"The tea's been dosed," Jason Hale said, shrugging like it was no big deal.
The goth-chic girl blinked. Derek Miles stared. Silence stretched.
Finally Derek snapped, "Are you out of your mind? You think you're some genius doctor-slash-detective? One sniff and you know the tea's drugged?"
"I'm not a detective," Jason said, perfectly calm. "But I am a genius doctor."
The girl shot him a look. "Then why'd you drink it?"
"Because I'm a genius doctor." He said it like gravity was obvious. "I'll be fine. You two? Not guaranteed."
Jason had grown up on Cloudridge Peak with a mentor who drilled medicine and combat into his bones. He'd trained breath control and old-school needle work until his inner power felt like a second heartbeat. A trace sedative wasn't much against a system like his—he could burn it off as easily as steam.
Not that the other two knew any of that.
Derek sneered, grabbed his cup, and tossed the tea back. He stretched, looming over Jason with all the smugness money could buy. "See? You said it was drugged. Nothing happened."
Jason said nothing. What did Derek expect—instant coma? Roofies don't kick in the second they touch your tongue. He didn't bother arguing; Derek looked good but he was all chrome, no engine.
Unfortunately, Jason's quiet read as defeat to the girl. Her eyes cooled, pity edging into contempt.
A few minutes ticked by.
The scar-faced owner of the roadside FLAT FIX shack sauntered in, smiling too wide. He flicked his gaze at the table; all three cups were empty. The corner of his mouth twitched into a private, filthy grin.
The girl didn't notice. She was too keyed up. "Forget the tea—is the car fixed yet?"
"Ah, no rush," Scar said, all friendly drawl. "Small business, you know how it is. We take payment first, then we work."
"I already paid," the girl said, frowning.
Scar shook his head. "That was the tow. You still owe for the patch."
She'd handed him a few hundred already—way more than any patch job. This was a black shop, plain and simple.
But time was a blade at her throat. She pulled out her wallet, counted out another wad—one, two hundred—and pushed it at him. "Enough?"
Scar's grin didn't move. "Not enough."
"Hey!" Derek shot to his feet. "Don't push it!"
The girl lifted a hand. "Derek, don't. He wants money, we give him money. We can't waste time."
She emptied her wallet, everything she had—four, maybe five hundred more—and shoved it into Scar's waiting palm.
He pocketed the cash and stayed put, gaze sliding back to her face. "Money's fine," he said, his smile turning greasy. "But I want the girl, too. Sweet like you? If I pass that up, I'll regret it forever."
Color drained from her cheeks. She backed up fast. "Don't. Walk away now or—"
The threat died in her throat. Scar clapped, and seven or eight goons drifted in from the door like they'd been waiting on cue.
"Today you say yes if you want, and you say yes if you don't," Scar laughed.
Derek stepped forward with a hard scoff, planting himself between Scar and the girl. "You want to touch Hannah, you go through me."
Scar spat, amused. "Hero complex? Take a long look in a mirror, pretty boy. Zack—go tune him up."
The one they called Zack surged at Derek with a hammering fist. Derek moved cleanly—cool under pressure—slipped the punch, and snapped into a spinning kick.
Thud.
Zack cartwheeled backward, skidded, and landed face-first in the dirt.
Everyone blinked—except Jason.
Even the girl behind Derek gave a small nod, something like approval in her eyes. For once, Derek looked like more than noise.
"Sorry," Derek said, tossing his hair, riding the high. "Taekwondo. Black belt, fifth dan."
Zack pushed up, coughing, not nearly as hurt as he should've been. Derek frowned. With that kind of force, the guy should've stayed down. And—
His legs felt heavy. His head fuzzed out, the world tilting. He wobbled, a tree in a storm, swayed ten seconds, then collapsed in a heap.
"This… you drugged me?" Derek growled, humiliated and furious. He'd been two seconds from peacocking in front of Hannah, and now this? It couldn't get worse.
It got worse.
Scar's boys swarmed him, and boots started dropping. Smack-smack-thud—Derek's cries turned ragged, ugly.
Scar laughed loud. "Fifth dan's cute. Even if you were world champ, you drink my muscle relaxant cocktail and you're nothing. Hit my guy? Watch them beat you flat."
On the other side, the girl—Hannah—flinched. Jason's warning echoed back to her. He'd said the tea was dosed. Maybe he'd been right.
Scar strolled up, eyes crawling over her, grin gone predatory. "Sweetheart, do yourself a favor. Say yes. Let me enjoy you properly. Otherwise? You get pain, and your friend gets God knows what."
She went pale as paper. She wasn't about to let Derek get killed—but give herself to a pig like this? She'd rather die.
Scar couldn't hold back. He chuckled, lust gleaming, and thrust a filthy hand toward her chest.
She was backed up against the wall now—no space left. Tears shimmered, helpless, as that hand reached—
It stopped.
Correction: it got caught.
A second hand closed around Scar's wrist and clamped tight.
Jason smiled at him and shook his head.
"Making a girl cry is a trash move," he said. "Don't be that guy."