Page 37 of The Scout

And then—I found him.

Ryker stood against the metal railing, his hands braced against it, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—dark, sharp, burning—were locked onto me. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched, his presence wrapping around me like a noose.

For a split second, the rest of the club ceased to exist. The flashing lights, the pounding music, the hands on my hips—all of it blurred into nothing beneath the weight of Ryker’s stare.

The tall Citadel guy leaned in again, oblivious. “You okay?”

I barely heard him. My pulse was too loud, my bodyalready remembering that I hadn’t finished what I’d started in the bathroom yesterday.

Then Ryker moved.

He pushed off the railing, cutting through the crowd like a shadow slicing through light. He didn’t fight against the bodies pressing around him—he didn’t have to. People moved instinctively, parting in his wake like they could sense the violence simmering beneath his surface.

He was coming for me. I swallowed hard, torn between standing my ground and turning to run.

Who was I kidding? There was nowhere to run. I’m not even sure how he’d found me here.

By the time I took my next breath, he was at my side, his body crowding mine, his grip wrapping around my wrist like steel. The tall Citadel guy straightened, his brows pulling together in confusion, but Ryker didn’t spare him a single glance.

Instead, his mouth was at my ear, his voice a rough, dangerous rasp that sent a shudder straight through me.

“Is this what you wanted?” His breath was warm against my skin, but his grip on my wrist was anything but. It was firm, possessive, unyielding, as if he was reminding me exactly who I belonged to. “Letting another kid put his hands on you?”

“Ryker,” I said, my voice even.

The Citadel guy shifted, his gaze sliding to Ryker like he was trying to measure whether he was a threat.

He had no idea.

"You looked like you were having fun," Ryker said, his voice deceptively calm.

I arched a brow, shifting my weight to one hip, the movement making the hem of my dress rise a little higher. "I was."

The Citadel guy—all limbs and eager bravado—stood a few inches taller than me, but next to Ryker, he looked like a boy playing dress-up in his stiffly pressed uniform. His frame was lean, almost gangly, the kind that suggested he spent more time perfecting his salute than throwing a real punch. His uniform was crisp, buttons polished, posture ramrod straight—textbook Citadel discipline, but not real-world experience. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hands unscarred, his stance confident—but not dangerous. Not lethal.

Not like Ryker.

Matt Ralston had been the same way. Cocky. Naïve. Thinking the Citadel had prepared him for men like Ryker.

But Matt had learned the hard way.

And from the way Ryker slowly turned, giving this guy the full weight of his attention, it was clear he hadn’t learned from Matt’s mistake.

Where the cadet’s presence was practiced, Ryker’s was undeniable. He stood with the kind of stillness that came from knowing he was the most dangerous man in the room. Power coiled beneath his broad shoulders, restrained but ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation. There was nothing forced about him, nothing that needed validation.

And when he finally spoke—his voice calm, flat, absolute—it sent a slow chill down my spine.

“Walk away.”

The guy’s brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Ryker said, taking a step closer. "You don’t want to be standing there in five seconds."

My eyes flashed. “Ryker.”

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the poorCitadel guy, daring him to push this, to make it a problem.

The guy’s jaw ticked. He glanced at me, then at Sasha, like he was trying to gauge whether this was worth it.

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