Page 52 of Demon Hunter

Despite my—and everybody’s—jokes about her being his future wife, I don’t think he sees her like that. Matt’s bi, and I know he thinks she’s a beautiful woman—I do too—but he genuinely loves her music and admires her talent and drive. It’s kind of sweet.

“Meh,” he says. “We don’t have to like all the same things. You know you can’t pay me to watchWestworldwith you.”

I keep my mouth shut, because the truth is, I don’t likeWestworldthat much. I just made him watch the first few episodes with me because he’s cute when he whines, and then he bribed me with a BJ to turn it off.

“True,” I agree. “But since we’re talking about things we like, I thought maybe we could spar for a bit tomorrow? I’m rusty, and it’ll be a good way to work out the kinks after today’s drive.” It’s also one-on-one time that will get adrenaline pumping, which I’m totally hoping to take advantage of afterward. I’m sure that if I can just reestablish intimacy between us, I can get him to talk to me.

I can’t solve a problem I don’t know about. And I really, really don’t want to face the fact that this might be as simple as him not wanting to be with me anymore.

He hesitates. He goddamnhesitates. “Probably not,” he says at last. “We don’t want people getting suspicious about how well I am.”

That would be a good reason, except… “That’s why sparring with me is the perfect solution. Like I said, I’m rusty as fuck, so we can keep it basic and slow. Nobody will suspect a thing, especially since you’re supposed to be reconditioning anyway.” I’m pushing, but come on. He won’t even spar with me in the training center, where there’s always people around? I’m not asking to suck him off.

That’ll come later. I hope.

Matt makes a noncommittal sound, the kind that means “no, but I don’t want to say no yet,” and says, “Let’s see how tomorrow goes. I’m sure I’ll have to have a debrief with someone—we’ve held them off until now, but our luck can’t last forever.”

I turn to look out the window at the passing scenery—what there is of it—and try not to panic. It’s PTSD. It is. Sparring was probably the wrong choice—it might remind him of being beaten nearly to death. He probably needs time to work through that first before he’s comfortable fighting other people.

My phone chimes before I’m forced to say something to break the awkward silence that’s fallen. It’s the tone for an email alert on my online shopping Gmail account, so it’s probably not urgent, but it gives me a good excuse to do something else.

At first glance, the email looks like spam. There’s nothing in the subject line, and the sender is a long string of numbers and letters. I’m distracted enough by my relationship issues that I nearly delete it.

Then the chat message pops up.

Hope my email is helpful

A chill goes down my spine. It’s from the same Gmail address, a string of letters and numbers that are probably random—or if they’re not, they mean something to the sender that I can’t understand without more information. But run-of-the-mill spammers, or even scammers sending trojan horses, malware, and the like, don’t usually follow up with a chat message. And anyway, my security, even on my phone, is exceptional. I designed the app that ensures nothing dangerous even gets delivered.

Which means either this isn’t dangerous, or the sender is skilled enough to get it past my security. If they can do that, they don’t need to smuggle it in via email—they have what it takes to burrow in and out without me noticing, at least not at first.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What is this?

One thing’s for sure, I’m not opening it on my phone. I’m not even willing to open it on my laptop. It’s going to have to wait until we get to San Diego and I can hook up my computer to the monitor Ian assured me he has.

“What is it?” Matt asks, and I glance over to see him watching me alertly.

“I’m not sure.” Do I reply to the chat message or not?

“Problem?” His voice is tense now.

“I’m not sure,” I repeat, then decide to bite the bullet.

Helpful people identify themselves

I might have just given away that I haven’t opened the email yet, but somehow I don’t think this is someone who signed their name on it. Honestly, I’m not expecting a reply from them at all, which is why I suck in a breath when I see the notification that they’re typing.

“Dyl, talk to me,” Matt demands. “Do I need to pull over?”

“No,” I say absently, my attention on the screen. “Just wait.”

Safety first

Dammit, what does thatmean? That contacting me is unsafe for them? Why? Are they unsafe from me—which would make the email unsafe and them an enemy of the Collective. Maybe even Matt’s attackers? Is this a distraction while they mess around on our servers again?

Or are they unsafe from others—from our enemies? Are they reaching out for help? In which case… can I really leave them hanging for the remaining three hours of this drive, plus however long it takes me to get set up?

I weigh the possibilities. My job is to protect. That’s what I spent my life training to do. It’s my goddamn family legacy. Maybe I’m not out there with my sword anymore, but that doesn’t change my mandate. I have to take this risk.

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