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Badass in Disguise
<b>Chapter </b><b>186 </b>
“There,” I said, stepping back to assess my work. “Try to move your shoulder a little. Not too much.”
Ethan rotated his arm cautiously, testing the limits of his mobility. His face rxed slightly as he realized the movement wasn’t as painful as before.
“The painkillers are working,” he said, his green eyes meeting mine. “It feels much better. Thank you.”
I packed up my first aid supplies, avoiding his gaze. “It’s nothing. Just basic field medicine.”
Ethan watched me, his expression curious. “You never did tell me where you learned all this.”
“No, I didn’t,” I replied tly, closing the medical kit with a definitive click.
He smiled slightly, epting my non–answer with surprising grace. “So,” he said, changing the subject, “any ns for winter break? It’sing up soon.”
I shrugged, keeping my face neutral. “I’ll be going away for a bit.”
“Anywhere interesting?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Just somewhere far from here.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Dangerous ces?<b>” </b>
I almost smiled at his perception. “Why? Worried about me, Mr. Haxton?”
“I sent you a message today,” he said, ignoring my deflection. “Earlier.”
‘I know.”
“You’re not going to clear things up for me?” he asked, his tone carefully casual.
‘You already know it wasn’t me who replied,” I said, meeting his gaze directly. “So why ask?”
Before he could respond, Night’s voice called through the door, impatience evident in every syble,
‘Darling, are you two finished in there? The vodka’s getting warm, and my patience is getting cold.”
I handed Ethan a small bottle of pills and some extra bandages. “Take these. Just in case.”
He pocketed <b>them</b><b>, </b>his fingers brushing against mine for a fraction longer than necessary. “Thank you.”
I moved toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “Try to avoid strenuous activity with those ribs. And
keep them warm.”
When I opened the door, Night’s irritated expression instantly transformed into a sharine smile. “Sweetheart,” he cooed, his eyes never leaving my face even as his awareness tracked Ethan’s every movement.
Ethan stepped past us into the hallway, careful to maintain distance from Night. He moved stiffly, favoring his injured side, but there was still a dignified grace to his movements that spoke of years of discipline.
Night’s cold eyes followed him down the stairs, his smile never reaching those icy blue depths. The silence stretched between them like a drawn weapon.
When the front door closed behind Ethan, I turned to find Night’s expression had shifted to one of mild amusement.
“His little rib scrape,” Night scoffed, following me back into the living room. “Such drama. You’d think he’d been shot.”
“Like you’ve never faked an injury,” I replied, reiming my seat on the couch.
Night grinned, unrepentant. “That was different. I needed to see my precious Shadow more often.”
He refilled our sses with the amber liquid. “How much did you charge him for that little medical consultation?”
“In Venezu, he paid me with about a dozen crates of military–grade weapons.”
Night’s eyebrows shot up. “Venezu?”
“The Transcendent Military Alliance is his,” I said casually, taking a sip of vodka.
Night studied me for a moment, then asked, “If Ethan and I were both drowning, who would you save?”
I looked at him over the rim of my ss. “What kind of stupid question is that?”
“Humor me.”
“Why would either of you drowning be my problem?” I replied coldly.
Night threw his head back andughed. “That’s my girl.”
The next morning, my phone buzzed with a message from Ethan: The painkillers worked wonders. <i>Shoulder </i><i>has </i>much better range of motion today. Thank you again for your help.
<b>I </b>stared at the text, debating whether to respond.
<i>Remember </i>to <i>change </i>the dressing <i>in </i><i>48 </i>hours<i>. </i><i>Keep </i><i>the </i><i>area </i>dry. I hit send before <b>I </b>could overthink it.
A <b>few </b><b>days </b>before winter break, Night stood in my living room, his bags packed by the door.
“Arctic Fox business,” he exined, checking his weapons with practiced efficiency. “Some idiots think they can challenge my authority. I need to remind them why that’s a bad idea.”
I nodded, understanding perfectly. Leadership challenges in organizations like Arctic Fox were usually settled with blood.
“I’ll meet you at Crimson Valley in a week,” he said, holstering his gun beneath his jacket. “Don’t do anything stupid before I get there. When you arrive, be careful. If anythinges up, wait for me before you act.”
His serious expression melted into his usual yful smile as he pulled me into a hug. “And if your rib manes knocking again, don’t open the door.”
The next day, I packed light for my trip to Crimson Valley. Just the essentials: weapons, tech, and a few changes of clothes. I was hunting for “Ace of Spades“. If he frequented Crimson Valley, he must have significant influence there.
My phone buzzed with a message from Ethan: <i>Did </i><i>you </i><i>settle </i><i>on </i><i>ns </i>for <i>the </i><i>break</i>?
I hesitated before typing: <i>Nothing </i><i>definite</i><i>. </i><i>Just </i><i>traveling around</i><i>. </i>I wasn’t sure if I’d find Ace of Spades there.
After more than seven hours of flying and various transportation changes, I finally reached the border of Crimson Valley. The Austrian driver with the bushy beard nervously navigated the off–road terrain as I pressed my tactical
knife against his ribs.
“How much longer?” I asked in German.
“H–half an hour,” he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. “We’re almost there.”
“Tell me about Crimson Valley,” Imanded, keeping the knife steady.
He swallowed hard. “This time of year is the worst–total chaos. A pretty young thing like you will be marked <b>the </b>moment you step foot there. Especially an attractive American girl,”
I smiled coldly. “Then I’ve <be </b>at exactly the right time.”
The driver didn’t see my expression change when I noticed the subtle hand signals from a group of men <b>at </b>the <b>roadside </b>ahead. He slowed down, following their directions–a little too eagerly.
8:19 Thu, Sep 25
<b>97 </b>
In one fluid motion, the driver lunged toward me, trying to grab my knife while reaching for a concealed weapon. <b>I </b>kicked him hard, sending him tumbling out the open door of the jeep. Before he could recover, I slid into the driver’s
seat and yanked the door shut just as bullets pinged against the metal frame.
The engine roared as I elerated, swerving to avoid a vehicle that tried to block my path. The men shouted and fired wildly, but I was already speeding away, continuing my journey to Crimson Valley alone.
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