Page 58 of The Scout

Isabel.

I spotted her the second I walked into the hotel.

She was talking to her co-worker, Sasha. Oblivious. Unaware. She didn’t see me coming.

Gasps rippled through the lobby as I reached her, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her clean off the ground.

“Ryker—what the hell!” she gasped, her hands clutching my shoulders, her legs instinctively locking around me for balance.

I didn’t slow down. Didn’t explain. I turned on my heel, carrying her straight out the fucking door.

“Put me down!” she shrieked, struggling in my grip.

“Not a chance,” I growled, shoving open the passenger door and dropping her into the seat. She landed with a soft oof, eyes blazing as she scrambled upright.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Seatbelt. Now.”

She glared at me, breath coming fast, but something in my tone must have cut through the shock because she yanked the belt across her body, clicking it into place just as I peeled out onto the road.

Halfway home, I started to exhale, my fingers loosening slightly on the wheel. She was in the car. Safe. I just had to?—

Fuck.

I saw the headlights a second too late.

The jacked-up pickup came out of nowhere, barreling through an intersection at full speed. The impact hit like a missile, metal crunching, glass shatteringas my Bentley lurched sideways, the world tilting, flipping, spinning.

The roof crumpled, steel groaning as we tumbled. I felt the seatbelt bite into my chest, my head snapping forward, the taste of blood in my mouth.

Then—

Silence.

Pain pulsed through my body as I forced my eyes open, the world hazy, disoriented. Smoke curled from the wreckage, the acrid scent of burning oil thick in the air.

Isabel.

I twisted, my breath catching as I spotted her slumped against the passenger door, unconscious.

My pulse roared in my ears as I unbuckled, glass slicing into my palms as I braced myself, pried the door open, and pulled her into my arms.

She was breathing.

Relief was brief. Footsteps crunched against gravel.

I turned my head, expecting bystanders, good Samaritans rushing to help.

Instead, I saw him.

Matt Ralston.

Flanked by five of his Citadel pals, their faces set, their postures stiff with purpose.

They weren’t here to help.

They were here for their pound of flesh.

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