EMMALINE
My body refuses to move. I’m still crouched near the back of the van, half-hidden behind a crate, blinking up into the light that spills around the man standing in the open doorway.
He looks like something from a fever dream—tall and broad-shouldered, his clothes dark and dusty, the collar of his coat turned up against the wind. His face is shadowed, but his eyes… those are clear as day. Ice-blue and sharp, scanning me like he’s cataloging every detail, deciding what I’m worth.
A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, slow and amused, like he expected this reaction.
“Still breathing. That’s a good sign,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “You might want to stop gaping, though. It’s not a great look.”
I blink, startled out of my trance. My mouth snap
