Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
And that?
Is a little terrifying.
TWO
DON’T MIND ME, JUST RUINING HIS NIGHT
LARK
I really should be arrested for how much fun I’m having right now.
Not because I’m committing a crime—technically speaking, no laws were broken tonight—but because I’m currently perched on the edge of a neighboring rooftop, eating a Pop-Tart, and watching Knight Hayes spiral.
And oh, what a spiral it is.
His shoulders are too tense. His jaw’s doing that thing like he’s chewing invisible glass. And the second his burner buzzes with the video I just sent?
Boom.
He spins like someone dropped a grenade in his lap.
“Irritated Knight” is my favorite Knight.
“Feral Knight” is a close second.
I kick my booted feet over the edge of the roof, still in full black-out gear—ripped jeans, tactical vest, smudged eyeliner like war paint. My lavender hair’s tied up, my gloves are on, and my lipstick matches my heart… pitch black.
Because I do what I want.
Especially when it involves him.
Knight Hayes—the uptight vigilante with a control fetish and a mouth like a Molotov cocktail. I’ve been shadowing his little “justice missions” for a few weeks now. Quietly. Carefully.
At first it was just for kicks. I mean, who wouldn’t want to sneak around and watch a grumpy data monkey moonlight as a DIY Batman?
But then it got interesting.
Because the deeper I followed? The more I realized Knight was hiding something.
No, not something.
Everything.
Passwords. Firewall layers. Secret mission logs he doesn’t even share with Arrow. Which, rude. I thought they were besties.
And worst of all? He acts like I’m still the kid who used to draw hearts around his name on my school notebooks.
Spoiler alert, jackass: I’m not.
I’m not your friend’s little sister anymore.
I’m not watching from the sidelines.
And I’m not here to be sweet.
I’m here to play.
And he? He’s the prize.
I zoom in with my handheld camcorder—retro, yes, but untraceable—and capture the last few seconds of Knight talking to Dunn in the booth.
God, he’s hot when he’s furious.
Not that I’d ever tell him that.
I keep my cam on Knight as he strides toward his car. The streetlights cut sharp shadows across his face—angular and dark and pinched with frustration. He’s saying something to Arrow and typing with unnecessary force.
Someone’s grumpy.
I hit send.
: [Attachment: Video File]
Caption: Your backdoor encryption sucks, Hayes. Try harder.
It takes exactly seven seconds for Knight to freeze mid-type and check his phone.
And then? The expression.
Chef’s kiss.
He looks around like he can sense me watching.
He’s right.
I press my fingers to my lips and blow a kiss to the wind. “Don’t worry, Knight,” I whisper. “You’ll see me soon.”
After all, I know where he lives.
And I just hacked his Netflix account.
A girl’s gotta start somewhere.
THREE
SHE'S GOING TO RUIN ME
KNIGHT
The second I walk through the door, I know she’s been here.
My boots thud across the hardwood as I scan the apartment. Nothing’s out of place. The blinds are shut. My gear is locked up. My work laptop still sits on the desk, closed but not exactly how I left it.
Because I’m obsessive like that. I remember exactly how I left it.
And now it’s been touched.
And the scent that lingers? Not cologne. Not cheap cleaning spray. No.
Vanilla.
And fire.
Lark Dawson.
I yank off my jacket and toss it onto the couch, my mind already racing. I should call Arrow. I should call her brother, Gage. Hell, I should track the GPS ping I embedded in her burner phone just in case she tried something this stupid.
Again.
But I won’t.
Because if I call Arrow, or Gage, I’ll have to admit she hacked me.
Again.
And if I do that, Arrow will just grin and say what he always says.
“She’s good, man. You could use her.”
I don’t want to use her.
I want to tie her to a chair and interrogate her until she explains how the hell she got past my encryption. Then I want to duct tape her mouth shut so she stops driving me insane. And then—God help me—I probably want to kiss her.
I rub a hand down my face and head to the fridge.
There’s a sticky note on the milk.
Nice try, Hayes. But I already drank the last one. — L
My blood pressure hits new heights.
I hate her.
I really, truly do.
And worse? I respect her.
That video she sent? Shot from a perfect perch. Camera steady. Target framed. Audio crisp. She's got serious skills. She's not just watching our missions—she’s dissecting them. Mapping them. Learning us.
And now she's dropping little breadcrumbs like she's daring me to catch up.
I crack open a beer and take a long pull.
My phone buzzes.
Arrow: You good?
I text back.
Me: Peachy. We need to talk.
Arrow: About?
Me: Lark.
The typing bubble appears. Then disappears.
Then reappears.
Arrow: You didn’t kill her, right?
Me: Not yet.
Arrow: Then it can wait until morning.
I growl and pocket the phone. No. This can’t wait until morning.
This isn’t just any girl. This is a professional pain in my ass with surveillance footage, top-tier hacking skills, and the ability to bypass my personal firewalls—both digital and emotional.