“The doctor says she’s okay. She’s just sleeping to heal herself.”
“You better hope she does,” he says, followed by a loud bang that filters through the fog.
Her hand is lifted. Held. Her forehead kissed.
She sleeps.
*
The sharp scent of antiseptic and bleach wake her from a long, deep sleep. She stretches, achy from lack of movement. It’s dark outside. A figure slumps in the chair at the end of the bed and she fumbles with the switch for the light.
Owen shifts in his seat, rubbing his eyes at the sudden brightness.
“Hey,” he says, jumping up. He’s at her side, holding her hand in an instant.
“Where are we?” She swallows at the pain in her raw, smoke-damaged throat. He hands her a cup with a straw.
“Crescent General.” He brushes her cheek with the back of his hand. “Things went sideways at the school. Thought we lost you for a minute.”
“How long have I been here?” She thinks back to the faint conversations she overheard while sleeping. Quinn and Jensen had been here.
“Three days. The smoke damage was bad. The doctors wanted you to sleep it off.” He strokes her hair, and after a lifetime of little touch, it means more than she could’ve imagined. “Do you remember what happened?”
Devin’s face has been with her every second. The way he looked throwing those fireballs at her. The evil things he said. It’s too much to process right now but she says, “The guy who did it goes by the name Blaze. He works for Kincade.” She clutches Owen’s hand. “He’s one of us.”
His forehead furrows. “What do you mean?”
“He’s a Super—one of the twelve. I had a suspicion from the echo I read off the kid I chased. As a last-ditch effort to distract him, I called him on it. He knew my name.” She swallows. “And he tried to kill me.”
He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her gently. “This job keeps getting harder and harder.”
“I know.” She notices a huge vase of purple and pink flowers. Beneath it, a green bottle of soda and a pink bakery box. She doesn’t have to ask about the flowers, but she does anyway, “Demetria?”
“Yeah,” he says with a shake of his head. “How did you get out of there? By the time Casper radioed me and Quinn, the whole place was engulfed.”
She stops. “I’m not sure. I remember the fireballs Blaze threw at me and I remember the com melting.” She holds up her hands, still bandaged from the burns. “Somehow I got out.”
“Someone dragged you out. You were left on the grass by the road. Footprints say it wasn’t just you. Jensen’s been working the case twenty-four-seven.”
She searches her memory. She does recall the fear of death and knowing someone had come for her. But beyond that, everything is hazy.
“There was so much smoke. Maybe Blaze changed his mind and got me out of there?” Even as she says it, she knows it’s doubtful. She couldn’t sense anything good about him.
“Yeah, I doubt that. But someone got you to safety. Guess you have a guardian angel.”
She laughs, darkly. “Poor bastard. They’re going to have their work cut out for them.”
“Bastard?” Owen raises an eyebrow. “You think it was a man.”
Astrid knows it was. It’s just a feeling. She nods.
“Great, just what we need is another male pissing around you.” He looks at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get out of here—still dodging Jensen. He said he’d be back before his morning shift.”
“Thanks for being here, Owen. It means a lot.”
He touches her chin. “We’re a team, As. You’re stuck with me and Quinn and Casper for good.”
He kisses her, soft and sweet, and when he leaves she burrows down under the covers, feeling less alone than ever before.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Quinn
With Astrid in recovery, management of the gym falls to Quinn. The trainers, Mick, and customers all seem to accept him in the position. Jensen, on the other hand, is a harder sell, but something shifts the older man’s understanding about their relationship. Quinn isn’t going anywhere, and after yelling at him for an hour about allowing Astrid to put herself at such risk (as though anyone could tell her what to do), Jensen agreed to push the next round of Elite recruits back another week. That gave Quinn time to manage the day-to-day side of the business. The recruits are her thing and he didn’t want to feel her wrath if he interfered.
The official story is that Astrid got caught in the school fire helping some boys out of the property. Jensen was able to cover up her super suit. Instead of Echo, Superhero of Crescent City, the news reports focus on Astrid, community leader and business owner. It reveals another side of her, one that Quinn didn’t fully grasp. She’s well-revered, not only to the members of the gym but in the entire community. She’s left a mark here with her kind nature and unconditional commitment. Each morning, he opens the front door and finds flowers and notes.
Today, after opening the door for the early risers and bringing in a mason jar of wildflowers, he straightens the weight area. The guys are messy and inconsiderate, leaving barbells and equipment all over the place. He puts them away, sliding them into their appropriate rack before heading over to the ring. A lone boxer—a new guy—attacks the speed bag. His muscles ripple beneath his tight white shirt and he hammers the bag like no one else he’s seen before.
Other than himself.
Quinn picks up a towel and tosses it in a nearby bin. There’s another reason he’s keeping an eye on the gym. Some of these new visitors? He’s got a feeling there’s more to them than just curiosity. The guy beating the ever-loving shit out of the punching bag is one of them.
“Hey,” he says with a nod. The guy pauses and lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face.
The guy nods back. “What’s up?”
Quinn, wanting to test this a little further, nods toward the sparring ring. “Any interest in a round or two?”
“Sure, yeah, that would be great,” the man says. He seems perfectly nice. No nefarious vibe at all, but he’s not Astrid; he can’t get an accurate read on people the way she does.
Quinn removes his sweatshirt, dropping it on the bench. He grabs a pair of gloves off the rack on the wall and climbs into the ring. There’s never been a time where he felt intimidated from the physique of another man, but standing across from this guy, who appears to have zero fat and is carved out of solid muscle, he has a moment of doubt.
Mick walks over and says, “You need a ref?”
“Sure,” Quinn replies, feeling grateful for a witness to possibly the biggest mistake of his life.
Mick waits until they’re both ready, toes on the line, and presses the buzzer.
“Show me what you’ve got,” the man says, holding his fists in front of him. The fight escalates quickly, and the guy uses his entire body with every move. His speed is incredible, but Quinn holds his own. Two jabs to his side is like pounding into a brick wall. He doesn’t flinch. Quinn kicks. He’s blocked. He punches, swerves, ducks. In a moment, he’s breathing heavy but still holding on. The guy? Damn. He hasn’t even broken a sweat and when he looks into steel gray eyes, Quinn realizes he hasn’t even started.
Focused on his opponent, he doesn’t even notice a crowd has gathered. He takes a tooth-rattling punch to the jaw. Swearing, he spits blood, then delivers one of equal intensity and the guy actually stumbles back. The crackle of energy flickers in his hands, an instinctive protection, but he staves it off. Not here. It’s not okay, but damn Quinn wants to fry him.
The moves turn less boxing, more physical—like MMA. Quinn smashes a knee into his chest, then slams into him, wrapping his arms around his expansive shoulders. Quinn falls, grunting on impact. The other guy is sweating now. Actually sweating, and he considers that a win.