Page 40 of Vega

The reaction was immediate and unwelcome. She was frightened, trapped, and glaring at me like she wanted to rip my throat out. I had no business wanting her, but that didn’t stop me. Her defiance pulled at something primitive in me. I wanted to crowd her against the wall, tear the mask off, and make her focus on nothing but me.

I should’ve stepped out and let her burn through the rage. Instead, I stayed too close because walking away from her already felt harder than it should have. Something about her pulled at me. Even furious, terrified, and determined to fight me until one of us bled, Sonnet made me want to be near her.

I found myself standing within reach because distance felt like punishment, and Sonnet moved fast. She grabbed one of the water bottles from the floor and swung it at my face. I caught her wrist, but she twisted beneath my arm and drove her elbow into my ribs with enough force to make pain flash hot through my side.

“Fuck!” I barked.

Her knee came up next, catching my thigh before I could move back. Then her nails scraped across the side of my neck. “Let me the fuck outta here!”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Then open the door!”

She shoved both hands against my chest. When I didn’t move, she snatched another book from the floor and swung it hard into my ribs.

Pain cracked through me again. It felt like she’d bruised something.

This woman fought like she had been practicing for this her whole life. I respected it, but I also couldn’t let it continue.

I caught her around the waist and pulled her back against me before her fingers could close around it. She screamed, twisting, kicking, and throwing her head back toward my face.

“Sonnet, stop.”

“Fuck you!”

Her heel slammed into my shin.

I tightened one arm around her waist and pulled a small cloth from my pocket with my free hand. It was damp with a sedative compound.

The moment she saw it, panic widened her eyes. “No!”

I covered her mouth and nose. She fought me with everything she had left. Her nails dug into my forearm. Her body bucked against mine. Her muffled scream vibrated through my palm.

Her movements weakened first. Then her hands slipped from my arm.

Her body sagged against mine, and I caught her before she could fall.

For a moment, I stood there holding her unconscious weight against my chest. Her body was soft against mine, and this was the closest I had ever been to her without her fighting me or looking at me like she wanted me dead.

Though I had seen Sonnet through camera lenses, photographs, and distance, none of that compared to having her in my arms. She was real there and beautiful in a way no picture had been able to warn me about.

I lifted her carefully and placed her back on the bed, making sure her head rested against the pillow before I moved her hair away from her face.

Then I looked at her. Even knocked out, with anger still faintly creasing her brow and tears drying near her lashes, Sonnet was beautiful. Her full lips were parted slightly, her smooth skin looked so kissable and soft against the bedding, and her hair spread around her face like the fight had never happened.

I had wanted her from a distance. Up close, wanting her became something harder to ignore.

Sonnet didn’t have any parents, siblings, cousins, or relatives to notice she was missing. Her job didn’t even have a real family member listed as her emergency contact. Dior, her best friend, was her emergency contact and the closest thing she had to family, which meant he would be the first person asking questions once he realized she’d vanished.

I asked the Cartiers’ tech genius, Jamil, to access her email and send a resignation letter to her employer. The message explained that Sonnet was dealing with an unexpected personal crisis and needed to leave immediately. It was apologetic and detailed enough to discourage follow-up questions. Her supervisor responded within an hour, confused but accepting.

Dior required a more personal conversation. So, I stood inside his condo that evening wearing black gloves with my face masked. His place was dramatic with gold accents, velvet furniture, and framed photographs of him in poses that made every hallway look like an album cover.

The sound of keys scraping against the lock pulled my attention toward the door.

Dior was talking as he entered. “Sonnet, this is my third time calling you. Third.” He pushed the door open with one shoulder while holding his phone near his mouth. “I don’t know what kind of depressed disappearing act you’re doing, but I don’t like it. Call me back before I come to your house and use that emergency key you forgot I have.” He stepped inside carrying two shopping bags. “I’m serious, bitch. You have thirty minutes before I pull up with food, holy water, and an attitude.”

He ended the voicemail and kicked the door shut behind himself. Then I rushed him before he could turn around. I locked one arm across his upper body while my other hand covered his mouth.