Page 7 of The Lasso Master

Only this time, it wasn’t just petty art or vintage jewelry. It was an ancient Spanish artifact—a rare, ornate relic last seen under heavy glass in a diplomatic showcase tied to three governments. High profile didn’t begin to cover it. The kind of piece that made headlines if it so much as got smudged. And layers of biometric scans had protected it, encrypted access codes, and guards who didn’t blink. Harper hadn’t even looked at the security blueprints. The job was too hot. Too noisy. She’d walked away.

But Stuart hadn’t. He’d leaned into the heat and taken the risk she wouldn’t. That was always his edge—he played dirty and gambled big. Now the artifact was gone, and every breadcrumb left behind pointed straight to her. Her aliases. Her methods. Even the time stamps matched her usual window. It was like he’d traced her silhouette into the crime scene with a scalpel. And it worked—because now her name wasn’t just on the list. It was highlighted in red.

Wonderful, just fucking wonderful.

She ducked into an alley two blocks down, all clean lines and concrete shadows, and let the mask drop like a broken piece of armor. Her back hit the wall and her knees nearly followed, legs trembling from the fight to hold it together. Her breath came in sharp bursts now—less control, more raw edge. Gone was the polished façade, the curated calm. Here, alone with nothing but the echo of city noise and her own betrayal ringing in her ears, Harper finally let the panic surface. Not enough to drown her. Just enough to remind her she was still alive—and running out of options.

“Okay, Harper,” she muttered to herself, bracing one hand against the brick. “You have two options. Run. Or…"

She didn’t finish. Because the second option looked like leather and dominance and dark eyes—the kind that pinned her in place without ever touching her. The kind that promised discipline first, questions later.

Reed Malone hadn’t just looked at her; he'd studied her, dissected her like she was a riddle cloaked in temptation. And unless she was mistaken, he knew a lot more about her than she cared for him to know. Maybe that was why the idea of turning to him felt like sliding toward the edge of a cliff she both feared and craved. He’d demand everything. And damn it, part of her wanted to give it.

She didn’t trust him. He was too smart—dangerously observant. Too controlled—like a hurricane bound in iron. Too dominant in all the ways that could strip her bare, physically and emotionally, until she didn’t know where her defiance ended and her need began. And worst of all, he made surrender sound seductive. He could tie her up in more than rope—he could tie her in knots she’d never learn to undo.

He hadn’t called her out. Not publicly. But there’d been something in his eyes—that slow, assessing scan like he’d already stripped away her aliases and lies and was just waiting for her to admit the truth. Reed watched people like puzzles. And with her, he hadn’t even bothered to pretend he wasn’t piecing her apart.

He might be the only one who could help her clear her name. Not because he owed her anything, and certainly not because he believed in second chances—but because Reed Malone made a business out of solving impossible problems, the kind no one else would touch. And she’d pay. She’d offer whatever it took—cash, information, submission. Whatever currency he wanted. Because more than just her freedom was at stake now. Stuart hadn’t just burned her—he’d marked her. And Reed might be the only one ruthless enough to set that fire right.

She pulled out a burner phone and punched in a number she’d never saved but had committed to memory—the emergency number for the Silver Spur Security team. She knew it, and who owned it, by heart, like muscle memory, because some numbers didn’t need contact names. They were carved into her psyche. Burned into her memory with the kind of heat only trauma leaves behind.

She’d bled for that number once—literally, in a warehouse in Houston when everything went sideways and her world tilted on gunfire. You didn’t forget numbers like that. Not when they came with blood, adrenaline, and the promise of survival. The kind you never called unless the stakes were life-altering, or just plain life-or-death. And tonight, it might be both.

It rang once."Harper,” came the voice. Deep. Steady. Unamused.

"How did you know it was me?"

There was a beat. Then Reed’s voice came back, low and confident. “You’re not as anonymous as you think, Harper. That number you used? It pinged a known tower cluster you’ve used before. Your gait signature popped on traffic cam footage near Fourth. And you breathe different when you lie.”

She blinked. "That's disturbingly specific."

"And disturbingly accurate," he replied. "Now quit wasting time. Tell me what you want."

It was kind of creepy that he knew so much so quickly. But did it really matter? Keeping hervoice light but tight, she asked. “Feel like playing hero?”

There was a pause. Then a sound that could’ve been a breath—or a growl. The kind of sound that rolled through the phone like a storm cloud passing low overhead, full of heat and warning. It sent a sharp jolt down her spine, waking up every nerve that had gone tight with fear and coiling it instead with anticipation.

“I take it you're the damsel in distress. Where are you?”

“Downtown. Moving. I need backup.”

“Say please.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

“Reed...”

“Say it. From this point forward, you do as I tell you.”

A flicker of heat zipped straight down her spine, making her skin prickle in ways that had nothing to do with fear. Her pride bristled—she hated giving in, hated the sound of her own submission. But God, the way he said it, the way command rolled off his tongue like sin concealed in silk—it did something dangerous to her composure.

She hissed between her teeth, then muttered, “Please.”

“Good girl." She could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice before it turned all business on her. "Keep moving. I’ll find you.”

The line went dead. Harper stared at the phone like it might still hum with the heat of his voice, like maybe she'd hallucinated the way her stomach twisted when he called her 'good girl.' He said he’d find her—but how? GPS on her burner? Facial recognition from a nearby camera? Magic Dom instincts? She didn’t know.

What she knew was that he would. He would find her. Because Reed Malone didn’t make promises—he made outcomes. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when. And that certainty—that unwavering, alpha-edge confidence—slipped under her skin like a drug. Not fear. Not quite. But something that tightened her throat and made her wonder if she’d made the right call… or just offered herself up to a wolf with impeccable tracking skills and a taste for rope.

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