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... ith fire in her eyes, a flicker of pale red still burning in the corner from the flare. The scout had just recoiled from Alexis’s shot—clean miss, but loud enough to snap tension like a wire.

And Camille moved like a wave breaking.

She didn’t hesitate. That wasn’t her style.

But neither did he.

The scout turned just in time, pivoted with dancer’s efficiency, and hooked his boot around her ankle mid-stride. The takedown was fluid—practiced—like he’d done it a hundr ...

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