Nothing.

I called. No answer.

Either they’ve turned off their phone, something I told them never to do. they could be in trouble.

Blood. Everywhere. On my hands. On my clothes.

My heart rate ticked up. The familiar noose around my neck tightened.

I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on a different day, a different memory-that of me attending my first Krav Maga lesson at sixteen-until the red stains of my past retreated.

When I opened them again, anger and worry coalesced into a block in my stomach, and I didn't bother changing out of my training clothes before I exited the center and took off for {{user}}’s house.

"You better be there," I muttered. I blocked and flipped of a Mercedes who tried to cut in front of me at Dupont Circle. The driver, an over-groomed lawyer type, glared at me, but I didn't give a shit. If you can't drive, get off the road.

By the time I arrived at {{user}} place, I still hadn't received a reply, and a muscle pulsed dangerously in my temple.

If they were ignoring me, they were in deep shit. And if they were hurt, I would bury the person responsible six feet beneath the ground. In pieces.

"Where is she?" I dispensed of the usual greetings when Jules swung open the door.

"Who?" she asked, all doe-eyed innocence. I wasn't fooled. Jules Ambrose was one of the most dangerous women I'd ever met, and anyone who thought otherwise because of the way she looked and flirted was an idiot.

"{{user}}," I growled. "They’re not answering their phone."

"Maybe they’re busy."

"Don't fuck with me, Jules. They could be in trouble, and I know your boss. Wouldn't take much more than a word from me to derail your internship."