I stared down at Megan Fleming, and the relief I felt from rescuing her was instantly replaced by a cold, gnawing dread. Her eyes were no longer clear and bright; they were glazed with a terrifying, vacant shimmer. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, unnatural crimson, and her breathing had become shallow and frantic, as if she were running a marathon while lying perfectly still.
It didn't take a medical degree to realize what had happened. Brady Feyne hadn't just used physical force; he had used a chemical edge. The realization hit me like a physical blow: he had drugged her. He’d likely slipped a potent aphrodisiac or some synthetic "date r**e" concoction into her drink before dragging her into that alley. The d**g was clearly beginning to peak in her system. Her lithe body began to writhe
