welcome distraction from the constant fear boiling inside me. My gaze drifts to the window. But as I chew, I can’t help but think about the dark predator who has taken an interest in me. I can feel hiseyes on me even when he’s not there—and not just electronically.

But I can’t let myself get distracted. I need to stay focused on my survival, on finding a way to protect myself.

I take another handful of gummies and turn back to my computer, determined to keep working. I’ll have to be cunning, strategic, and careful. I’ll have to use all my skills to stay one step ahead and gain any information on this AI that I can.

Information is power, after all. I’d like to know more about what’s so important that it brought a stalker to my doorstep and the Mafia clipping at my heels.

“Hey, Layla,” Ethan says. “Did you know I almost cracked that new encryption algorithm yesterday? I swear, it’s like a digital fortress.”

I smile despite the heaviness in my chest. “That’s impressive. Maybe the CIA will finally realize what they’re missing out on.”

Ethan laughs, a sound full of genuine warmth. “One day, Layla. One day.”

He’s so unaware of the poison lurking within our own workplace. I watch him, wondering if his unrealized dreams of CIA cybersecurity would make him a confidant or place him in danger too.

Throughout the day, I play my part to perfection. Smiles, nods, casual chats by the coffee machine. But beneath the surface, I’m on high alert, scanning every email, every document for anything that might shed light on the Oracle project.

My eye keeps going to Dawson’s office, his door closed and lights off. It’s almost time to leave, and he hasn’t made it in. In fact, he hasn’t been in for the past two days.

I’d worry about it if he weren’t such a smarmy, shady asshole.

I exit the office when the sun almost dips below thehorizon and head to my car. There’s a thickness to the air as the burden of another day of uncertainty clings to me.

I reach for the door handle on the driver’s side, sensing something out of place even before the door swings open. It’s the faint scent of cologne, a musk that doesn’t belong here, but my nose tingles with recognition.

It’s not cologne. My brain only thinks it is because it’s so inviting: earth, salt water, fresh male exertion.

I’vesmelled him before.

My heart races as I slide into the driver’s seat, and there it is—a small, velvet pouch resting on the passenger seat as if waiting for me. The fabric is a rich, deep crimson, its hue reminiscent of fresh blood. My curiosity piqued, I reach for the pouch with trembling fingers, feeling a shudder run through me as the soft material glides over my skin. It’s unexpectedly heavy in my palm.

My curiosity, mingled with a sense of foreboding, nudges me to loosen the ribbon.

Inside, I find a jar, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand but large enough to hold something … liquid.

Lifting it, I peer through the glass, using the lowering sunset’s rays to illuminate the?—

“Jesusfuck!”

The curse flies out of my mouth at the same time I release the jar. Just as fast, another curse flies out, and I scramble to catch it.

The last thing I need is pickled human remains staining my interior.

Yes, pickled remains.

Floating in the clear liquid is a square of skin, a tattoo my brain processed enough to understand itwasa tattoo before I wanted it out of my hands.

I catch my breath, my heart deciding to slow down, too, then lift the jar back to my eyeline.

The ink illustrates something Celtic maybe, or Viking—why do I even care?

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