Page 34 of Reckless Devotion

“Never mind that, my outfit is ruined!” Emily whines, thudding the glass of spoiled wine down onto the table as she stares down at her stained clothes in dismay.

“Probably for the best,” I cut in dryly as I stand to find a window to get rid of the black bat still struggling in my hand. “I thought these things had pinpoint sonar.”

“Actually, scientists found out that bats fly into each other all the time,” a small voice cuts into the stunned silence.

I pause, blinking at Diego just like everyone else as he flushes under the attention. Chloe grins and places a gentle hand on the back of his neck in encouragement. He’s a shy, sensitive kid, and that’s only become stronger since he grew out of that stage kids go through where they blurt out everything they’re thinking.

“Huh, is that so?” I glance down at the struggling creature, using my free hand to crack open one of the tall windows overlooking Midtown.

The air that whips into the narrow gap is cool given we are so high up, so I make quick work of sticking my hand out and letting it go. It drops out of sight almost instantly.

“They also can’t fly with wet wings,” Diego mumbles quietly.

I freeze, turning to the table where everyone is watching with raised brows. Chloe slaps a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes flaring wide as she catches my eye. Jax raises his fist to his mouth, tugging the peak of his cap further down over his chestnut curls, and Mia is suddenly very interested in cutting up Macey’s food. Mason rolls his eyes.

“Well, shit.” I click my tongue and turn my attention back to the god-knows-how-many-story drop I’ve just unknowingly plunged the bat down to its death.

“Well, shit!” Macey parrots, pointing her finger proudly into the air.

“Language!” Mia groans again quietly as the table bursts into laughter, Chloe losing her battle and pulling a mortified-looking Diego into her side.

***

“Count one, conspiracy to commit Computer Fraud and Securities Fraud. Count two, Unauthorized Access to Protected Computers. Count three—”

“Holy crap,” I mutter, watching Pepper run distinctly chalky beneath her usually rich skin.

“Transmission of Malicious Code. Count four—”

It keeps going, and going, and going. The crowded downtown courtroom is still as the judge rattles off the charges. My lawyer Eric Landeau’s face remains cryptically stoic where he stands beside Pepper at the defendant’s bench.

“How does the defendant plead?”

Pepper leans down to be closer to the microphone poking out of the desk, and her voice cracks a touch. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Alright,” the judge replies, shuffling papers under his heavy moustache. “The court—”

“Your Honor, we would like to submit a motion to remand the defendant into custody to await trial. We have reason to believe she is involved with the criminal activist group known as Incognito. This gives her extensive connections and the means to flee.” The young blonde defense attorney smooths her suit down, tipping her head up in confidence.

I still, zoning in on Pepper’s face, which might as well be impenetrable stone right now.

“Your Honor,” Landau drawls, his brows pinched in heavy skepticism. “There is absolutely no evidence of any connection between my client and Incognito. It’s a reach, even for Miss Davenport here. We ask that you allow my young client to continue with her job and her responsibilities while we wait for a court date.”

“I’ll allow it, Mr. Landau. The defendant will remain released on bail pending trial.” The judge picks up his gavel and draws it back.

“Your Honor, the state is ready for trial and requests the earliest available setting.” Miss Davenport flips her notepad closed and stands poised, her hands propped up on fingertips on the desk below her. Arrogance. She’s young and smart, likely wiping the floor with every attorney she comes across—all part of her ploy to work her reputation up and land a fat salary at a law firm, most likely.

I lean forward on the hard bench, frowning at the ensemble at the front of the courtroom. This whole thing feels like it’s about to go south. I’ve developed a sixth sense for these things—the moment the weight in the air shifts right before disaster strikes.

“And I presume you would object, Councilor?” The judge darts dark eyes to Landau.

“Strongly. We need a fair amount of time to prepare my client’s defense.” Landau nods, not showing an ounce of emotion.

“How long are you proposing?” the judge fires back.

“Eighteen months,” Eric supplies quickly.

“And the state?”