Page 86 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Soleil’s gaze drops to Biscuit, her brows dippingbetween her eyes. “You don’t usually bring Biscuit with you,” she says.

“Oh…we were just on a walk and I was popping in to, um, discuss the article.”

“Indeed,” Drakon replies, the corner of his mouth tilting up in what could’ve been a smile on a less terrifying man. “How charming. I do love dogs. May I?”

Drakon stands up so smoothly it’s as if gravity is just another law he can bend to his will. As he reaches out to pet Biscuit, I suck in a breath, taking a step back so we’re out of reach. “Oh, Biscuit isn’t always a fan of strange men.”

“Strange men?” he chuckles, a sound that makes my skin prickle. “You are amusing, Allie. I’m hardly a stranger, I think.”

“How do you figure?” I feign innocence, though I’m pretty sure it looked more like a deer caught in particularly stylish headlights. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Of course,” Drakon says. “I just mean that it came across my desk that we have a mutual person we both know. You’re writing a story about Thatcher Bryant and I came to discuss this with your editor. Thatcher Bryant,” he continues, “is not the hero you think he is.”

I raise an eyebrow, doing my best to appear unbothered, though my heart is tap-dancing against my ribs. “Oh? Do tell.”

“I know he’s very charming. It’s how he managed to stay under the radar as long as he has. But trust me, Thatcher is averydangerous man.”

“He’sa very dangerous man?” I scoff, trying to muster some bravado.

“Yes,” the other man stands as well, offering me his hand.

Wary, I take it. “And you are?”

“Admiral Brady,” he says. “I was Thatcher Bryant’s commanding officer. And we have reason to believe you might be in grave danger.”

“Me?” I can’t help the surprised laugh that escapes me. “Because of Thatcher?”

“Allie,” Soleil says, her voice breaking with genuine concern. “You need to hear them out.” She slides a document across her desk toward me.

“It’s all here,” Drakon says. “Thatcher Bryant murdered my brother in cold blood.”

“The mission was not to kill,” Admiral Brady says. “The mission was to capture and question. Bryant went rogue and murdered Mr. Mikhailo’s brother.”

“He claims he retired from his military career, does he not?” Drakon asks me. I don’t answer, my eyes skimming over the words on the page. “The truth is, Allie, he was forced into an honorable discharge.”

“Honorable discharge,” I mutter under my breath, reading through the paperwork he provided. My eyes flicker over the paper, skepticism and a strange chill battling for dominance within me. There it is, in black and white—Thatcher’s name beside words likecourt-martialandmurder. But something doesn’t sit right. “If this is all true, then why notdishonorably discharge him?”

“Because—” Drakon starts, but I hold up my hand to stop him.

“Not you. I want to hear it from Admiral Brady.”

“Off the record,” Admiral Brady starts, “so that the special forces team could cover up his botched mission. Then, during the trial, his wife passed away and it was easier to honorably discharge him so that he could supporthis newborn baby. I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest hour. But I care about Thatcher. I was worried for him.”

“Convincing,” I admit, though every instinct tells me it’s as fake as a three-dollar bill. “But I’ve seen Thatcher in action. He’s the most controlled person I’ve ever known.”

“Is he?” Drakon asks. “There were reports of an assault in a restaurant the other night.”

I shake my head. “No…that was different. That man was—” I’m getting flustered. Emotional. I take a deep breath and start over. “Thatcher Bryant has got the whole ‘knight in tarnished armor’ thing down pat. When he does act impulsively, it’s still under chivalry.”

“Even knights can fall, dear Allie,” Drakon replies, a shadow crossing his features. “And even smart, charming journalists can be...misled.”

I cock my head to the side, considering his words while my brain is actually doing the hundred-meter sprint trying to figure a way out of this. If it were only Drakon here making these claims, I wouldn’t believe a word. But with a four-star admiral standing in front of us with confidential paperwork, it’s certainly harder to refute.

“And is it normal for a highly decorated admiral to be having back-door meetings with Russian terrorists?”

Drakon chuckles at this. “I am not a terrorist.”

“No? What would you call yourself, then?”

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