Their king is frenetic and jazzed, a fire practically licking through his skin. Rome’s seen him in this sort of mood before, but all past occasions pale in comparison to this, a mere ghost compared to tonight’s restless impatience—and who could blame him? If Valentina had been captured by a man with an axe to grind, god knows Rome would have forsaken sleep and rest until he’d run aground against that obstacle.
So he’s quick to accept: “Absolutely. Just lead the way.”
It’s piqued his interest even further; Rodeo did say it was secret, but this looks like it’s some real shit. So Roman scuffs at the dirt and follows the blond over towards the row of bikes—the Hounds keep the keys in the ignition, always close to hand in the event of needing to ride out quick. And besides, what’s theft in the Dog Park? Where would you even run to?
He clambers onto one of their trusty steeds, twists the key, flicks the kill-switch, and soon their bikes are roaring to life and they’re trundling their way outside the walls and winding their way through what had once been the Barton Creek trails. The lights of their dim world recede around them, the ground now only lit up by their own flat headlights.
The question’s there at the back of Roman’s head, of course, nagging and wondering—why not one of his officers? Rodeo’s got seven of them to rely on, a trusted crew to carry out his orders. He’s rarely been called up to the stage this way before.
But if anything qualifies as extenuating circumstances, it’s this.