The midday sun over Freenly City was high and oppressive, reflecting off the glass facades of the financial district like a thousand splintered mirrors. Marcus was blocks away from the Deviloy Tower, attempting to use his lunch hour to clear his head of the morning's chaos. His mind was a mess of reports, Malcolm's erratic rages, and the unsettlingly beautiful intern who seemed to be the eye of the storm.
As he turned the corner onto a rain-slicked side street, his shoe lost traction on a patch of oil-filmed pavement. His heart leaped into his throat as gravity took hold—his balance shattered.
Just before he could hit the concrete, a hand—strong, steady, and clad in expensive black leather—clamped around his upper arm with the precision of a vice. He was yanked back toward a solid chest with a force that made his teeth rattle.
