Page 41 of Vega

Dior’s entire body went rigid. Then he exploded. His shopping bags hit the floor as he kicked backward, twisted in my grasp, and tried to throw his head into my chin. A scream vibrated against my palm. It was loud but muffled.

He was a fighter too, but I outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. Holding him still required effort only because I was trying not to hurt him.

“Stop moving,” I growled. “I’m not here to hurt you, but if you keep fighting, I will.”

That only made him fight harder. He swung one leg backward, caught nothing, and started trying to drag us both toward the door.

I tightened my arm enough to stop him without crushing his ribs. “Be still and shut up before I snap your fucking neck.”

Finally, he froze, though his breathing remained fast against my palm.

“Sonnet is alive.”

As soon as I mentioned her name, his body tensed again.

“She’s being protected from some very bad people.”

Dior gasped against my glove.

“You’re not calling the police. She’ll contact you as soon as she can.”

His muffled response sounded insulting.

“I’m taking my hand away. If you scream, swing on me, or reach for anything that can be used as a weapon, I’ll break something that you won’t heal from. Do you understand?”

He didn’t answer.

So, I tightened my hold slightly. “Do you understand?”

Dior nodded quickly.

“Can I let you go without you doing something stupid?”

Another nod.

I released him and stepped back.

Dior spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance. His eyes widened when he saw my size and the mask covering my face.

He placed one hand against his chest. “Oh, my God,” he breathed as he backed toward the wall. “Jesus Christ, you’re huge. Where is Sonnet?”

“You don’t need to know.”

His fear remained visible, but anger began overtaking it. “You broke into my home, attacked me from behind, and told me my best friend is being protected from bad people by somebody who looks like those bad people. Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”

I just stared at him.

So, Dior pressed his lips together, thinking. Then he said, “I don’t believe you. Sonnet has been acting strange for days, and now you’re standing in my living room telling me not to call the police. For all I know, you killed her.”

“She isn’t dead.”

“Then prove it.”

I pulled out my phone and opened the secured live feed from the camera inside Sonnet’s room. Sonnet lay across the bed, fully dressed and very much alive, but still asleep.

I turned the screen toward him, and Dior grabbed for the phone, but I pulled it out of reach.

“Don’t.”