Zane
The car ride back to the packhouse was silent.
Tiana sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded carefully in her lap, while her gaze remained fixed on the window. She hadn’t spoken since we left the atelier. Or asked why I’d waited.
I could feel the tension radiating off her—brittle and guarded, like she was holding something back. Her shoulders were stiff, her breathing too controlled. She was thinking too hard, processing something she didn’t want to say out loud.
I kept my eyes on the road, but my awareness of her never wavered.
The way her fingers twisted together occasionally. The slight tremor in her hands she was trying to hide. The flush that still hadn’t completely left her cheeks.
She had recognized that woman. I had seen it in her eyes, the recognition and discomfor
