Page 24 of The Lasso Master

Mexico City was hot and loud, a place where the underworld rubbed elbows with old-world elegance. Harper fit right in—gritty glamour, calculated confidence. She had worn black leather and diamond-studded cuffs, the kind that looked like fashion but doubled as restraints. Her collar had stayed at home. That belonged to Reed. No one else.

She had checked into a hotel under an old alias—the kind buried deep in systems she'd corrupted long ago. The room was sparse and cold, but it offered anonymity and clean lines of sight—everything she needed. She'd barely slept, pacing from the window to her devices, checking feeds, running facial recognition scans, refreshing auction site intel until the battery in her burner nearly died. Every minute dragged with sharpened edges.

She had the location of the auction. She knew the time. She had triple-checked the floor plan, the exits, even the blind spots. She had mapped every hallway, memorized every security camera, and marked the fastest escape route not once, but in three different ways. Her notes were detailed, her backups encrypted and hidden. She tested gear, cleaned her weapons,and mentally rehearsed every step like it was her last act. It was the kind of obsessive prep she hadn’t done in years—because this wasn’t just a job. This was revenge. And maybe redemption.

Because Stuart would be there. And she had to be ready—ready to face the man who had once meant everything to her and had twisted that meaning into something jagged and cruel. Ready to look him in the eyes and let him see what he made of her. Not just the thief, not just the weapon, but the woman who walked through fire and came out scarred and stronger. She wasn’t just coming to watch him burn—she was going to light the match herself.

She hadn't seen him since Istanbul. Since the fire.

She’d thought he was dead.

She should have killed him herself.

The night of the auction came too fast.

Harper dressed like bait—deep red silk that clung to every curve, a slit high enough that it should have revealed the thigh holster strapped beneath her garter, but it didn’t. Tucked into that holster was the compact Glock Reed had given her that night in the alley, the one he’d placed in her palm with a look that said he didn’t care how many rules it broke—he wanted her safe. She hadn’t let it out of her sight since. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a promise. Reed had trusted her with it, believed she could protect herself, and in her darkest moments, the weight of it against her thigh felt like him at her side. Safety. Strength. A reminder that someone saw her as more than a tool. A reminder that she mattered.

Eyeshadow smoky and dark, lips the shade of crushed berries—every detail calculated. She pinned her hair up in an eleganttwist, but nestled within were hidden blades sharp enough to slit a throat. Each accessory, each cosmetic flourish, was a weapon disguised as beauty. She looked like temptation sharpened by danger, exactly as she intended.

She walked in like she owned the place—hips swaying, gaze cool and detached, every step oozing confidence she barely felt. The air shifted around her, heavy with sweat, smoke, and the scent of power. Eyes tracked her, some hungry, some calculating. She kept her chin high, her heartbeat steady.

That was what prey did when it wanted the predator to come out and play. Pretend it had teeth. Pretend it wanted to be caught.

They held the underground auction in an old villa nestled behind wrought-iron gates and ivy-covered walls, a place that looked like wealth but stank of rot. Inside, the black marble interior gleamed under low, golden lights, each reflection warped with shadows that never fully receded. The air was stifling, thick with the scent of aged cigars and expensive perfume. Far off, the strains of a string quartet floated through hidden speakers, oddly serene against the indistinct murmurs of calculated cruelty.

The walls felt close, suffocating, like they remembered every scream they’d absorbed.

The crowd was moneyed, male, and merciless—predators in sleek suits, dripping charm and expensive cologne. Some were there to buy artifacts, others to sample flesh. Harper moved through them with the ease of someone who had danced this line before. She knew this world. Knew its rituals, its dangers, its predators. She didn’t flinch.

She reached the exchange point, her heels silent on the marble floor, and there it was—the artifact. A Spanish artifact, cracked along one edge, covered in gold leaf and dried blood.The thing pulsed with history and danger, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away.

And then she saw him.

Stuart.

He stood near the shadows like he belonged to them, older now, his hair touched with silver, but his eyes held the same venomous glint. Time had carved his features into something leaner, crueler. His smile wasn’t just smug—it was the slow, deliberate kind of grin that said he still believed he owned her, body and soul. Like he was looking at a possession that had wandered too far from home.

The years hadn’t dulled him. If anything, they’d sharpened his cruelty.

A chill slid down her spine. Game on.

“Specter,” he said, voice like poison honey. “Back from the dead.”

The sound of that name—the one only he had ever used—punched the air from her lungs. Her stomach knotted, fury mixing with the chill of memory. No one had called her that in years. Not since Istanbul. Not since the fire. Her fingers twitched, an instinct to reach for steel she didn’t have. But her smile came easily, a blade behind her lips.

She smiled. “Only long enough to drag you back with me.”

They made the trade on opposite sides of the auction floor, both surrounded by men who didn’t blink at violence. Harper stepped forward first, cradling the forged artifact in gloved hands and placing it delicately into the case Stuart’s associate held open. He stepped forward next, holding what should have been the access codes to the vault containing the genuine artifact.

But the second the case snapped shut, she saw it—Stuart's smile tightening, his eyes shifting. The click of a safety released. Too late, she moved.

The air exploded with the sound of gunfire. Stuart’s men opened up, guns already drawn. Her hand went to her thigh, grabbing the Glock Reed had given her, and she fired three times before diving for cover behind a pillar, hitting the ground hard; her gun sliding across the floor. Security scrambled. People screamed.

And through the blur of motion and pain, she saw Stuart disappearing into the chaos. While guards wrestled with panicked buyers and security alarms howled through the vaulted chamber, he moved with eerie calm, as if he'd orchestrated the whole thing. A last glance back—his smile was pure poison—and then he slipped through a narrow door behind the stage, vanishing like smoke through a crack. No pursuit. No hesitation. Just gone.

Harper tried to push herself up, her hand slick with blood, her vision spinning. But everything was slipping away, the world tilting as darkness swept in. The last thing she saw was her gun—Reed’s gun—lying too far away to reach.

When she woke, the air reeked of sweat, bleach, and perfume—a cloying mix of sterility and sin. Her throat felt dry, her head thick with the ache of whatever they’d used to knock her out. The restraints chafed her skin, the darkness pressing in from every angle.

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