Cassandra Kane
The drive from the hospital was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the engine and the soft rustling of Cassandra shifting in the passenger seat. Desmond kept one hand firm on the wheel, his honey-colored eyes flicking toward her every few minutes. He didn’t need to ask if she was in pain—he could see it in the tight set of her jaw, the way she held herself stiffly, as if any movement might crack her apart. Still, true to form, she hadn’t asked for help once.
When they pulled into the driveway of his townhouse, Cassandra reached for the door handle before Desmond could even shift the truck into park. “Thanks for the ride, Loupé,” she muttered, her voice tired but laced with determination. “I’m just gonna—”
“No.” Desmond’s voice was firm as he unbuckled his seatbelt and
